My Lost Toddlerhood

For as long as I can remember, something set me apart from other people. I became the oddball. Teachers wrote in my school reports that I “seemed to lead an intense inner life.” I often drifted out of conversations, losing minutes. Words dissolved before I could grasp their meaning. People repeated themselves. I pretended to follow along so I wouldn’t look stupid. It wasn’t shyness. It was a kind of dissociation that made ordinary interaction feel like wading through fog. My split self goes back to my toddlerhood. My book Mirror Image Shattered tells the whole story. My Aural Dyslexia No One Could See I seemed to suffer a form of dyslexia, but in listening — an aural processing disorder. Music lyrics slipped past me. Spoken words tangled up. I asked Mum for a hearing test, convinced my hearing had gone awry. She whispered, “Would you like some sweets?” I answered instantly “Yes please!”. She smiled and assured me there was nothing wrong with my hearing. Okay, so my hearing was fine. ...

No relationship compares to that of identical twins. I often felt sorry for ‘singles’. How lonely they must feel. I sensed a private wavelength only two identical minds can detect. Eve and I often didn’t need words. We understood each other’s moods, fears, and ideas— a mirrored experience. Life as a Mirror Image Twin But twinhood is not the magical telepathy as portrayed in films. We never ‘heard’ each other’s voices in our heads. Instead, our parallel wiring and shared childhood meant we made similar connections to things. Our closeness was real but grounded by living side‑by‑side. Despite what others saw, I always felt different from Eve. That was her name - Eve. I was the driving force — the one inventing games and solving problems. I was the tomboy interested in meteorology and science in jeans and T-shirts. Eve crocheted, macraméd, and read agony‑aunt columns. She embraced growing up and boyfriends; I clung to childhood. She was my counterpoint, my resilience, and my life‑raft. Wi...

In August 1981 (when I had turned sixteen), my writing turned a dark and sinister corner. Until then, my stories had been innocent children’s mysteries, rooted in fantasy landscapes. But now, a door in my brain is creaking open. A nasty man began crawling into my head. I would call ‘John’. John was tall, disfigured, scary and knew vile things. He would fuel my first serious novel. I had originally called it The Upstairs Room . Later, I called it The Lessons . My shift into darkness has now begun. My childhood storytelling is clashing with a deep and black past. My book analysing my novel, The Lessons The Evolution of The Upstairs Room The following is taken from my diaries. On 30 August 1981, my twin Eve and I were sitting in the garden with Donna Jenkins, (a wheelchair‑bound girl who lived nearby). The sun cast long shadows across the lawn, and Nan had come to visit. It should have been an ordinary, carefree afternoon. Instead, Donna told us she thought she was pregnant — and then rev...

In the autumn of 2016, shortly before Mum died, I had a disagreement with one of her carers. It was over a minor thing, but confrontation has always triggered a nasty feeling inside. I privately call black‑blame — a crushing, weeks‑long sensation of guilt, shame and degradation. Even when I’m in the right, I feel wrong, I feel responsible. For years I assumed this was simply part of being human, but one day I realised this wasn’t normal at all. None of my siblings felt like this. Not even my identical twin, Eve. Black‑blame has shaped my life. It drove me into art, writing, record‑keeping, research, blogging — anything to keep myself occupied. It was like trying to sit on a pin: constant discomfort, constant diversion. I often wished for an off‑switch. Sometimes I wished I could be anyone but me. I grew up believing childhood must be the source. But the more I compared my experiences with those of my siblings, the more I understood that something had happened to me. Something has set m...

In 1976, during the big summer drought, I wrote one of my first full‑length stories: Higreaves . I was ten years old. I shared a crowded bedroom with my identical twin, Eve. Our creativity often spilled into stories, drawings, pantomimes and games. But something is terribly wrong with ‘ Higreaves ’ (not of the common spelling, Hargreaves). Higreaves forms a window into a sinister corner of my subconscious. To something I mustn’t see. This post explores my strange story, imagery, and what it says about my early childhood. For this is what fuelled my story. My toddlerhood to be precise.   Drawing reconstructing the story. Everyone is wearing masks and falling unconscious. Image right shows the original document. A Childhood Story about a Real Event Higreaves is set in a “park,” I can now see it was really our garden. The lamppost, the laurel tree, the lawn — all can be found in my garden. It’s not a park at all. The story opens with a ‘Mr Jenesy’ sweeping the ‘park’. A passer‑by call...

