I have taken a beating this last week. It’s all here, in my blog, recorded to the best of my ability, but not the reality of the snarling dogs on my tail, their razor sharp teeth already tearing into me, shredding my world, threatening my sanity, ready to kill and devour to justify their privileged ivory existence.
I am strong, backed by the wisdom of years and hard won battles, but I am not immune to the pain of their mocking disbelief delivered from what they consider to be positions of unassailable power. It is a single thread that I can trace throughout my life, from when they first dragged me, without my consent and certainly without any informed consent from those whose duty it was to protect me in childhood, into their filthy institutions, starting with a, so called, ‘Children’s Home’.
How many are there of us across England, Britain, the world, who know the intimacy of what I am writing about? You know who you are, every blessed soul and spirit who dares to stand and hold the ground.
And now, in the battle of all battles of my life, for my life, why would I be surprised that it’s another fucking war when I am at my most vulnerable and most intimately challenged with an enemy that has invaded my body and so very nearly had me.
Once again I must stand, of course, once again I must choose each step with exquisite care, of course, once again I must face the storm, of course, just as I have so many times before.
And once again, I am surrounded by friends and allies, so many more now than in those darkest early desperate days. I am no longer alone, nor ever will be again, and I must lean into the strength, the wisdom and power of loving kindness with which we’ve conquered everything that’s been thrown at us, including poverty, homelessness and despair and endless mockery and contempt.
Kate Tempest has become a constant companion of late, exhorting me with the beauty of her words and experience…
Stand up old chap, stand up… Hold your own!