Eating the Underworld Read Free

would stop on the way as I caught sight of the wild, purple thistles in bloom by the roadside. Dad would get out and, braving mud and thorns, pick me an armful.
    As a younger sibling, however, there was a counterpoint to all this unquestioning adoration pouring down from above. It came in the person of a sister, much bigger and stronger than I. She must have been furious at my arrival. My mother had been ill in hospital for a few weeks prior to my birth. She came home without me; I had to stay on a little longer. My sister would have been on an emotional roller coaster—first her mother’s disappearance and return; then, only a few weeks later, my home-coming and the realisation that whereas previously she had been the special only child, now there was another to share the attention.
    I lived my life in a peculiar juxtaposition of undiluted love from my parents and the opposite frommy sister. It was a juxtaposition I could never understand. I idolised my big sister, ran errands for her, gave her my pocket money, did whatever she asked—all in the hope that she might someday love me. It was a love I dreamed I might somehow earn if I worked hard enough, gave enough, did enough.
    On the other side was the love from my parents that needed no earning at all. That was there regardless, no matter what I did, what I gave or what I didn’t.
    I have often wondered since then, how I would have turned out if I had been the older sister. The stress of our relationship took its toll on me, but in time, it also gave me my strength. And in the context of a family in which children were loved, but over-indulged, being the younger sister of a strong-willed and dominant sibling had the side benefit of teaching me early on how to deal with limits, frustrations and a world that wasn’t mine to command.
    As a psychologist, I now understand the terrible anxiety engendered in children raised without limits and restrictions. The unwitting damage caused in creating and maintaining the child who believes in his or her omnipotence. The child without boundaries or delineations, who is unable to develop a secure and realistic sense of self. The brittle monarch who needs constant attendance, adoration and gratification. And the rage and anxiety which come when these are not given.
    I feel an intense discomfort in writing about my family. The life of an individual is as complex as a maze of reflecting mirrors; the life of a family is even moreso. Each person has their own experience, interpretations and memories of it. Each person has their own truths. The difficulties come when these truths are not allowed to co-exist.
    I don’t claim to be the holder of some absolute truth, but am merely the holder of my own experiences. I have pulled back from speaking about these for many reasons: because I was told it was shameful to expose differences. Because I wished to protect people. Because I wanted to remain a private person. Because of the difficult question of who ‘owns’ shared stories. Because I did not want to cause pain. Because of a wish to avoid it all. Because of the impact on others. Because of my concern that if I spoke out, then I would only be doing what I had criticised my sister for. And also, I am not proud to say, because of fear. Because of what happens to those other tellers of truths—whistle-blowers and abused children, the witnesses of difficult or even unbearable experience in which others do not wish to believe. All too often, the bearers of news which bursts bubbles of illusion, idealisation or comfort are themselves turned on; scorned, ridiculed or attacked.
    It has been painful seeing the accounts of my family recounted so publicly by my sister in numerous books, articles and interviews. The family she portrays is a family that feels very different to the one I grew up with. I have had strangers stop me in the street and commiserate with me for having had such a terrible mother. I find myself saying