My Mother My Mirror

by Andrea Kitt

  Copyright © 2018 Andrea Kitt

  First published in 2016 in the United Kingdom.

  This book was originally published as ‘Andrea’s Life’.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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  ISBN 978 1789010 619

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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  My mother, my mirror, I came from your womb

  And the blood in my veins sings the song of your wound

  Your roots were in tatters, your soul was in flight

  When I entered your life on that long ago night

  I knew you when love was so trapped in our eyes

  That we would have stolen and stabbed for that prize

  Yet still as we starved we were guarding our pain

  And building great castles to cover our shame

  That we begged them to look at again and again

  How could you do anything other than cry

  When the child that you were was just left there to die

  And even your babies, the fruits of your life

  Were found to have withered before they were ripe

  But slowly, so slowly, we’ve found we can peep

  At our innocent souls in their innocent sleep

  And give them some comfort, and hear as they weep

  And as our hearts soften along with our touch

  As castles and fanfares do not mean so much

  We find there are glimpses and moments of peace

  Of mending and healing and blessed release

  For the stress of the trying has loosened its hold

  Now we sink to the Earth, now she cradles the soul

  And we soak up the water that moistens our roots

  While we gaze in delight at our lives and their fruits

  Then because we feel safe and our work is all done

  And the whole of us knows we are part of the one

  We remember at last we were never apart

  And love can flow freely from deep in our hearts.

  CONTENTS

  My Mother Poem

  Preface

  Testimonials

  Chapters:

  One Fear in the Blood

  Two Sex and Cake

  Three Home

  Four Grandparents

  Five Friends & Fairies

  Six Christmas & the Seaside

  Seven Best Friend & Little Sisters

  Eight Troubled Teens

  Nine Virginity & LSD

  Ten Meditation

  Eleven Moving in with Mark

  Twelve Wedding Bells

  Thirteen Ashrams

  Fourteen Hindu Festivals

  Fifteen The Stalker

  Sixteen Brighton & America

  Seventeen Acupuncture & Ecstacy

  Eighteen Mahatma Sambhavo

  Nineteen Devon

  Twenty Marriage & Animals

  Twenty-one Little Red Plane

  Twenty-two Facing the Shadow

  Twenty-three Making Babies

  Twenty-four Birth

  Twenty-five Heaven on Earth

  Twenty-six Mother Mary

  Twenty-seven Little Simon

  Twenty-eight Bramble Cottage

  Twenty-nine Relationship Breakdown

  Thirty Escape

  Thirty-one Gestalt

  Thirty-two Jamie & New Zealand

  Thirty-three Adam & Anger

  Thirty-four The Hoffman Process

  Thirty-five Torbryan & the AUM

  Thirty-six Teenager

  Thirty-seven Osho Leela

  Thirty-eight Singing & Dancing

  Thirty-nine Tim

  Forty Tantra

  Forty-one Greece and Norway

  Forty-two Knee in the Groin

  Forty-three Egypt

  Forty-four Kidnapped

  Forty-five Retirement Homes

  Forty-six Mick

  Forty-seven Falling in Love

  Forty-eight Adrenal Crash

  Forty-nine Letters & Poems

  Fifty Tim, Mum & God

  Fifty-one Moving on

  Fifty-two Nearly the Last Chapter

  Fifty-three Carmen

  PREFACE

  Time-wise, this book is shaped like a funnel, getting much wider towards the end. This is partly the natural result of being able to remember more about my recent history than the distant past, but also because writing the book has been part of a process of intense learning over the past few years, a change in perception that has made me see my past differently. So in the last chapters I have done a great deal of looking back over my life and trying to understand it all better, in order to be at peace with it and move forwards.

  I began writing it at age fifty-nine, with the enormous support and encouragement of my then new friend Mick, who told me again and again that he loved my writing and found my life fascinating. Around the age of sixty seemed to be a natural time for looking back and taking stock, and once I got going the story carried me along with ease. I created a time line, to give me a basic idea of what happened when, and then simply wrote about whatever touched me most deeply during a particular time period – which is why school, for example, only has one small paragraph even though I was there for years, whereas something like the birth of my daughter takes up a whole chapter.

