I will never forget that awful feeling on hearing the worst news of my life. I was turning 5 years old. It was the summer of 1968, just prior to starting primary school. The shocking truth sank to the pit of my stomach.
I am too young to understand the full magnitude of her statement – no way of knowing the great loss that would impregnate my life forever. Something told me, what is deep in my soul needs to change into something else.
A few years ago, this memory came as a vivid flashback. Someone had written a book – it was not exactly about me, but it tells a story from my perspective.
It was the author’s description of me that hit hard. How can a few simple words have such a profound effect? He wrote…
“The man I met in London in September 2009 was not physically remarkable in any way – your Mr average-male”
Those words made me feel a fraud. They do not depict my true identity.
Our parent’s behaviour could be volatile to our childhood antics, I had developed an uncanny knack of interpreting their facial expressions to judge the mood and determine our safety. I search Mum’s face as she stands at the kitchen sink preparing food. There are no signs of joviality or anger.
“You are NOT a little girl….”