There’s a photograph of me as a child that I often find myself peering at. I don’t know how old I was but I must have been about 8 or 9, sitting on a chair on my knees in a blue and white gingham dress with the window with our back garden behind me.
This photograph sits in my lounge. I love this photograph as it shows an altogether different me. I’m not looking at the photo in terms of how young I looked, but it was the look of innocence in my eyes. I trusted back then.
I wasn’t aware of my spiritual prowess or understand exactly how my spiritual beliefs worked, but those beliefs must have played their part, because I believed others had the best of intentions and never stopped to question their motives.
As I began to grow, I began to understand more and began to believe less. I was aware I struggled mentally and emotionally and still nothing was being done to help me. I could see the cracks on something I didn’t know I had.
It was clear and obvious I had physical problems. My left leg was smaller and thinner than my right and my left foot wasn’t a normal shape. I didn’t know about my arm or what the diagnosis was, let alone have the right diagnosis.
Although I was bothered about all of those things, my main concern was being isolated and left in the dark, not knowing what was wrong and having to live and struggle in my own secret world.