And then my lord said unto me:

“Gis us your camber, n squeeze as ‘ard as you can. There ain’t no point in yer crying, now sit on me lap n look at yer ole man. Look ‘ard into me minces ‘n listen!”

I was eleven years old, and had just plucked up the courage to tell my dad that in the previous week, I’d been pummeled by a gang of three girls. They had been menacing for several weeks. It was because of the way that I walk due to the cerebral palsy. Luckily, I had no serious injuries, I was merely decorated with cuts and bruises.

I guess I was seeking sympathy. I received none; but instead, he said something along the lines of:

“Remember Emmajane, yer a chip off the ‘ole block. You’re my bricks!  I had all sorts of beatings in that bleedin children’s ‘ome, n more besides when I escaped n ‘ad to fend for meself on the streets. They all thought I was stupid, you know – with me being mutton. But I ain’t I am strong n so are you. You just ‘ave to copy me okay. You’ve gotta keep kool kat!”

Still fixed to his dark chocolatey coloured eyes, his huge gold earring twinkled at me. It was his clever way of distracting people away from his hearing aid. It would be some time yet before he got a nifty one that was concealed in his glasses. He made me squeeze my Poorly Hand onto his again; it was his way of bestowing and reiterating the need to keep strong…

He asked what my one and tuvva was doing about it. But my parents were divorced, and I couldn’t risk my mother playing more games. She would do anything and everything to stop us seeing our father. Besides, I already knew her ulterior motive. She’d already scathed: “Well at least that gives me leverage; I ’Il get that useless gutter-snipe to pay for you three to go a private school!”

I had to be mindful of the consequences, so I had simply smiled my reply. It was at a time when his business was booming, so he was especially busy. Plus, she’d already warned me about all her “spies” and what she would do to me- if I spoke about my home life to my daddy.

He never knew of the abuse and cruelty I endured at her hands. Nor about the various religions that she tried on as though they were hats. We had already gone through many by the time I was eleven: Atheist to Christianity, and then Muslim, a spate of nothingness, and by the time I was thirteen she had us worshipping a lemon!

I am professionally advised to have nothing to do with my mother. She behaved abominably when dad died, and was equally atrocious, when I lost a daughter, and then my brother… but I am a survivor, and have written a book about what happened to me: in the hope it will empower and help others…

We’re all living in such a challenging era. We all have good and bad days, and times when we feel lost in the woods of this crazy world.

And, life is so short and all the good souls on this planet: deserve to live full and happy lives.

Reach out to those whom you trust, remember they want the best outcome for you, because we all have wobblily days.

And, have a think about who you can siphon some energy from. It could even be someone well-known who you admire: observe, watch, and emulate.

Because when my vibes fluctuate, and still after all this time: I “talk” to my daddy and offer him my Poorly Hand: one almighty clench.  I imagine his safe brown doting eyes, and envisage his golden toothy grin, and then I feel so much better!

I hope this is helpful.

SUNNY wishes,

Emma x