Living A Patchwork Life

Ever since I was a little girl I’ve lived in my imagination. From as early as I can remember, every day I used to spend hours day dreaming, living in worlds my mind would conjure up.

Worlds filled with magic, adventure and endless possibilities.

Worlds that had no rules, no normal, no limitations.

Worlds where I felt I belonged.

I spent most of the first decade of my life constantly moving, constantly uprooting. With almost each new birthday I’d find myself in a new country, surrounded by strangers, the previous 12 months fading like an old photograph.

After the first few moves and the tumultuous tears that fell each time at the loss of my blossoming friendships, I learned to be cautious about getting close to people. I held back from investing in getting to know and care about those around me, protected myself from the inevitable heartbreak of yet another round of goodbyes.

The predictability of the packing boxes and removal trucks arriving just as soon as I’d started to feel at home, served as a warning that nothing lasts, and the more you care, the more it hurts.

By the time I was 10 years old, I’d built such a strong self-protective wall around my heart that to my childish mind, it made more sense to me to spend my days outside of school on my own, playing on my own, lost in my own world.

All those years my only real constant, my only real friend, was my big sister.

However, perhaps because of the age difference or the fact she was more practical and down to earth than I was, she was always at her happiest not playing make believe with me, but curled up somewhere quiet, nose in a book, lost in her own equally active imagination.

As a result, being on my own became all I knew. All that felt safe.

And so, from as early as I can remember, my days outside of school would be filled with solo adventures. In my early years I’d gather up my stuffed animals and go in search of the kind of adventure I’d read about in books.

I was convinced somewhere in the house there was a magic wardrobe I could go through to enter a new world where I would find friends to play with.

I’d spend hours searching our garden looking for a magic ‘Faraway Tree’ I could climb, meeting friendly creatures to join me on my search for adventure that awaited us at the top of the tree.

And I’d sit patiently in the grass down by the stream that ran next to our house, waiting for hours hoping to glimpse a rabbit running through the grass, desperate to follow it down a hole and into another world where everything was different.

A place where (to quote Alice) it’s possible to “believe as many as six impossible things before breakfast”.

When we finally made it back to the UK, my solo adventures into these imaginary worlds were given a helping hand by my amazing grandmother. She’d join me as I went exploring, would listen to my tall tales, and even made costumes from roll-ends of fabric she’d find so I could dress up as my favourite characters from film and literature.

She was my hero; my best friend, my ally and my confidante.

As I got older and my imagination found new avenues, she was always by my side. No matter how crazy the idea, how insane the story, she would always be there, gently, patiently supporting me. She encouraged me to write my adventures down, to draw them, and sometimes, in moments of shared hilarity, sing them like old school musicals.

To my grandmother, my imagination and creativity were the most valuable parts of my character. They were the essence of me.

When my parents brought home a grand piano, my father determined to make one of us into a concert pianist, I remember my grandmother sitting quietly in a chair listening to me as I eschewed the scales and discipline expected of me (and demonstrated so exceptionally by my elder sister) and instead started to play the tunes I loved by ear.

She’d sit back in her chair, eyes closed, small smile playing on her lips, as the painful cacophony of figuring out a tune gave way to a smooth melody.

When I tried to turn my hand towards composing music of my own, she’d sit there patiently as I’d play the same riff over and over again, humming it back to me, helping me work it through.

And when I finally got brave enough to express my emotions and thoughts through songwriting, there she was again, this time with a notepad and pencil, writing down the bits that moved her, the words that “needed to be said”.

In every creative pursuit she urged me to express not explain, experience not execute. To feel. To always feel.

For most of my childhood she was my lifeline; encouraging me, believing in me, doing everything she could to make me feel less alone, less lonely.

Her support and friendship was even more precious to me because no matter how hard I tried, even when we finally settled in one place for what would be the rest of my childhood, I never really made friends with other children.

Each time she pushed me to try, it inevitably ended with me crying on her bed, telling her how much I felt like an outsider, a misfit. Each day I was made fun of, was ridiculed for being different, hurt more than the day before.

