MY LOST TODDLERHOOD

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‑c...

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. ...

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...

One cloudy day, I went to the village carnival with two school friends and I encountered my unconscious three-year-old self in the form of a first aid dummy in a tent. Encounter at the Village Carnival Of course, I didn’t realise this at the time. It was just a dummy lying on a table. A cheerful paramedic presided, urging us to have a go and learn how to perform the ‘kiss of life.’ All I can say is that the sight of that ashen, bald thing lying there ruined my day. Strong feelings of sex, possession and death swept over me but such words were not at my disposal at the time. The sight of that doll simply unnerved me. Dummies would spur intrusive thoughts (Necessary Evil Wiki Commons) My Friends’ Reactions versus My Own My two friends simply had a laugh as they had a go. I watched, squirming inside as one of them pressed her lips against that lifeless thing and the doll’s chest lurched upwards and make that spooky hush sound as the air escaped ‘it’. Her saliva dribbled over the doll...

On 3 August 1981, I went on a mystery trip with my sisters and brother-in-law. What I didn’t know was that the destination was Portmeirion, in North Wales, the location of where the 70s TV series, The Prisoner , starring Patrick McGoohan was filmed. What no one knew was that I was afflicted with private terror of this ‘thing’ that used to make an appearance in the show. First, a brief overview of what T he Prisoner was about. Portmeiriron, Wales (Tom Parnell Wikimedia Commons) The Prisoner Plot Patrick McGoohan is a secret agent who is abducted from his London apartment to find himself in a sinister seaside village where he is held captive. People from all walks of life appear resigned to living there, allowing a controlling regime to dictate their lives.   Residents are known only by numbers; McGoohan is Number Six. Number Six doesn’t know who is an inmate or a guard and therefore can trust no one. ‘Number Two’ (who takes on various identities) heavily monitors Number Six, and N...