Growing up as an identical twin in a crowded cottage in Seventies England shaped my world. Eve (my mirror image twin) and I were born in 1965. She was right‑handed, and I am left. For years we shared a bedroom, sometimes with other siblings. Our twinship was a buffer against my childhood chaos: Dad’s mental illness, poverty, and the volatile atmosphere that hung over the house. And yet, creativity flourished. Having younger siblings and niblings, I had an audience for my stories and pantomimes. My diaries testify of spending time in the playhouse, sitting on the swing, and inventing mysteries. Nan’s (maternal) visits brought stability, against the ructions that often broke out. My First Diary: 1977 and the Birth of My Inner World In 1977, I began writing in a small blue Letts’ Schoolgirl’s Diary. The pages were tiny but tell a lot about a child who hated school and often zoned out in a fantasy world. That diary marks the beginning of my lifelong documentation — and the evolution of my ...

This article explores one of the earliest short stories I ever wrote as a child. I can now see themes and patterns that would later recur in my novels. These patterns would indicate something is very wrong with my life. This story is about Frankenstein's monster and a haunted house. It was written on 20 Sept 1975. I was ten years old and at school. Being only 200 hundred words, will only take a moment. My illustrations for the Haunted House showing the monster of Frankenstein , a coffin and dead spiders. The Haunted House – The Story I Wrote as a Child Once upon a time there was a girl called Claire Jones . She ran away from her stepmother and father. They treated her badly. She saw a house and heard footsteps. Suddenly Claire saw a big shadow on the outside wall of the house. She turned and saw Frankenstein (meaning the monster). He said, ‘Come here my child’. He picked her up and gave her sleeping pills and then she fell asleep. Then Frankenstein put her in a cold room and lo...

Tales from Daler Cottage is about my children’s stories written between the ages of 9 and 16. The years would have been 1975 to 1982. During this time, I was completely unaware of a terrible truth about my life. I was living in Daler Cottage, the given name of my childhood home. My book, Tales from Daler Cottage . In April 1985, at the age of 19, I would start a novel called The Lessons . This novel was fuelled by a fantasy world that was burning me up inside. For the next thirty years, I would struggle with this novel, oblivious to this truth about myself. The story of The Lessons is covered in my other book. The Strange Power of Early Stories Prior to my novel-writing phase, I was writing mysteries, poems, drawing, painting and devising plays. I kept a diary between 1977 and 1988. I went to art school between 1981 and 1986, all during complete oblivion to my past. I would continue to write and paint for many years to come. My diaries illuminate the circumstances surrounding ...

This article is about my novel called The Lessons . Strictly speaking, it is not a novel at all, but something far more sinister. The dictionary lacks a word for what The Lessons actually is, but has provided a two-way mirror that hides a life behind my own reflection.   How The Lessons Began in My Teenage Years At the age of 19, I made the momentous decision to being this novel – on April 23 1985, to be precise. I know this because I kept a diary between 1977 and 1988. As soon as I began, an illness cut me down for a week. I thought nothing of it, determined I was going to begin this novel as soon as I felt better. Little did I realise how this novel would affect my life. Me during one of my writing episodes. A fantasy world burned me up inside. The Hidden Story Beneath The Lessons I kept my novel secret from family and friends. I feverishly read books on how-to write novels, sitting in my flat for hours on end, eking out a few sentences. During episodes, ...

In this article, I will explain a series of intense doll‑playing episodes from October 1978, recorded in my teenage diaries. My doll playing habits differed to other girls, no pram, no swaddling nor dressing up. Just bizarre storylines and bipolar characters. Only decades later did I understand my traumatised toddlerhood drove these stories. My Strange Doll Pantomimes of 1978 Between 1978 and early 1981, I used to create stories with toys. My storylines were odd in that the star, a blonde doll did nothing but lie inert as t he other toys had active parts and chaotic behaviour. I now realize I had projected my younger self onto this doll. My conscious awareness was oblivious to the fact that an uncle had lived in the cottage with me throughout 1968 and that he brutalized me when I was 3. The reason for her inert state was that she was in fact unconscious. How I came to unearth this truth is covered in a separate article. Sue, of my doll pantomimes did nothing but lay unconscious in...