Essays From The Shadows
Volume One
I had a couple of days where I accidentally learnt some things about myself. Too early to judge if they are useful yet. Enlightenment maybe, understanding, perhaps even a little clarity.
I was sitting at my desk which overlooks our back garden and noticed a dense black smoke drift across. I went down to investigate and found about ten metres away, in a neighbour’s garden, a huge bonfire was burning. It seemed too big and slightly uncontrolled.
I called out to see if anyone was there, but there was no response. As I went to lift a fence panel to go and investigate, a huge tree caught alight and went up in flames with a massive whoosh.
The heat was intense, and I recoiled and stood back, hesitating, concern battling with the usual British urge not to interfere, tempered with the common sense that it is better to be safe than sorry.
While I waited outside the neighbour’s house to direct the firemen to the right place when they arrived, I was tempted to go and check if anyone was hurt despite recognising my complete inability to do anything medical. Thankfully, they were quick, and in no time there were big hoses being unravelled and hooked up to the mains and lots of orders being shouted.
I retreated back into my house and drank some tea because that is what you do after a shock. For the rest of the day, I kept replaying it in my head. Did I do the right thing? How awful if it was all unintentional and harmless. Why am I so shaken up?
Why was I at one point having thoughts about the fact I hoped the fire didn’t spread and damage my greenhouse because it was a bugger to build, we said at the time we would never do this again and next time we would hire someone who knew what they were doing? For heavens’ sake, concentrate, man, you are in the middle of a crisis, decide what to do.
I kept thinking about the heat and the scary moment when the tree went up in flames, the speed and the intensity and the fear it invoked in me. I kept seeing myself holding the fence panel and about to lift it up to gain access, and if I had been a minute earlier, I would have been standing right next to that tree.
As the day progressed, I realised that I was witnessing what my brain does when it is shocked. In the middle of the moment, my brain tried to latch onto something mundane and onto how annoying it would be if I had to rebuild my greenhouse as a result of all this bother. It tried to divert my attention and focus on something I could maybe handle and resolve.
The combination of fear and adrenaline had kept the images and feelings and the smells and the rising panic all stored to be replayed. It helped me later to understand what I had done and why I had done it. I saw what I could have done instead and told myself I made good choices.
Wait. So my brain did all this without my instructions? Without sitting down and making a plan and delegating and deciding and discussing? It is just what it does. It is how it works.
So, maybe that is what happened when I was young, being abused. When my brain could make no sense of the shock of being punched or kicked as a boy, it had to do what it thought best for me. No point in showing me all this fear and horror of details. Lock it away. Just keep it but hide the key. Best all round if we don’t dwell on it.
The shock of sexual abuse; it’s too much for a young boy to cope with. We won’t keep that in full view. Let’s just tuck it away over here and never speak of it again. All the fear is not needed for now.
A couple of days later, my wife had been away all day and was returning home, walking down our empty street around 11.30 at night. Quiet, nobody else around when a small boy ran towards her with flashing lights on his sandals.
As she bent down to speak to him, he gave her a hug and gripped her. She talked to him and asked if he knew where he lived, if he could take her to see his mummy. He slipped his hand into hers, and they walked back the way he had come.
He was chattering away quite happily, pointing out a blue car and another blue car and, “Look, there’s a kitty cat!” He seemed quite content but clearly had no clue where his house was. Eventually, my wife called the police, and they took over.
I was unhelpfully fast asleep when she finally crawled into bed and had to wait until the next morning before she could recount her adventure to me. We talked about what might have happened, why a small three-year-old boy might have been wandering around alone so late at night. We commented on how fortunate she was there.
For the rest of the day, I felt uneasy and a bit odd, slightly off-centre, and I had no idea why. By mid-afternoon, I decided it was because I was tired and maybe I should just have a nap and I would feel better. So I did what has become second nature. I closed the curtains and made the room softer. Slipped in earbuds set to silence and let digital noiseless nothing wrap around me. Pulled a plush, soft blanket over me and sank into the pillow, closing my eyes.
I lay there. Unsettled. As my thoughts drifted and my body relaxed and brain slowed down, I suddenly knew why I had been feeling like this. It all just came clear.
As my wife had been telling me the story of the late-night toddler, I found myself empathising with how he had been feeling: the fear, the loss, the dread, the nothing, the nobody. The need for help.
I had been wandering around all day, reliving those feelings. Not in any clear, direct way, or tied to a particular event, or knowing quite what might have caused it. Just recognition of them. I had been small and frightened and in need of help. I had no idea how to talk or describe what had happened. I knew what it was like to be small and alone.
All day I had been feeling it. I felt them now. I lay there and let them wash over me. I cried a little. Cried for unknown pain and unspoken fear and untold stories. I felt better. Calmer. Less unsettled.
Maybe sometimes it is just enough to acknowledge that it hurt. No need for words or explanations or solutions.
I slept.