Gonzy's Vandalisim

» The nicest thing someone's ever done for me

Someone gave me a city
A while ago, I wrote here about a book that changed my life. A Nasty Bad Man did a Nasty Bad Thing to me when I was fifteen and it screwed me up for ages. One of the nicest things ever done for me was someone helping me make some new memories to override the bad ones.

Let me explain. The Nasty Bad Thing happened in London. I'd arranged to meet him at tube station A and he lived near tube station B. The Nasty Bad Thing happened at his house.

So every time I went to London for a jaunt (which was rare – I avoided the city wherever possible out of fear) and saw either of these two tube stations, or even their names on the tube map, I had a little panic. Or sometimes a big panic. Both names were hard to miss - one is very central, the other is associated with a large stadium. This made having fun in London pretty tricky - every damn tube journey would set me off, and no matter how sorted you get after something like this, little things can trigger memories. And I do like London, there’s loads to do and fun places to go – I didn’t want to be scared any more.

So, onto the nice.

I'd decided I wanted to make some new memories. This might sound daft but it works to great effect. When a Nasty Bad Man has used the word 'dick' aggressively at you, that word becomes very hard to say or even think without remembering him, his face, his voice. However, painting it in purple paint and covering it with glitter with a happy giggling counsellor makes it funny and sparkly.

I wanted new memories of those tube stations. And I wanted nice ones. My last memories of tube station B were of midwinter, waiting to be rescued away from the horrors, and me saying to the Nasty Bad Man, ‘I don’t feel very well. Don’t let me fall over’ And coming to in a heap on the floor next to a flower stall while he stood there sneering. Did I mention that he was a Nasty Bad Man? So I asked a Lovely Man if he would come with to station A, kiss me nicely, accompany me to station B and just see what happened.

Lovely Man did just that. We went to tube station A, we kissed. We went on the journey, and even though Lovely Man isn’t a fan of the tube, he kept an eye on me, looked after me and made sure I was ok.

When we got to tube station B, it was bright, bright sunshine, a bustling day. There were more shops than I remembered, cafes too. It was a vibrant place, development was happening, and new life being breathed into the area. It wasn’t the same place at all – it was amazing.

We stopped and had a cigarette, and I grinned for a long while. We kissed again and got the tube back. No need to hang about. I grinned all the way back to tube station A and we went about our business happy.

That tube journey with that Lovely Man gave me back London, the museums and galleries I love, the theatres, the pubs! It gave me back my freedom to be there and feel safe and to travel on the tube and not be scared of the tube map. It was the equivalent of sparkly glitter being poured all over the crapness and the trauma, and it was much needed.

If that Lovely Man happens to read this, and thinks about clicking, I’d like him to know that’s he’s clicking for himself too. I’m telling the story, but it was what he did that made it.
(Fri 3rd Oct 2008, 13:51, More)

» This book changed my life

Not just mine, but I hope a few others too.
Like workboresme, I’ve spent awhile (about two years to be honest – so many QOTW have made it pop into my head) wondering about posting this. And then thought,‘Ah fuck it, I’ll keep wondering until I do’.

So here we go. The book that really changed my life was a little pamphlet that I read in a waiting room years ago. It was one of those cheaply produced booklets that are full of adverts and there’s one article on support stockings or walking frames or volunteer knitting groups. At the back there was one little black and white understated advert for the local Rape Crisis Centre. You know those film sequences where the camera sort of centres in and the background just drops away – I felt like that. Everything else disappeared. That was one day I was glad of the long wait behind the coughers and bawling babies as I just read the advert over and over, those few lines, willing myself to memorise the phone number. I’d no idea before then that such places existed, which I can’t comprehend now. When I was eventually called, I had to force myself to stand up and move – my brain had taken me to a different place and it was a place I’d been tricked into, trapped, held against my will for twenty four hours*, and where I couldn’t move, or talk, or feel.

Not long after, I rang the number, and (to cut a very very long story very short) I have my last counselling session this Wednesday. I’ve been going for two and a half years and have seen the most wonderful, patient, kind woman who has helped me understand myself and learn to like myself and trust myself and my body. I didn’t believe her when she told me back then that one day I’d be excited to leave but I am, I can’t wait. I don’t need to go any more, so I’d rather spend the time having fun.

I’ve changed from someone who careered from disaster to disaster, thinking I would always be unhappy, always have to do what other people wanted, always have to wait for people to make decisions for me, to someone who has quit her job with nothing to go to, with fingers crossed and a burning desire to make a difference. I’m starting a social business to empower other women – this will be women leaving the sex trade as well as refugees. I’ve gone from being someone who couldn’t leave the house, was terrified of being noticed, who couldn’t buy food unless my amazing friend (you know who you are) let me cling to his arm, to someone who just loves being alive, who walks down the road pretending to walk the tight rope on the kerb stones, who plays, runs, jumps in puddles, skips, and will also soon be addressing 150 people about the business I’m starting. I believe in myself. I’ve also changed from someone who couldn’t say the word ‘rape’ and who actually thought she was properly batshit insane and would need medication forever, to understanding that I was going through a healthy reaction to bad shit – if bad stuff happens, it’s healthy to feel bad. Not nice, but healthy. Normal. Real. Human.

