My parents were outsiders. I’ve only come to appreciate how much recently. My mum is borderline personality disordered, whilst my dad was a stubborn overprotective person who revelled in going against the grain. If it was unfashionable, unthinkable or plain difficult, between them they would choose the hardest option, which made growing up in the strange cultural island of their making, quite interesting.

Living miles from my schools and living on a small holding was a contributing factor to being an outsider in my formative years. I would occasionally escape to my friends’ houses which were modern, welcoming, and reassuringly normal. Given that my home was in a state of restoration having variously no roof, no floor, or no utilities, this was a refreshing change. The story of my parents’ housing project probably deserves telling someday. The families of friends I enjoyed visiting were part of the village community, and they were involved with everything. 

As newcomers to a close knit village, it was hard for us all. With a strange accent and an outlook distinctly foreign to a small community, my family were definitely outsiders. Dad was appropriately cynical about the whole integration and no doubt ruffled feathers as he refused to conform to village life. I tried to fit in, what else can you do? I was five years old and heading to a school where generations of village families had been educated. I’d already done a year of school in the north, so being ahead also didn’t help either.

It was hard. And it didn’t really improve into secondary school, where distance and over protectiveness meant I couldn’t participate in after school events. So it would be straight home to our bucolic haven. All the same time I was being told to embrace my differences and pity the kids who were popular and unbullied. I played to my quirkiness and spent most of my time alone – apart from two friends, one of whom was more of an outsider than me. 

Towards the end of my school life and on into sixth form, other people moved into the area, which was becoming quite fashionable and well to do. I made friends with these other newcomers and my social life blossomed. I can’t help thinking that it was the same for my parents, who also enjoyed a broader circle of contacts. There was more opportunity for them because they had finished the house they were building and life was easier. 

The various groups of people who accepted – and continue to accept me – will probably never realise how surprised I am when I find myself part of something. The downside is that when people inevitably move on, I’ve been devastated and long for those happy times again. I started thinking more about this after a horrific conversation with my mother who was clearly having some kind of episode. In an exchange later when I was satisfactory numbed, my flatmate called me an outsider, a description of myself which I’ve never considered. 

It was hurtful but it prompted me to words. Clearly history is doomed to repeat itself with generational variations, and my parents were outsiders who ensured I was equipped with the same determination and strength as they were. To never become anything other than an outsider.



The End and Beginning

How often do you get the opportunity to get from A to B via ZYX? How often have you been told that the journey is more important than the destination? How often is the longest journey one that takes place in your head? My entire trip away will be a journey of sorts because I don’t – yet – have anything planned.

Planning isn’t really one of my strong points and as a result, everything in my head is in a jumble. By setting things down on paper here, I hope to make sense of my mental post-it notes and their total disarray. The feeling of chaos has been exacerbated by the completion of my structure-giving MA. Now I don’t have that to hold on to, I feel strangely directionless.

Surely a sense of freedom after the stress of writing on demand should be welcome? But clearly not, I’ve struggled to come up with anything slightly sparky this week. If I lack direction and structure, the result is a surprisingly imaginational rigidity. By trying to take control myself and do what is perceived to be the right thing, or go about things the right way in a vague pretence at being an adult, my thinking goes annoyingly stale.

Why is it my imagination only flies within the constraints of an academic essay? Why is the lively spark of a poem initiated by the stern rhythmic metre of a first line? Why does my chaotically creative insight only appear when I am tied by deadlines, pressure and plans? Which I know I’m terrible at starting.

Seriously, this is enough to drive anyone to martinis and chunky chips.

So I was given a verbal shake yesterday when I was reminded that the journey to the island of my dreams was a way of providing mental focus. Although driving is clearly the sensible way of getting belongings to a new home, it gives us the freedom to explore as we head south.

It is this freedom which is making my head scream and post-it notes whirl. Therefore I’ve taken the security blanket of some books, a paper map, and started to draft some places which we need to take in on the way. My head has already diverged and I have a practical list and a dreamy floating unreality list.

So situation normal and my head is already feeling better.