Running Away from My Broken Self by Getting Married
I graduated from City Polytechnic with an upper‑second in 1986. I almost failed due to my dire dissertation. I returned home, signed on the dole, and became housebound. The cottage was ablaze with rows, Dad was unwell again, and months of painting for a local exhibition left me exhausted. Something inside me snapped.
The catalyst was a slighting remark over my life plans, but the real cause had been building up for years. My book, Mirror Image Shattered explains: "That night, when I went to bed, I shivered. Not with cold, but fear. I pulled the covers over myself and felt my personality disintegrate. A black void surged like a vortex in my head, dragging me to childhood: intrusive thoughts, terror of the dark, the feeling of being consumed by something nameless".
I spurned the characters of my stories that had lived inside me for years. My secret novel I had toiled over for months on end felt laughable, stupid. My degree felt worthless. I imagined myself; a pathetic sad‑case stuck at home with letters after my name. I couldn’t sleep. I prayed — despite no longer being an active Christian. I prayed and lay awake all night.
For a few seconds, I had lost my identity. I had become like a ghost. The walls of the cottage had consumed me.
I contacted Mark, an old boyfriend from college. He had once been infatuated with me, and I knew that he would take me back. During our courtship, the cottage had sunk into shabbiness: threadbare carpets, stale furnishings. Mum’s lack of sentiment sucked the soul out of the place.
Worse, she had taken in a young ex‑con using an alias to hide his prison record. He had free reign of the house and Dad’s car, driving without a licence. Mum saw herself as a reformer of an ex-prison-mate.
What’s got into Mum? What about her grandchildren, toddlers who visited the cottage? What about Dad’s stolen tools, the shady characters this ‘bloke’ brought home, his friends who pitched tents in the garden for weeks? I visited Nan (Mum’s mother) instead, at her sheltered housing complex. She was like another maternal figure. Nan’s death in May 1987 devastated me to the core.
Leaving home seemed the only choice I could see to emotionally survive.
This is where my courtship with Mark would lead.
Mark was the first person outside my family that I felt I could be myself with. But our relationship had problems. I moved into a grotty bedsit and proposed to him on our first holiday together. My motive was simple: escape. To escape myself. A wedding ring meant I was no longer a single twenty‑something consumed by the past. I was “unavailable,” protected from flirty men at pubs and the Post Office where I briefly worked, and the persistent weirdo near my bedsit. No one would notice the “thing” I carried.
Our wedding day was wet and cloudy. The reception was held in a club next to a fairground. Guests went on rides; I couldn’t in my dress. Secretly, I wanted my secret fantasy world to materialise, and one of my characters, Aidan to take me on the dodgems where my wedding dress would get wet in the rain.
Yes, my fantasy world has hijacked my wedding day: I was still struggling with my novel. The day before, I had stuffed my unfinished manuscript (I had called The Lessons) into the attic space of my bedsit.
My secret identities and the demons in my head have followed me around, into marriage. I hadn’t escaped myself at all.
During my marriage, I suffered some of the worst intrusive thoughts of my life. Horrific images tore through my head: a fleshy stalactite lodged down a victim’s throat; an alien lifeform feeding from human stomachs; a girl in a rockpool repeatedly gouged by a jagged protrusion. These visions bore no relation to my life at all. Where do they come? I shook them off again and again, unable to speak of them to anyone.
I buried myself in my secret world, my novel. I took casual jobs so I could write. I consumed typewriter ribbons and reams of paper. I planned my time so no one would catch me writing. My obsession blinded me to the driving force.
Aidan’s teacher, Laura, tries to get him out, but he insists he belongs there. In the climax, the psychopath tells Aidan: “You have lost your innocence too long ago to chase after it, pal.”
Lost your innocence? What did that mean?
I tried crime, betrayal, drugs, family feud — nothing fit.
But long ago, I had ‘lost my innocence’. I have lost it too long ago to go chase after it. The fleshy stalactite of my intrusive thoughts symbolises the reason my innocence has been destroyed. In toddlerhood.
My novel is based on fact.
About me
Start here How I learned the truth about my past in 10 parts
Buy my books from Amazon or browse the Madeleine Watson Book Catalogue on this blog.
Themes in my work
For external sources related to this topic, visit my Further Reading page
About me
Start here How I learned the truth about my past in 10 parts
Buy my books from Amazon
Themes in my work
The catalyst was a slighting remark over my life plans, but the real cause had been building up for years. My book, Mirror Image Shattered explains: "That night, when I went to bed, I shivered. Not with cold, but fear. I pulled the covers over myself and felt my personality disintegrate. A black void surged like a vortex in my head, dragging me to childhood: intrusive thoughts, terror of the dark, the feeling of being consumed by something nameless".
