Tag Childhood

Superfat Seven

freyathewriter 2 Comments

Yesterday I was having a chat with one of my writer friends about putting your face online. He has just launched the second novel in his series about Ardamin, a clone inhabiting a dystopian future (check the series out here on Amazon) and he has been promoting the latest novel on Instagram, including showing himself with his book.

So far, so normal. Unless you’re me, or someone like me. I’ve been running this blog since April 2013 (with some gaps for life events) and I’ve never put my face, let alone my body, on view. Over on my Instagram account there are maybe three instances where I’ve revealed myself as an adult. That’s out of 581 posts I’ve put up over there. And… to be honest I fight every day not to take them down. I may yet do that.

Why?

Superfat Seven.

When I was nine, we moved house, from a big city to a village. I was The New Girl. And some boys in the class below me immediately started calling me Superfat Seven. Until this point, I don’t think I’d ever thought about how I compared to other kids in my class. I was just me. That name would follow me everywhere I went, and I dreaded walking home from school if they were on the same street (which they often were) because the name calling would follow me home. I’ve seen photos of myself at that age and I can’t see why they chose that name, looking at it objectively. I had pudgy cheeks, but I wasn’t the huge lump that I very quickly saw myself as due to this name. Looking back, I guess the sole reason I was bullied was because I was The New Girl. That was it. But, the name had life-changing consequences.

I’ve never been diagnosed (I’ve never sought it out), but I’m almost certain I have Body Dysmorphia. I will do almost anything to avoid having my photograph taken. Even with family photos as I was growing up, I desperately wanted to grab the camera and throw it to the floor. But I was a well-behaved kid and knew that cameras were expensive so… I didn’t. I can’t bear to look at myself in the mirror. The only thing I focus on when doing my hair in the morning is the hair itself. When going somewhere where I have to be presentable, I focus on the neatness and cleanliness of the clothes themselves and whether what I have chosen is objectively ‘good enough’, not how I look in what I am wearing, because I will never accept how I look.

I have learned to mask the depression and anxiety that this has caused, but it has become entangled in other issues over the years. Unravelling it all seems like another lifetime’s work. Masking is what we do to get by in life, isn’t it? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t for one minute think that anyone else is bothered by how I look, nor do I think I am the focus of their attention. This is all about my inability to accept myself.

Superfat Seven.

What has this got to do with writing, with being an author? A hell of a lot, actually. Marketing your novel when the perceived wisdom is that you will be more approachable, more memorable, more relatable (I hate that word so much!) if you show your face, is a huge problem for someone like me. I know so many other authors who have their Instagram account filled with themselves. Their posts are bright and engaging and… relatable.

The upside is that I used this crushing mental health issue (because it is a mental health issue, let’s be honest) to my advantage when writing Callie, the main character in Anti-Virus. The cause of her situation is very different and entirely more violent than childhood bullying, but I was able to build on my personal experiences to create her story. So, there is that.

They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. It may be true. Sometimes though, it would be such a relief to be strong without having to go via Superfat Seven Highway to get there.

Jam jars and tent pegs

freyathewriter 4 Comments

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Perfectly imperfect
that’s my memory of childhood years
I know it wasn’t all sunshine
but there was that long hot summer of ’76
with the grass scorched brown and
ravenous for the slightest drop of rain
and the sugar-water filled jam jars
suspended from tree branches –
a Heath Robinson-esque tactic
designed to entice the wasps away from luscious wax-bloomed plums
dangling like piñatas, swaying in the sultry breeze.
We holidayed in Wales
our old blue canvas tent patched
and not a patch on the brown and orange and plastic windowed
modern varieties that were our field mates for a fortnight.
Our neighbours had a portable TV, car battery powered
the boys had a pogo stick and their dad a boat –
mackerel clothed in rainbows filled our bellies that night.
Then the gales hit and our tent alone stood up to the wrath of the heavens
thanks to sheer bloody-mindedness and incessant hammering-in of tent pegs in the darkling night.
Not for us a disappointing flight home to suburbia in the face of the wilds.
Perfectly imperfect –
I wouldn’t swap it for the world.

 

I’m in reminiscent mood, for no reason. Here’s a slice of my childhood for you – and I’m sort of revealing my middle-age by mentioning the British drought of 1976… 🙂

The dVerse hosts are taking a well-earned rest until 18th July, but I still feel the urge to write poetry, which is a good thing, I think. I hope you enjoy it!

Sukha Aloo – dVerse Poetics

freyathewriter 47 Comments

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My growing-up world is a map of aromas –

as my little snub nose lifts like a sniffer dog’s

as my beady eyes interrogate the shelves

as my chubby fingers reach out to touch –

cumin, paprika, star anise, cinnamon, cardamom, coriander garam masala…

the list is never ending and exotic to my ears

my heart explodes and my mouth waters in anticipation

at the glories that will dance on my tongue – later

the kitchen will swell with steam and spatter

the pots will bubble, burping explosions of delight into the air

meat will sizzle, onions will sweat, my skin will prickle

and later, much later, so very, very much later

chapati and naan will wipe our plates clean

raita will soothe our burning tongues

and i will save my helping of sukha aloo to the very last

because they are my favourite thing of all

 

Tonight, Grace, our lovely host over at the dVerse pub, invites us to write about scents, aromas, and evoke emotions. For me, the choice was obvious – food!

Oh what a joyous write this was for me, a real step back in time to my childhood of 1970s Birmingham! We lived not too far from a wondrous street called Ladypool Road in Sparkbrook (in the midst of the Balti Triangle), which was an absolute delight to anyone who wanted – no, needed – to buy herbs, spices and other necessary foodstuffs to create real authentic cuisine from around the world (there were and still are brilliant restaurants there too). From my memory, we went there to buy food to make curries – my step-dad would take over the kitchen and create absolutely wonderful food (I hope you can tell I loved it!).

My mum and step-dad took me to an Indian restaurant when I was little (back in the days of the flock wallpaper) – the Indian waiters were all amazed to see a little white girl eat proper curry! I felt very proud of my apparent prowess! I loved being part of the multi-cultural city where I grew up. It was a fantastic education in its own right.

Please do join in dVerse Poetics before the two week summer break – or if you’re feeling shy, at least come and enjoy the wonderful selection of poetry I know you will find there!