Private girls schools in the 80’s weren’t the friendliest place if you didn’t conform. For a British-Lebanese hybrid, with a childhood of continuous exposure to multiple cultures, religions, races and perspectives, my world view was as asynchronistic to that of my fellow schoolgirls as one could get. As a result, before my first term was over, I was the one who didn’t get picked to play in a team, the one who was forgotten when it came to being invited to parties, the odd one left over when people partnered up in class.

I used to tell myself that it didn’t matter, that I was ok on my own, that retreating further into my imagination, my own world where I felt safe, was the right thing to do. The only thing to do.

I learned to put on a brave face, a face that said I didn’t care, that nothing could hurt me. I learned how to paint on a smile, how to force a laugh.

My guard only came down in precious quiet moments with my grandmother at the end of each day. Her soft and gentle hand holding mine as the hot tears of rejection repeatedly burned my cheeks.

On the few occasions when I’d question why I didn’t seem to fit in anywhere, why I couldn’t seem to make friends; she’d repeatedly tell me that being different wasn’t something to be ashamed of, but something to explore and celebrate.

Over and over, in her soft voice, she’d try to reassure me that somewhere out there were ‘kindred spirits’ waiting to be found. People who needed me every bit as much as I needed them.

People who longed to feel they belonged, they were loved.

People who were also different, people also waiting to be seen.

One evening, after a particularly brutal episode at school, she took me out into the garden and pointed up to the sky, telling me to count all the stars I could see.

When I finished, she told me:

“Each of those stars is on its own, occupying its own little space, but it’s not alone. Somewhere nearby is another star, and another, and another. Some nights you won’t see them all, but they’re still there. Just because you haven’t yet found another star like you to shine brightly with just yet, it doesn’t mean they’re not out there. You just have to keep looking.”

As the years passed by and I grew from child to teenager, the feelings of isolation and distance grew. Each ridicule, rejection and rebuttal compounded so that by the time I was thirteen, I was convinced I wasn’t good enough for anyone or anything.

All I could see were my faults, my flaws, how I was different to others. I never felt I belonged anywhere and I never felt there was anything of value in being ‘me’.

My grandmothers’ words were slowly drowned out by those around me; those that told me I would never ever be good enough for them.

And so I learned to adapt, to chameleon, to pretend.

I mentally put ‘me’ in a box and buried her, focusing instead on emulating those I longed to fit in with. I learned everything I could about them and I mimicked it.

I studied and I copied, over and over again.

I stopped doing the things I loved and instead devoted all my energy into remaking myself into a similar model of those in front of me.

And when I finally started to receive attention and interest, I began to lie.

About who I was, what was important to me, the things I did and the things I didn’t do.

I turned my once positive and creative imagination into the most (self)destructive tool ever wielded.

And when that wasn’t enough to earn me a place at the lunch table, I sought to curry favour by doing things for them, things that sometimes went against everything I believed in.

This ranged from losing my virginity at an ungodly age (just to seek a moment of being noticed) to stealing money from my mothers’ purse (to buy them things they wanted but couldn’t afford).

I did everything in my power to overcompensate for everything I felt I lacked, would do anything just to feel visible, to feel seen.

And for a short time it worked.

Whilst I was ‘interesting’ (the lies and stories), ‘valuable’ (stealing and doing anything for anyone), ‘entertaining’ (taking risks/making myself the clown/butt of all jokes ) I managed to find people to spend time with.

But sooner or later it would come to an end. It always did.

Eventually something would cause the veil to be lifted; I’d get caught out or tripped up on a lie, or I’d be unable to do what was asked of me. On a few occasions it even amounted to me doing something so outrageous, it was no longer interesting or amusing but worrying.

Each time it happened, I’d end up alone again.

Each time I would experience the combined agony and helplessness of losing who I once was (the person my grandmother had such faith and belief in) and hating who I was becoming, who I had already become.

By the time I’d gone through this cycle 3 or 4 times, I was lost.

I had virtually no self-respect, my self-worth was close to zero and I had very little concern for my wellbeing.

My parents eventually tried to step in and course correct when they realised what was happening and how bad it had become, but it was too late, the damage was already done.

I could no longer ‘be myself’.

In truth, I no longer knew who I was.

