It Was to Be a Memorable Year, My Turning Point.
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Early summer last year, I waded through a sad, unkempt wilderness of a garden to face a receptionist shielded behind a thick, plastic screen.
They seemed genuinely shocked that here was someone friendly and pleasant conversing with them.
Should you be surprised that drab and depressing was the appearance of this vital part of our prided health service? Or how you could describe the reaction of the receptionist, who greeted multiple patients daily, to me? Perhaps many of these patients were downtrodden and disempowered, like I once was?
It was an appointment to get to the crux of a health matter. Guided by a skilful doctor, I ventured to talk through my history, punctuated with messy, uninhibited sobs. Given a Kleenex tissue, I carried on. I whiled away an hour there, sardonically joking with my mum, “I might not even come out!”
This was a breed of doctor to be wary of. Former doctors, who had stated exasperatedly, “You are too much,” or “I feel for your parents.” And who have the powers to detain you under the Mental Health Act.
On this occasion, I was grounded in continuous salaried work, well-presented with perhaps an aura of contentment and achievements.
I was acknowledged, witnessed and heard by the psychiatrist.
The health problem could be solved by my efforts only. I walked out emboldened. Further confirmed by a letter, now in my rainy-day folder, where this female doctor validated my great fortitude at coping with the condition and spelt out, “There is nothing stopping you and your aspirations.”
This was new! How had the script changed? Had the enemy broken ranks? Or was this my turning point?
It was going to be my memorable year, after decades of a diagnosis, which even doctors struggled and wriggled out of saying how exactly it would affect my young life at the time. A tough condition, yes, but please, where was the brightly-lit hope? To find that low-burning flame was to be my mission.
It is not the kind of label you announce glibly to the world. I knew after a period of real shame, stultifying unease and anxious self-pity, I had to construct the person I wanted to be again.
There was a sparky catalyst and someone who I can give credit to much of my recovery: Sylvia. My relationship to her is inconsequential. She sat me down next to her northern, glowing warmth and explained a few home-truths. “He does not like me in that café; I still sit in there and talk to him,” she confessed. Sylvia also affirmed, “We all have blips!”
Maturity, wisdom and motherly love were ladled out of her big heart.
When you are enlightened, have compassion towards others and re-discover your power, that is when I believe the subtle and divine mechanism of a turning point occurs.
Sylvia left me. But she got me on the right track, and Dr. X last year reminded me to keep pressing on.
I am hatching a master plan for my life, like you ought to look into, and there are irons in the fire, which I thank Sylvia and Dr. X for too.
Chickening out of a flashy skydive to commemorate the anniversary of living well with what the early doctors thought would be a hindrance, the year was marked instead by Dr. X’s words and care. If I had wanted a physical token, I received that from a close relative. I am enough was inscribed on a silver ring sent to me.
We are all enough. The fight to find our place in the world and the attempts to win heated arguments can manifest into something more directional and purposeful. When you harness your innate power, you will turn around and unreservedly know to follow in the direction of where you are heading because it is the right path for you.
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Since joining a writing group at work at a London University, Keri France has become more productive. She now has 20 published articles and a short story to her credit. Currently working on various projects. Keri surrounds herself with real, creative people, and is fascinated by people who surprise and choose what they want to be.
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