So that one little pamphlet affected me, it affected my family (I’d never told my Dad until about two years ago even though to happened when I was legally a child, and so now he understands why things went a bit la la with me for a while), it will affect the lives of the women I work with, and their children and partners, as without that pamphlet the business would never have come into being. A friend said to me once, at a Bad Time, that there was a kernel inside me (I heard it as colonel and gave myself a laugh), and I think that was true – there was just a huge fat overly protective layer around that which I am so very glad to shed.

Perhaps most importantly to me today, I’ve got to know a woman and her son over the last while, both of whom really need someone to talk to about similar bad, bad shit. And while I’d be lying if I said I’m glad what happened to me happened, the fact that it did, and that I read that pamphlet, means I have been able to tell them, and show them, that there are amazing people who can help, and that people can get better – and they are both getting help too.

Rape Crisis have told me that they like word of mouth recommendations as it means they are doing their job well if people like them – let me recommend them hard - www.rapecrisis.org.uk.

*I can’t remember very much of what happened in that time and am quite happy with the explanation that suggests brains block out bad stuff. Works for me.
(Tue 20th May 2008, 11:48, More)

» Festivals

With apologies to Julie Andrews
and PJM who did this so well a few QOTWs back. I'm sad to say the first line of this was going round my head all day so I just had to write it down.

Sunscreen and wellies and tent pegs and cider
Hats made of velvet and odd coloured powders
Strange smelling packages bought in the dark
These are a few of our festival things

Stalls selling pancakes and rings and umbrellas;
Blankets and wax flares; that one naked fella,
Hippies that twirl fire poi as they spin,
These are a few of our festival things.

Blokes dressed in tutus all trailing pink glitter
Loos overflowing, don’t drop your watch in there
Mountains of rubbish where once there were bins
These are a few of our festival things

When the dog* bites,
When the wasp stings,
When I'm feeling sad,
I simply remember these festival things,
And then I don't feel so bad.

*on a string
(Sun 7th Jun 2009, 22:21, More)

» Shoplifting

am i
first?

Woo!

My first shoplifting stories were also in France - but turned out to not even be theft as I stole what are generally known as freebies. Still got a bollocking though - but also the last laugh....

At some Eurocamp campsite in the '80s, there was a sort of central tent of joy which the kids club leaders used. It had all kinds of fun stuff to tempt me - best of all being a big big bowl of sweeties in the middle of the table. Shimmering they were, wrapped in their tempting cellophane, rainbow hued and a temptation too far for a sweet toothed seven year old.

I got into the habit of dropping in there on the way back from the swimming pool, picking up a sweet, leafing through the colouring books, and then wandering back to our tent. I had a feeling that I probably wasn't supposed to ( see 'stupid things you've done' for a history of generally feeling like I've been doing the wrong thing) but had made a value judgement and sweet = small guilt seemed a good deal to me.

What I hadn't thought through was the long lasting, jaw binding effects of toffees. So when I got back to my tent one day, idly daydreaming, mouth welded shut, I was clearly going to be asked where I'd got said sweeties. Nowadays I'm sure most parents would worry about nefarious types feeding kids sweets for their own evil purposes but back then, theft was more likely to have been the provider of such bounty.

Father was of the Very Very Strict TM School of Thought and so I was promptly grabbed by the elbow (you know how they could manage to get your elbow higher than your head and sort of propel you along?) and scuttered across to the Tent Of Sweets. To Father's displeasure, there was no-one there to apologise to.. so he left me to wait...

On my own...

With the sweets...

He didn't think that through..
(Thu 10th Jan 2008, 11:17, More)

» Ripped Off

Glitish Brass
I was supposed to but I didn't.

Believe it or not, there was a time when some of the people helping you change your gas and electricity weren't complete shits. This was, however, a brief window of about six weeks, coinciding with my employment.*

Being a nice person, temporarily out of a job, I thought I'd give it a go for a few weeks. It sounded good to be able to help people save money. Believe me peeps, I really did believe that was what I was doing. I was scrupulously honest, and had a pretty good time for a few weeks, always telling people if switching wouldn't help, never forcing anyone (I wouldn't know how) and just kind of getting on with it. I made ok money, never loads like some people, and enjoyed meeting new people. It was fun.

Until I started to realise that I never, no matter what I did, made as many conversions as my colleagues. I didn't mind that, really, but I was intrigued as to how they did it. We each spoke to the same number of people, each did the same hours.. What was going on? It all became horribly clear when one colleague asked me to hold his clipboard while he filled in a few last details. Naïve and curious, I asked what he'd missed. 'Signatures', he said. This charm deficient scum was forging application forms, based on real people's details -' I just need your name for this survey love, just to show my boss I've been talking to people. No, course you don't need to sign anything'.

Torn by fear of a knife in the neck if I snitched, and my basic honesty, I managed to get the words out and tell my Manager. I'd like to say that the perpetrator was sacked on the spot, that each of the people he'd dealt with was contacted and told to check their suppliers, that his commission was withheld. I'd love to say that, but no. I was told that 'sometimes, you have to be a bit creative' and while I was never actually, explicitly told to lie or forge, it was certainly implied. So I quit, there and then, and am proud that I did.


*If anyone reading this begs to differ and thinks that any of these people are decent and honest please either a) tell them they are in the wrong job now before they have to work it out for themselves from the gnawing self hatred that gradually overwhelms them or b) if it's you, Leave. you will feel better, you will stop feeling like you need to be disinfected after work. Leave, now.
(Thu 15th Feb 2007, 17:00, More)