School of Hard Knocks.
Before we are born our Soul is in a place called the “Bardo” this is where it is agreed what will be the next life lessons for the Souls evolution. It is agreed by the council as well as the Soul the main focus to reincarnate and what family structure and life this soul will come into learn. Reincarnation is the act of the Soul choosing lessons, often for a whole life time focusing on the same lessons to understand a certain set of experiences. I came into this life to learn about families, to work with families and how that as a human experience will impact my Souls journey. I have reincarnated 2,343 times so far. Every-body has a purpose for each life.
The overall theme of the life I would have was family focused. I also picked a family that would be the most challenging on all levels for me to deal with. Before I go on, I will state I love my family very much and always will, but my goodness I was pushed to my limits most definitely as a child and as an adult. Some of you may or may not resonate with these struggles. I will tell you about my upbringing in the coming weeks which I liken to that of an education in:
“The School of Hard Knocks.” This is my story…
The Birth Process Blueprint
Our birth process is the blueprint of what’s to come. Easy birth, you will have a fairly smooth life. Tough birth, tough life. Mine was as bad as it gets. My mother was brought into hospital on a weekend with limited facilities. Care was below par as there were less staff on the operational side due to it being a weekend. She was poorly advised about whether to have a C section and in the end the decision to do that was too late. The birthing process lasted for over 65 hours a great ordeal for both my mother and myself. I really didn’t want to come out, I knew how hard this life was going to be. My mother was cut many times, she was given a high dosage of morphine which basically made me a crack baby. I was born breached, the cord wrapped around my neck, blue from head to toe… essentially I was born dead.
The marks of the forceps that had dragged me out of my mother’s womb gave me two heads for up to 12 weeks after the birth. My mother after the birth had several operations and was in intensive care. I was in a baby unit in intensive care on my own and in an incubator for 8 days. I must have been a fighter or felt connected to some higher power as this kind of level of immediate separation can cause long lasting effects on all levels. We both survived – thankfully, my mother had operations for the next 5 years to try and rectify the damage but to this day she still has issues. For her it is very sad that she has to carry the pain of our birth process.
My mother and I didn’t bond very well as you can probably imagine. The separation scared us both. My mother was both physically and emotionally riddled with guilt but also extremely bitter and angry with how things had turned out. I didn’t like to spend too much time with her and found it very hard to trust her, not surprising considering the beginning I had. No surprise that in my life especially, with women I’ve struggled with trust and bonding issues. Either trusting too early, or bonding too quickly, before really getting to know someone. The desire to bond was so deeply embedded in me in relationships, but the life lessons upon arrival gave me separation and isolation as my main teachers within this family structure. Time to take a long deep breath before I continue…
Home Life and the Importance of Physical Contact
Home life was extremely challenging from the earliest years I can remember. It was full on contact that I am thankful for. This contact probably gave me the resilient streak to survive. The type of contact wasn’t loving though. I suffered at the hands of my mother’s rage, temper and anger in the forms of multi layered abuse for over 10 years of daily being physically and verbally abused from 3 – 13 years old. There was psychological torture and threats thrown in for good measure. I remember feeling desperate at the thought of coming home and not wanting to be with her or my father. I would want to talk to her and make her feel good whilst in the kitchen after returning home from school and watch her cook. Within minutes of being in the kitchen with her she would fly off the handle turning her diamond rings around so they would land in my head when she hit me. This would be our cycle for many years of me trying to fix her and her making me feel unwanted, unloved and completely dumfounded as to why I was being treated with so much hate and contempt. One game she played with my sister was to tell me I was adopted and that I wasn’t part of the family, another one of her spiteful ways and down right cruelty was to tell me how she wished she had never had me, screaming at the top of her voice. Wasn’t my mother meant to be loving and kind towards me, I was after all her son? I remember one time sitting on the top of the steps on the landing and shouting down to both my parents in the kitchen “I want to leave”, I made it clear they were both incapable of parenting me…that they were not good enough… They laughed and shouted back to me shall we help you pack and laughed in my face… I was around 8 years old. I went to the weeping willow tree, a tree I had found comfort with over the years being accompanied by my dog Benji. I went to grieve, I cried for several hours feeling totally at my wits end at what to do. I know I wanted to leave but I was 8 what was I to do…Thank god for Benji and the weeping willow tree it helped me find my feelings which kept me alive. I loved my dog Benji.
My dad was absent mostly due to working around the clock as a self-employed builder. He had a gang of men working in his crew, he worked so hard… He was a man’s man and drank heavily – 10 pints per night most nights. He was a workaholic as well as an alcoholic. I don’t remember much of the early years with him. My first recollection was one of his workers coming home with him. He was in the kitchen with my dad while my sister and I were doing yoga with my mother in the lounge. I had “blown off” and we were laughing so hard I couldn’t contain myself I was literally peeing my pants. It was one of those moments you know you are going to get it, but the nerves got the better of me… My dad consequently felt I was shaming him in some way and when his colleague left I was beaten badly and sent me to my room for showing him up. I would have been about the age of 6. One of the many beatings I would suffer at the hands of my father over the next 7 years… It wasn’t long after this, maybe a few months I watched my father being dragged from our house in a strait jacket by the police into an ambulance to be sent to his new home called the mental institution. My father had been sectioned by my mother.
We lost our father to the institution for the next 7 months. This was the first but not his last time he would be sectioned in a mental hospital. He was given the badge of honour of being Bipolar on an extreme level. I wasn’t allowed to see him for a few months. I remember walking into the room where the doctor introduced me to my dad and said, “Brian this is your son” My father didn’t know who he was. He had been violent in hospital so he was very heavily drugged to sedate him. He was totally unrecognisable as the man I knew before he was sectioned. He didn’t know I was his son and this was so shocking for a 6 year old boy to comprehend. I walked the grounds of the hospital for the coming months alone. I found a huge skip full of thousands of needles and I remember wondering what they were and why they were there. I wanted to make something useful out of them as I was very much into lego. I couldn’t understand why they were being thrown away everything looked so new.
During this time my uncle came to see my mother at our home and remember him telling me, “Neil you are now the man of the house and your job is to take care of everyone”. I loved my uncle and trusted him. That days conversation was probably the hardest thing I had to deal with as I took what he said as my new reality. I needed to grow up fast… My next job was to take care of my depressed mother who spent most of her days crying or in bed and feeling very sorry for herself. I did everything in my power to make things better for her. Little did I know that this was a role in life I never should have been given which basically robbed me of my childhood.
School of Hard Knocks.