I’d spent so long telling myself how inferior, inadequate and unwanted the ‘real me’ was, I’d devalued her to the point of extinction.

A vague memory of someone I’d known but could no longer picture in my mind.

And so, the only thing left for me to do was to try and get better at being a chameleon.

To work harder at it. To be seamless in my presentation of whoever and whatever it was I needed to be to fit in, and to learn to quash the sadness, emptiness and loneliness that came with doing it.

To try and prolong the moments when I was part of something, and when the inevitable happened, to walk away, turn the page, and begin again somewhere new as if it had never happened.

Each new moment a distraction from thinking about or dealing with the last one. Each new moment another poor choice that carried with it multiple unintended consequences.

In my personal life it amounted to three decades of short-term hedonistic relationships, ending in me cutting and running at the first sign anyone wanted to delve beneath the surface, scratch through the veneer I’d so carefully painted on.

I broke hearts, including my own, over and over again. I pre-empted endings I was so sure were coming, and I let go before they could let me go.

In my professional life it manifested as the ultimate inferiority complex; imposter syndrome on steroids. After the damage I’d already done to my psyche as a child and teenager, I would always have struggled with confidence and self-belief; but the way in which I entered my working life only served to solidify my view that who I was, at my core, wasn’t much use to anyone.

Dropping out of school at 17 to help support my family (after my father got sick), with few qualifications and zero connections, meant few opportunities were open to me. Those I got, I took. My only objective was to bring money home, to help put food on the table, to ensure we could pay rent.

My first job, sitting on the floor of a warehouse in South London, filing invoices for £1.60 an hour at 17 only confirmed the comments made by my school friends. I wasn’t and never would be good enough. Would never be smart enough, educated enough, creative enough.

Over the years, despite luck granting me some open doors, terrific jobs and amazing mentors, my self-belief and self worth remained that of the 17 year old on the floor of the warehouse. And my coping strategy, that of my childhood self; to imitate, to chameleon, to cut and run the moment I felt I might be found out. To pre-empt the moment I’d be discovered a fraud, a charlatan, a fake.

For over twenty years I’ve pretended, I’ve adapted, I’ve done my best to fit in and conform. I’ve sacrificed my heart and followed my (often misguided) head. I’ve pushed myself to learn and learn, relentlessly chasing the (unachievable) goal of feeling I know enough, have done enough, to earn a seat at the table with my peers. I’ve over-compensated in every way imaginable, whilst wrapping myself in the security blanket of invisibility.

For over twenty years I’ve been a misfit, an outsider, a lone wolf and a showman. I’ve stood in line to be picked, never once having the confidence to pick myself.

For over twenty years I’ve never let anyone in both my personal or professional life close enough to see who I really I am, close enough to hurt me, close enough to see me.

For over twenty years I’ve believed myself to be broken, a glued together composition of a million fractured pieces.

Then one day, four years ago, something changed. Someone saw right through me. Through the façade, the pretence, the lies and the stories. Like my grandmother once had, they saw the little girl with the creative imagination, the free spirit, the endlessly curious mind. Somewhere inside the carefully constructed 40-something, they saw the fearful child .

And they didn’t run. They didn’t leave.

Day after patient day they slowly, tenderly peeled back the layers to help me try and see what they saw. Day after day they held me back when I went to run, pulled me close when I pushed them away.

One day four years ago I started to be seen. And whilst it was incredible and my soul danced with joy, it also broke me.

Because for the first time I was confronted with, and could not run away from, the painful truth that I have lived a patchwork life.

A life made up of a series of moments, each one disconnected from the other, each one a ‘story’ of its own.

A life that could look to the outside world like a life well lived; but in truth has been a life underscored by emptiness and loneliness.

A life the childhood version of me wouldn’t recognise, wouldn’t understand, and absolutely wouldn’t want.

A life that needed to change.

A life I would change.

________________________________________________________________

For Sam. Thank you. For seeing me. For helping me see me. I love you.

For my Grandmother. Thank you. For everything. I love you.

And to all the amazing people who have been so patient, worked so hard, and pushed and encouraged me as I’ve sought to change these past for years; thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Who I am now and in the future is because of you.

*first published July 2018