Faith, Hope and The Broomfield Academy

                                          @Flickr creo que soy yo

I didn't want to go to another dance school, why would I? I knew about dance it was woven into the fabric of everyday life like a strand of DNA mum had knitted inside me, but the dance of our lives was chaotic, it danced at bus stops and sang at the top of our voices in fields, it bubbled through the television and jumped off the vinyl records in a topsy turvy willy wonka world.

I never liked being in crowds unless I could melt into the wall. This involves either becoming seamless or needed like the dinner lady in the line at school, accepted, quiet, passed over. It's something I perfected and still use today to feel comfortable but I couldn't be unseen in this excitable gang of budding ballerinas, dressed in their pretty pink tights, satin ribboned shoes and high pitched laughter. As mum spoke to the figure at the front I stood as far to the back as possible and waited. The woman at the front commanded your attention and it wasn't through speech. She glided above the floor her body and arms gracefully moving, her head slightly tilted as though she she was about to take flight and as her eyes took in the unruly gaggle the noise suddenly hushed and the girls turned, faced the front  and pressed their feet into the floor their arms dropped and curved into an O shape.
I was fascinated by the way these little dancers moved together, swimming through the music and it completely immersed me, for a while nothing else existed as I became the movement itself one, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three. A pair of dark eyes looked straight into my soul and I had found my escape from everything.

The Broomfield family themselves were also a richly coloured tapestry and their personalities and zest for life was infectous, each member bright, intriguing and welcoming they were unlike any family I had encountered and it was in this wonderful atmosphere that friendships were formed and laughter and creativity ruled alongside the regal tortoishell cats  that allowed us to inhabit their home alongside them. For a while Mrs B's home itself became our dance studio I remember pushing my foot over the undulations of a thick cream carpet, bookcases becoming a bar and Mrs B sat at the end of the living room hunched over a table laden with papers, she missed nothing and should your arm drop below a certain level she would peer over and correct you, the noise filtered through from the hall as the next class arrived, shoes, tops and coats strewn across the stairs and Fiona shutting out the noise to cook dinner in an environment of creative mayhem.

I didn't become a ballerina I wished I had for Gwen but I formed the core of who I was to become. I learned love, discipline, strength, determination, humility, the thing is I felt cared for and my dreams became her dreams above all I learned not to give up and to be the best person I could be what more could you ask for?

For Mrs B

Its My Party, I'll Cry If I want To

                                          @Flickr daveynin

8 its a big deal, awareness of friendships, important stuff like lovely mums and homes, party dresses  excitement because your friends fight for your attention to be asked to your party, like I said a big deal..

The day itself started with hope and normality. The house cleaned for once and space made for pass the parcel and musical statues  with lots of little toys hidden under the stairs for prizes which I checked constantly in a glee of anticipation. We had sausages on sticks with cheese and pickle and dad had dropped off all types of pies, cakes and goodies from Aunty Edna's bakery.

As the children appeared with parents I sensed an apprehension from them, would their child be allright?  what were the plans? what time should they pick them up? I could see they relaxed as they cast an eye around the house prepared and set for a party, maybe the rumours they had heard were not true but their gestures of nervousness did not go unnoticed and a sliver of  apprehension sat inside my stomach.

Mum never had a problem with any child she had that ability to make every child want to be the one she picked. They clung to her dress and vyed for her attention, shouted her name and jumped up and down hanging on her every word and true to form she rose to the performance.

A few hours of fun and frolicks occurred the children were heady at the lack of formality and structure and for some unknown reason or maybe because it was the only thing she knew we were out of the house and off on an adventure. My party stopped at that very moment in time as I fretted over what the parents would say, what would my friends tell them ? where were we going?

The Conservative Club of Ashton was not a venue most parents would choose for a child's party everyone sat on the benches laughing at the strangeness and excited at a new experience but I sat there in horrror the smell of old alcohol from inside and the humility of  the situation I just wanted the ground to swallow me up, I begged to leave and the day turned sour. As we made our way home she was completely oblivious to any feeling of innapropriatness and the reaction on the parents faces to me said it all, my friends were excited they'd had a great time and left bubbling, laughing and tired a rich epsiode in their minds but for me the worst had yet to come.

I burst into tears I decided to leave and run to dads, a calm, constant oasis about half a mile away in the village but the door was barred by my two friends, mum tied me to the chair with an extension lead and anger and tears and fury coursed through my body as I cried and then fell into silence and stillness (my ultimate weapon and course of protection).

The thing with alcohol is it has no boundaries, it takes no prisoners, it destroys common sense, laughter, security and love and at eight it was a demon I was struggling to cope with.     

Alcohol Legacy

I awake today with an old friend not depression but the carried pain from a life of past occurances. Its a strange feeling to acknowledge the return of something you want to shut away but in some ways there is a comfort in the well trodden path because this usually signifies a pause followed by numbness for a while.

This day though feels different the strength of emotion that screamed last night will I fear not be silenced so easily. As if a huge wormhole appears and flat spins you into the past whoosh......I wonder how to continue when the force was so strong it made my body as paper, and I begin to think the pain is not only necessary but my path to take.

If something recurs throughout your life then shouldn't you listen?
Maybe acceptance and challenge will ease the pain and stop the cycle?

I am sick of being tossed around in the recurring spin cycle of weakness, guilt, recrimination and abject misery of alcolhol addiction that pulls generation after generation through and causes hurt and pain to anyone around you leaving only utter lonliness.

Today I have no more words.I do not want to even think its name.