My Black Blame Feeling From Childhood: The Red Herring
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 on 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 me apart.
He built an extension, a scullery, a bathroom, and a guestroom where Nan (my mother’s mum) used to sleep. The sliding door between kitchen and scullery would later become symbolic: a divide in the household. Mum versus Dad.
Money was tight. Dad left the family haulage business after a dispute and took a job at a car company. Before long, the nightshift nearly destroyed him. He became bad‑tempered, obsessed with sleep, and the atmosphere grew heavy. We crept around the house like ghosts. His migraines worsened, and he relied on painkillers and sleeping pills to get through each day.
One day, he broke. He went on sick leave, moved into the guestroom, and the family fell onto the breadline. The cottage was cramped, cold and shabby. Dad stayed in bed, like a junkie. In the Seventies, anti‑psychotics were handed out like sweets, and he became addicted. He later admitted that breaking the dependency was the hardest thing he’d ever done. It took him five years.
I heard he’d been a wonderful father before all this. I didn’t meet that version of him until I had children of my own. I feel robbed of the dad I should have had.
Life became a knife‑edge. I felt sorry for Mum and wished Dad lived somewhere else.
One day, I made too much noise. Dad grabbed me by the ankles, pulled me upside down, and beat my thighs until I couldn’t breathe. I can still picture his beetroot‑red face against the ceiling. Once, he beat Eve and me in succession before retreating to the guestroom in remorse. I naively believed he disciplined all my siblings this way. Later, I learned he saved his upside‑down beatings for Eve and me alone.
By six, my respect for Dad had vanished. He was a twitching ogre we tiptoed around. A clinic offered him a coma‑inducing insulin treatment; he refused. He considered rehab in Exeter, then refused that too. Mum never forgave him.
During remissions, took up art, working in the garret. But during darker periods he drew harrowing images of eyeballs, blood and veins. They disturbed me so much I avoided the room. Mum eventually made him burn these paintings. In the late Seventies and early Eighties, he found success exhibiting in major galleries, but psychosis continued to haunt him.
Dad’s Aunt Lily suffered manic depression and received electroconvulsive therapy, suggesting a family trait. I wanted none of it. A newspaper clipping of Dad’s one‑man show depicts him, Eve and me holding his art. I stand furthest from him, looking down. I was ashamed of being like him.
This is why I revered Mum. She was fierce, matriarchal, protective, and heroic under adversity. She stretched every penny and maintained routine. People found her stern, but I saw behind this facade. I absorbed her view because of Dad.
Her marriage wore her down. She struggled to express tenderness. Once or twice, she said I was like Dad when I was naughty. These words cut deep but I excused her for her terrible situation and living far from her childhood home. I could hardly blame her.
Ultimately, I believed my black‑blame came from taking after Dad — a negative role model whose illness overshadowed my early life. For most of my life, that seemed to explain this black-blame feeling.
Only later did I learn where this feeling actually came, and it had nothing to do with Dad.
It was a red herring. My book, Mirror Image Shattered tells the whole story.
Read my Articles that Reveals the Truth
Home – about this blog.
Start here– How the truth came out after 50 years.
Themes in my work
Buy my books
About me
The first aid dummy in the village fete of 8 July 1978
My odd behavior in Dad’s bedroom
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 on 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 me apart.
My identical twin and myself in toddlerhood circa 1970 (Taken from my book, Mirror Image Shattered)
Born Into Chaos and a Troubled Family
Eve (my twin) and I were born at the worst possible time in a troubled, overburdened family. Mum’s pregnancy almost took her life due to a haemorrhage after we were born. She didn’t fully recover for months. Dad was working for the family business to make our cottage liveable — a small two‑up, two‑down affair overlooking fields and a pond.He built an extension, a scullery, a bathroom, and a guestroom where Nan (my mother’s mum) used to sleep. The sliding door between kitchen and scullery would later become symbolic: a divide in the household. Mum versus Dad.
Money was tight. Dad left the family haulage business after a dispute and took a job at a car company. Before long, the nightshift nearly destroyed him. He became bad‑tempered, obsessed with sleep, and the atmosphere grew heavy. We crept around the house like ghosts. His migraines worsened, and he relied on painkillers and sleeping pills to get through each day.
One day, he broke. He went on sick leave, moved into the guestroom, and the family fell onto the breadline. The cottage was cramped, cold and shabby. Dad stayed in bed, like a junkie. In the Seventies, anti‑psychotics were handed out like sweets, and he became addicted. He later admitted that breaking the dependency was the hardest thing he’d ever done. It took him five years.
I heard he’d been a wonderful father before all this. I didn’t meet that version of him until I had children of my own. I feel robbed of the dad I should have had.
Living With a Mentally Ill Dad
By the time I was four, Dad’s mental illness took over. He stayed shut in the guestroom, and Nan could no longer live with us. We had to keep silent. Dripping taps, ticking clocks, rustling paper — anything could set him off. He sat rock‑still, staring murderously into space, daring anyone to meet his eyes. It was horrible.Life became a knife‑edge. I felt sorry for Mum and wished Dad lived somewhere else.
One day, I made too much noise. Dad grabbed me by the ankles, pulled me upside down, and beat my thighs until I couldn’t breathe. I can still picture his beetroot‑red face against the ceiling. Once, he beat Eve and me in succession before retreating to the guestroom in remorse. I naively believed he disciplined all my siblings this way. Later, I learned he saved his upside‑down beatings for Eve and me alone.
By six, my respect for Dad had vanished. He was a twitching ogre we tiptoed around. A clinic offered him a coma‑inducing insulin treatment; he refused. He considered rehab in Exeter, then refused that too. Mum never forgave him.
During remissions, took up art, working in the garret. But during darker periods he drew harrowing images of eyeballs, blood and veins. They disturbed me so much I avoided the room. Mum eventually made him burn these paintings. In the late Seventies and early Eighties, he found success exhibiting in major galleries, but psychosis continued to haunt him.
Effect of a Negative Father Role Model
Of all my siblings, I resemble Dad the most — even more than Eve. I inherited his artistic drive, but because of his illness, I valued my gift little. I tried to make my work as different from his as possible. I didn’t want to be like him.Dad’s Aunt Lily suffered manic depression and received electroconvulsive therapy, suggesting a family trait. I wanted none of it. A newspaper clipping of Dad’s one‑man show depicts him, Eve and me holding his art. I stand furthest from him, looking down. I was ashamed of being like him.
This is why I revered Mum. She was fierce, matriarchal, protective, and heroic under adversity. She stretched every penny and maintained routine. People found her stern, but I saw behind this facade. I absorbed her view because of Dad.
Her marriage wore her down. She struggled to express tenderness. Once or twice, she said I was like Dad when I was naughty. These words cut deep but I excused her for her terrible situation and living far from her childhood home. I could hardly blame her.
Ultimately, I believed my black‑blame came from taking after Dad — a negative role model whose illness overshadowed my early life. For most of my life, that seemed to explain this black-blame feeling.
Only later did I learn where this feeling actually came, and it had nothing to do with Dad.
It was a red herring. My book, Mirror Image Shattered tells the whole story.
Read my Articles that Reveals the Truth
Home – about this blog.Start here– How the truth came out after 50 years.
Themes in my work
Buy my books
About me
Other Articles on This Blog
About my diariesThe first aid dummy in the village fete of 8 July 1978
My odd behavior in Dad’s bedroom
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