The girl on the ground

1985

I am 5 years old. I am an awfully timid insecure little girl even at this age. I feel the awkwardness of my entire being deeply in my bones, and not just my bones do I feel, I feel the bones of every one else in my mum’s weekly G.I.R.S. group. Here they meet, misfit adults talking amongst each other for hours sharing their broken lives.

Each week I go in, I do not speak, I do not engage in eye contact unless accidentally and for no longer than that moment. I make myself of no threat or intimidation. I dare not cough, or sneeze or play as a 5 year old child normally could. I control all urges even to scratch. I sit quieter than a mouse. I must have no attention on myself or it will freeze me into a paranoid nervousness that will scrutinize me each time I come back. I need to stay hidden. Even from my mother.

I'm not always listening to the words they are saying. Cross legged I sit staring at the worn flaking laminated ground, hiding behind mum as she sits on a wooden chair. That chair has the same creaky sound as the other seven being seated on in the circle. The creak and I have made a friendship, it talks to me, calls my attention to the person nervously moving on their chair.

My eyes peer around, as if innocently and shyly, but my mind is analyzing, interrogating like a detective the person who causes it’s stir.

I scan...head to toe.

The clothing calculates to me their lack in fortune. The hair un-groomed measures their tiredness and self worth. The eyes enlighten mine to the empathy human kind should have for them. The face carries sadness of a deep burden. The body language engaging clues of their level of ‘crazy’ they have become and their voice lets me hear the inner hope to trust outside of themselves again.

Leannah in the group has recently become best friends with mum, similar each black hair, overweight and age 33. Both suffering breakdowns no longer able to cope or identify themselves normal by societies standards. When mum and I visit her home, they’d talk and laugh seemingly so happy in that space they share together, but every week at G.I.R.S. Leannah is different, she says nothing and instead keeps her head down, intriguing me with the hovering of her pen over the pages in her little black book. “Why wont she talk? Why is she writing?” I’d question this myself every time.

“Cant you just speak out what you are writing!!” my anxiety would be screaming within.

Outside the meetings or visiting Leannah’s home I didn't hardly think about these people at all. My life already possessed with thought ticking time bombs, haunting me everywhere I would go. There was something wrong with me, I knew this even now. Its like when I'm bonding at kindergarten with friends, easy one day, but the next day I would drown crumbling inside myself, desperate to hide away.

But I knew what it was, I had detected it for myself. I needed mum to feel protected that I would not hurt her more than she already was, showing emotions was not something she could safely do. So this was my balance, I would sacrifice my emotions to keep her safe.

I mean, as a little child what right did I have to be more complete than my mother? So emotionally I freeze and then become a mute. I was not brave enough to wear my own skin anyway, so it kind of helped me too.

“I can handle it, she is my mum” I would negotiate inside.

The next month changed mums life, first a fellow G.I.R.S. member said to mum out of the blue, “One day your daughter will be a liar and a whore!” His intense cruel words frightened her so much that she never came back to the group. Even worse, dear Leannah past away, choking on a biscuit as she slept.

Mum kept a few of Leannah’s possessions to honor their friendship, my heart grasping as I watched her take the notebook from the dresser. She did not open it. Even yet I can not read, I still am only 5. It was not Leannah I was connected to, but the unknown thoughts inside that little black book that intrigued my mind.

2014-2023

It is not easy being 14 and utterly broke inside, my childhood coping mechanisms, failed and had distorted me further . Truth be told the crazy G.I.R.S man was right, I became a liar, a whore, and a thief. I perfected it like art over many years with these three traits, making me a Master Manipulator. I was the greatest destroyer to myself and to others that fell intoxicated by my web, leaving them on a path of karmic death.

The new Master in me only desired of me to comply, in return it rewards me, soothing my soul, causing unknown hell at the time, but here I found some freedom, some mental space and gave me room to fly. Silly me, I didn’t yet realize I was killing more of me.

There were times I said “no” to what it was asking, but it demanded at my weakness and only persisted me further.

Though my heart was genuinely kind, timid and gentle underneath, but under this spell, their was no one else to blame. I had long been exhausted trying to find the real me if such one existed, not even a mirror could replicate my true image. A fair question.. was I destined to be doomed as soon as my life began?

“Oh F*** please NO NO NO!” its happening again I'm 23, lifeless, lying on the ground. BUT then my heart spoke clearer than ever before… read the;

“Black Book”

Tell your secrets Let them be heard.

