Painted Faces - the masks people wear

Expectations and fear....

      On one hand I always "knew" I was special; I was constantly told I was by everyone around me, so I must be, right? But this conflicted deeply with what I also knew; that I was worthless, deserved punishment and to be reviled. It must be so because the actions towards me of others told me this. 

How do you process this knowledge and yet live up to the rest? I was not a typical child receiving typical affirmation from those around her to make her feel special; I had no idea how to own my realities.

     To my Dad I was his beautiful daughter, set to win "Miss World" one day (proclaimed as I sat on his knee watching the competition with him one year probably as most fathers told their young daughters back then) and take the world by storm. He was the second to eldest of 10 children, and there were 6 boys in that family before the longed-for girl. So when I was born first (a girl) he couldn't believe his luck and I was easily able to wrap him round my little, somewhat precocious, finger. The story goes that when a toddler, I even climbed (literally) over my mother's pregnant belly in bed just to get to my dad. By all accounts, I was a "daddy's girl".

   Dad managed a Gentleman's Club, no women allowed, and we all lived in an upstairs apartment until at the birth of their next child when I was nearly 3 years old it was deemed necessary to move out to our own home. I suspect they realised at that point that keeping two children quiet upstairs, contained in their flat, was near on impossible. Wise move. 

   I apparently charmed everyone, from visiting members of parliament to the cook. Scandalously at age two years I escaped from their upstairs flat and was found later sitting on one prominent gentleman's bed calling him by his first name, something even my dad wasn't meant to call him by.

     I talked exceptionally young, speaking sentences well before the age of one. The world was my oyster and I confidently grasped it with outstretched hands. Mum claims my dad didn't want more children (he had me, didn't need more, did he?) but when my younger brother appeared Dad realized what he'd missed – his "mate". Mum says I changed at that point, becoming shy, less confident, more reserved, and definitely more of a "mummy's girl". I distanced myself a little from Dad – before I was three years of age I experienced my first sense of rejection (unintended on his part I'm sure) and of no longer being good enough.

    Mum enrolled me in ballet at the age of six – fulfilling a dream she'd always had to learn herself – and seemingly I was a natural. I was naughty though; avoided practicing because it bored me, and I saw no need. I usually excelled in exams each year without it, and ballet never inspired in me the passion that my mother hoped for. It wasn't until at about the age of thirteen when we began pointe work that I came a bit unstuck – I really didn't like it, the pain (you imagine squeezing your feet into wooden toed pointe shoes with no room to wiggle), or the fear of hurting myself (falling while on pointe to me seemed inevitable). And gaining constant blisters with the instruction to douse them in vinegar to harden the skin seemed pointless (pardon the pun) and horrifying. I switched to modern ballet.

   Fear: a very real part of my life by then, installed by my father's constant nervous panic if he thought I was going to fall or do anything that might result in harm. Perpetrated also by the other things happening to me that no-one else knew about.

   I was too afraid to climb trees or practice handstands with the other girls. I was afraid of heights and confined spaces. But mostly I was afraid of doing anything wrong or not living up to other's expectations of me. I was afraid to put even one little foot wrong. I was desperately afraid of failure.

    Although I sailed through school, achieving well academically and always teacher's pet, I had a constant sense of impending doom, when everyone would wake up and see me as I really was. A fraud. My mother always said she would stake her life on my honesty – I couldn't tell a lie – so when you're experiencing something awful, and the truth is dangerous what do you do? Bury it all I guess - every last bit. I wanted to believe the lie, believe in myself like others seemed to, but I knew better. 

Knew what they didn't. And that nearly destroyed me. Their expectations and belief in me were just too hard to live up to. 

And I had secrets.