My Lost Toddlerhood

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. My book, Mirror Image Shattered explains. 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 someth...