Fill the empty space of each page I urge.

These moments of life prepared to be yours,

Either miracle, wonder, or grief of hurt.

If someone reads this story of yours

before the day you leave this Earth

Riches will come, a worthy prize,

$20,000 to be a sign,

you’ve helped the next in line.

The first page gripped my soul. Who was she writing this too?

I turned the page.

Pen and paper have the power of cutting into a writers own heart.

Turn.

A thought written, can journey further than a word spoken.

Turn.

The Ink of my pen shares the same destination as my Tears.

Each page lay its title. Beautifully dressed in haunting wisdom. Immersing a romantic resonance within each thought and with her pen leaving the emptiness of space left underneath.

Was it?…do I?.. Is this.. (My heart went silent )… for me? I turn the next page.

The stroke of a pen, swells the heart to find a lost lullaby.

Turn

If one only dare, handle their pen with honesty.

Turn

Once the storm is gone, write your song.

Turn

My heart bursting with intrigue, reality dawning and desperate to write my burden, but frightfully startled if I could pass this test. It was the quest that would challenge me now, would my story be even worthy to fill pages she had left? Was this her desire? Could I do this? (Goose bumps envelop my whole body as I hear) “yes, yes, yes”

I wrote in the black book like entries in a diary, every place I went it came with me. It came with me to work bored-sitting on the office desk, it felt the breeze of trees when visiting the orange and blue park bench, it burned to-hot-to- touch from the sand at the beach, it laid content on a blanket under the sparkles of stars. Sometimes it was ignored and stayed in my bag while I would be drunken at a party, but even if I was not writing, it had became my companion.

This notebook knew more about me than anyone else in the whole world. No one before had come into this honest place of my soul until now, not even I could handle this toll.

But I dared for my writing to cut into my heart, I knew this was where it had to start. Together we travelled through turmoil, confronting my every evil side, where I found the deep midst of my anger, anguish, jealousy and strife.

The ink and my tears met in the same place day after day calling, Who am I? and why me? The words crying out, they could feel my deep grief in hope to be, a person not lonely or scared to be me.

The titles guided me, and like the appearance of a clear blue sky, a hope and promise called at me one day at a time. I could begin to see the truth behind the lies, I began receiving instruction from within, of a better way to be without grief, heaviness and living deceitfully, I over filled the pages with declaration of hope, change, freedom, courage and of a sound mind. I knew when the little black book had done its job. I found myself, the real me, I could now make a fresh start in life.

Leannah's words compelled me to pass this notebook on. Walking by a flattened cardboard box cradled under the stairs of Dutton Village Train Station, was the bed of a homeless man. His name initialed H.F. Here I left it.

2063

Over the years I’d often pondered her words that were forever unsaid to the circle of misfits, yet, they were kept and seemed destined for a little girl already so young broken and hurting. My mum lost her friend, but that notebook, saved her daughter. A life now that outshone her mum in abundant love, giving the best healing to her sons and grandchildren.

Now you wont believe me, or how it happened, how it survived or how it found its way back into my life. But one spring morning, delivered to my door, came adorned an old yellow stamped package, addressed:

"The Girl on the Ground”.

Touching the cover through my wrinkled hands, I felt engravings of symbols and scribbles not there before. Frail was the spine, so worn down and exhausted held together by half pulled out staples and some tape. Corners torn and water stained. The pages heavy in weight.

I sat down. Opening Leannah’s first page, ink still vivid none has faded. Turning through the book, seeing my own hand writing, it broke my heart reminiscing a distant memory of a life I’d once lived and almost forgot.

My tears fell, dropping on the ink, new stories, I read them all. A homeless man, a Doctor and a teenage girl.

Taped inside the back cover I found lemon & rose paper, folded.

You are the winner

Girl on the ground.

You set yourself free

And as promised a sign worthy,

as you helped others like me.

Here A cheque for $20,000

I hope it finds you in perfect timing.

H.F.

The greatest honor and joy sprang through my soul, then placing my old friend, my companion on my dresser like our day's of old, now finally letting it to sleep.

Like me, it lived a life journey of once empty and once full. Experiencing the healing power of many moments in-between the two.

The very next day I wrote Leannah’s words in a new "Little Black Book".

Destination: Wilson's Corner Square.

(Where I too, cashed in my cheque).