With all the tension in the house, and feeling confused about the old man, a switch had flipped in me. Although at the time, I thought all households were like mine, I knew something wasn’t right in me anymore. I wasn’t happy and carefree like I used to be. I’d lost my childlike innocence and wonderment.
Just like my mother, I became an expert at masking my feelings in front of others, especially at school. Nobody would have guessed what was bubbling underneath the surface. I’d was an exceptional student. My teachers loved me and appointed me Deputy Head Girl. Helen, my best friend since nursery school, moved away to another county with her family, and my only real friend since then, Jayla, turned on me after the Deputy announcement. Not only did Jayla distance herself from me, but she also ganged up with the ‘cool girls’ and bullied me. They’d do things like skip past me in a line and smack me on my head one by one. They’d talk about me and titter in huddles together. I was a ‘teacher’s pet’ and a ‘nerd’. I wasn’t ‘cool’ enough for them.
I didn’t understand jealousy then; I didn’t understand why my best friend had turned on me. I didn’t know then that girls who are incredibly insecure act that way. We were eleven years old. This was also the year I’d gotten my first period. I was only the second girl in my year to get it. I was a ‘woman’ now, and this added fuel to their fire and broadened the divide even more. I was heartbroken.
I wish I could have told myself all the things I know now. That it was about them and how they felt about themselves and not about me, that’s how bullies operate. I wish I’d talked to someone about it, so I could have risen above the bullying or changed my circumstances and focused on succeeding at life instead.
Because of my father, I found no solace at home, and because of the bullying, I found no solace at school.
The summer holidays were a welcome break from both. In the mornings, I’d lie to my mother that I was going to a friend’s house to play. I’d take out my bike and convince Mum to give me 20p spending money.
The truth was, I wasn’t going to any friends’ houses. I’d take the 20p and go to the local corner shop to buy as many penny sweets as I could. Then, I’d find a secluded place like a park or street bench and eat them all. Carefully taking each one out of the paper bag, inhaling its fruity, tart fragrance, I’d eat it very slowly, making each one last as long as possible. Eating sweets alone became my coping mechanism. It became my drug. Over time, I’d beg my mother to increase my allowance to 50p and eventually £1, to keep fuelling my sugar addiction.
I don’t remember ever talking to anyone about my problems. I couldn’t talk to anyone at home because they were all dealing with their own issues, and I didn’t bother talking to anyone at school. My teachers didn’t think anything was wrong because I aced all my tests, was respectful and helpful in class, and performed my Deputy Head Girl duties without complaint.
Nearing the end of my time at middle school, my teachers tried to encourage my parents to send me on to Henrietta Barnet, the highest-ranked, all-girl state school in the country (one of my cousins who lived close to Henrietta Barnet studied there and went on to Cambridge University), but it was a few stops away by train. My parents were concerned about sending a twelve-year-old girl on such a daily commute alone. They both worked and wouldn’t have been able to take me themselves.
The local high school was within a safe walking distance from our home, and my brother was already enrolled there, so that’s where I went too.
By this time, however, the closeness my brother and I had shared as little kids had all but disappeared. Although we attended the same high school, we never walked to school together. We were twelve and thirteen years old now, and I suppose he was too much of a lad to walk with his sister, plus he was struggling with his own trauma just as the rest of the family was, and of course, we never talked about it, though. He never asked me how I was doing after the fights at home, even after I’d been assaulted by our dad.
He also never mentioned the old man, and neither did I. My brother lived in his own bubble, and I lived in mine. I remember, he would pristinely iron his uniform the night before, make his own breakfast, and be washed, dressed and out the door, playing football in the school playground before classes started, long before I’d enjoyed my first stretch and yawn of the morning.
At school, we never hung out, and we never walked home together. I was attractive to the boys as a young girl, and I never saw this as a good thing. I stood out. Girls in general were mean to me, and my brother’s school friends would often tease him about me, or worse, spread rumours. Words like ‘slag’, ‘slapper’ and ‘whore’ were commonly said about a girl, whether they had ever touched a boy or not. Boys who got rejected could be really nasty. A boy in the same situation, though, was called a ‘stud’ and applauded by his mates. I guess this made my brother see me in a different light, and it was hard for him to deal with.
We were no longer as close to our friend circle either. We were all coming of age, and it was like the curtain of childhood was drawn back all of a sudden. We saw each other very differently. I was no longer one of the boys; even games like hide ‘n’ seek now meant that one of the boys might try to hide somewhere alone with me. The childhood games we’d played together had lost their innocence, showing us that boys and girls were indeed different.
When we got home from school, my brother and I ate dinner, usually in front of the TV, and we watched all the after-school TV programmes until the early evening. It was the norm for us at that age: come home, watch telly. If the weather was good: hang out outside for a while, then watch telly. If the weather wasn’t good, which in England, it usually wasn’t: watch telly.
After-school activities, or extracurricular activities, were something we just didn’t do. The immigrant dream was over, and reality had kicked in; the mortgage and bills needed to be paid, so our parents didn’t have much time for us. My brother went to Boy Scouts, and I did start martial arts classes and Girl Guides, but I had to stop as we couldn’t afford them anymore. I’d been in the choir and the band in middle school and was learning to play an instrument, but if I wanted to continue, I had to buy my own, and again, we couldn’t afford it.
My father was a heavy socialiser and smoker, and I wondered if he smoked and partied less, would the amount saved be enough for our activities? I was sure it would have been, but I didn’t dare say anything. We even stopped getting the daily and Sunday newspapers to save money. I’d loved reading the children’s magazines in them, and although I was far too young to understand it all, I read every page of the newspaper. In primary and middle school, I was a complete bookworm and would devour every children’s book that I borrowed from the school library. Every day I’d proudly carry my clear-plastic book folder with the colourful zipper and my name on a sticker at the front, and check out new books. Enid Blyton and Roald Dahl were my favourites. I didn’t even want to stop to eat when I read Matilda. I think I read it in a day. Everybody knew that for birthday and Christmas gifts, I’d be happiest with books. But the passion for everything dwindled, and I lost focus and interest once all the drama at home took over.
So, every day, once we’d eaten dinner and my brother and I had done our homework – which I also did sitting in front of the TV sometimes (don’t try this at home kids!), if there were no fights that day, we’d all settle down for the evening in front of the telly and watch the family shows till bedtime; mostly game shows like Blankety Blank, The Price is Right, Blind Date, Blockbusters, Catchphrase, Family Fortunes, The Generation Game, Telly Addicts, (which is exactly what we were, and yes, there really was a programme called that), and more.
School – telly – school – telly: a constant stream that had only one outcome, a dulling of the mind. We obviously didn’t learn to communicate well. We stood by and watched each other suffer. We didn’t talk about the darkness that had taken away our childhood innocence. We didn’t talk about our father’s temper or our mother’s tears. We didn’t talk about my secret sugar dependency, our friends, or our struggles at school.
The volcano was quietly bubbling away inside. The thick, dark smoke was clearly billowing in front of my eyes, enveloping us all. I didn’t know yet what a volcanic eruption felt like. I was about to find out.
(Originally published on os.me on February 5, 2021)