I spurned the characters of my stories that had lived inside me for years. My secret novel I had toiled over for months on end felt laughable, stupid. My degree felt worthless. I imagined myself; a pathetic sad‑case stuck at home with letters after my name. I couldn’t sleep. I prayed — despite no longer being an active Christian. I prayed and lay awake all night.
Climactic scene in my novel The Lessons when a psychopath assaults Aidan
For a few seconds, I had lost my identity. I had become like a ghost. The walls of the cottage had consumed me.
How to Become Someone Else
Next day, I got up early. I scrambled out of that bottomless pit and decided to become someone else, anyone but me. I would leave the cottage, leave the shaky foundations of my childhood, leave the fear of becoming a nobody, and start a ‘new life’.I contacted Mark, an old boyfriend from college. He had once been infatuated with me, and I knew that he would take me back. During our courtship, the cottage had sunk into shabbiness: threadbare carpets, stale furnishings. Mum’s lack of sentiment sucked the soul out of the place.
Worse, she had taken in a young ex‑con using an alias to hide his prison record. He had free reign of the house and Dad’s car, driving without a licence. Mum saw herself as a reformer of an ex-prison-mate.
What’s got into Mum? What about her grandchildren, toddlers who visited the cottage? What about Dad’s stolen tools, the shady characters this ‘bloke’ brought home, his friends who pitched tents in the garden for weeks? I visited Nan (Mum’s mother) instead, at her sheltered housing complex. She was like another maternal figure. Nan’s death in May 1987 devastated me to the core.
Leaving home seemed the only choice I could see to emotionally survive.
Getting Marriage to Escape the Past
So, I got married.This is where my courtship with Mark would lead.
Mark was the first person outside my family that I felt I could be myself with. But our relationship had problems. I moved into a grotty bedsit and proposed to him on our first holiday together. My motive was simple: escape. To escape myself. A wedding ring meant I was no longer a single twenty‑something consumed by the past. I was “unavailable,” protected from flirty men at pubs and the Post Office where I briefly worked, and the persistent weirdo near my bedsit. No one would notice the “thing” I carried.
Our wedding day was wet and cloudy. The reception was held in a club next to a fairground. Guests went on rides; I couldn’t in my dress. Secretly, I wanted my secret fantasy world to materialise, and one of my characters, Aidan to take me on the dodgems where my wedding dress would get wet in the rain.
Yes, my fantasy world has hijacked my wedding day: I was still struggling with my novel. The day before, I had stuffed my unfinished manuscript (I had called The Lessons) into the attic space of my bedsit.
My secret identities and the demons in my head have followed me around, into marriage. I hadn’t escaped myself at all.
Unrealised Flashbacks from Complex PTSD
My compulsion to write took a toll on married life. I spent hours in the flat trying to eke out sentences for my novel while Mark went drinking. The storyline burned in my head, but nothing transmitted to paper. I wrote and rewrote scenes until my pencils wore to nibs. When Mark returned home, I hid my work. I feared fire, flood, burglary — anything that might destroy my manuscript. I felt paranoid, delusional.During my marriage, I suffered some of the worst intrusive thoughts of my life. Horrific images tore through my head: a fleshy stalactite lodged down a victim’s throat; an alien lifeform feeding from human stomachs; a girl in a rockpool repeatedly gouged by a jagged protrusion. These visions bore no relation to my life at all. Where do they come? I shook them off again and again, unable to speak of them to anyone.
I buried myself in my secret world, my novel. I took casual jobs so I could write. I consumed typewriter ribbons and reams of paper. I planned my time so no one would catch me writing. My obsession blinded me to the driving force.
Lost Innocence at a Young Age
By 1988, I got stuck on a scene in my novel. Aidan, the main character (who had now become my imaginary boyfriend), yields to a psychopath who lives in a derelict house.Aidan’s teacher, Laura, tries to get him out, but he insists he belongs there. In the climax, the psychopath tells Aidan: “You have lost your innocence too long ago to chase after it, pal.”
Lost your innocence? What did that mean?
I tried crime, betrayal, drugs, family feud — nothing fit.
But long ago, I had ‘lost my innocence’. I have lost it too long ago to go chase after it. The fleshy stalactite of my intrusive thoughts symbolises the reason my innocence has been destroyed. In toddlerhood.
My novel is based on fact.
Other Articles about my Writing Episodes
Home About this blog and popular posts.About me
Start here How I learned the truth about my past in 10 parts
Buy my books from Amazon or browse the Madeleine Watson Book Catalogue on this blog.
Themes in my work
For external sources related to this topic, visit my Further Reading page
Key Articles
Home About this blog and popular posts.About me
Start here How I learned the truth about my past in 10 parts
Buy my books from Amazon
Themes in my work
My true story about my parasitical novel, The Lessons. Click to buy.
Comments
Post a Comment