  I had no idea when I began writing where the journey would take me, and certainly no idea where it would end up, which turned out to be locking horns with my mother about the publication of the book and then having to do a lot of soul-searching to make sure I wasn’t being unfair or vindictive in the things that I said, and adding more chapters in an attempt to redress any imbalance. I didn’t make huge changes to what I had already written, because to do so would have been to betray my earlier self by watering down my strong and genuine feelings; but I have done my utmost to better understand the dynamic between myself and my mother and explain what I have learnt. I have also changed peoples’ names where this seemed appropriate.

  Having said that, although I try as much as I can to get a clear perspective and see the larger picture, this account of my life is of course completely subjective. However accurate I try to be, I see things from my point of view and others may have experienced them in entirely different ways. But I have followed the chain of events, relationships and experiences that meant the most to me as honestly as I can, and I hope you enjoy my story.

  TESTIMONIALS

  For as long as I have known Andrea she has sought truth and more truth! She lives and writes with total and sometimes painful honesty, true to her own heart and to the all-consuming human longing for love. Her daring and colourful descriptions of her relationship with her mother, her children or her lovers leave you sometimes s
hocked, frequently moved, and inspired to live your own life with a brave and open heart.

  SF, Artist.

  I was reading this book until the small hours and then again this morning. Its a raw and emotional piece of writing, and it really speaks out to me. Thank you Andrea for sharing your inner self.

  RC, Anthropologist.

  Andrea grapples with the things that affect us all: family struggles, relationships, and the search for purpose and meaning. With a lively balance of pathos and humour, depth and light-heartedness, she openly shares her courage and her vulnerability.

  RA, Actor.

  We have all experienced trauma and pain in our lives, but you have certainly had more courage than most of us in laying it bare!

  AF, Social Worker.

  An unusually insightful book, whilst at the same time being endearingly warm and readable. Andrea is tenaciously determined to find the answers to life’s questions and overcome the challenges sent her way.

  MR, Artisan.

  I enjoyed it immensely. Each time I read some I didn’t want to put it down, and looked forward to the next time I could pick it up again.

  NH, Accountant.

  Your book kept me captivated for a 3 hour train journey and even after that I couldn’t put it down. It was a fascinating read: I love the way you write, particularly your honesty.

  KF, Business Analyst

  Andrea paints a vivid and honest picture of her fascinating life – unique to her but relevant to us all. Her willingness to acknowledge, process and overcome hurdles – emotional and otherwise – is an inspiration. It was a pleasure to get to know her through her words.

  OD, Writer.

  Reading your book made me reflect on my own experiences. You have a lust for life that is both direct and compassionate, and I am inspired by the courage with which you navigate the labyrinth of your family relationships.

  TW, Engineer.

  Andrea’s life has been one of extremes – from barely speaking as a child, to performing songs in public; from the celibate life of the ashram to dancing at the Pink Pussycat strip club. I admire the way she integrates each experience and uses it as another step on her journey.

  MF, Editor.

  I read your book and thought it was just great! Lots of it resonated with me: particularly the ‘mother’ aspect. I found it very reassuring to hear about your struggles, as it made me feel less alone with mine.

  DC, Gardener.

  What stands out about Andrea is an unusual purity and openness. From a childhood believing in magic to the ultimate romance of the devotional path, from the sensuality of close relationships to the agonies of primal shame, she invites us to share her most intimate explorations and her deepest thoughts.

  MA, Musician.

  1

  Fear in the Blood

  The blood that flowed through my veins was full of fear. Though the womb should have been a safe place to begin my life, it didn’t feel that way. My mother, Carmen, lost four babies before me and three babies after me, and her anxiousness was inside me from as far back as I can remember.

  There were four people willing Carmen to get pregnant. First there was my grandmother, Marjorie. She had been forced to abandon her first three children, then had three more, one of whom was my father. She longed for a grandchild. Then there was her husband and my grandfather, Hugh, father of her second brood, who was in love with my mother and empathized deeply with her struggles to conceive.

  My father, Shelley, very much wanted a child too; he loved my mother and had lived with her through four difficult and painful miscarriages. And then of course there was my mother, Carmen, who was a great admirer of Hugh’s but was in love with her husband, Shelley. She was in a frenzy of effort and self-doubt, feeling like a failure as a woman, searching high and low for the reason she lost her babies and a solution to the problem. Carmen and Shelley lived in Pillar Cottage, barely five minutes walk from Hugh and Marjory who lived in Forge Cottage, on the outskirts of Little Walden in rural Essex.

  So when I came along, on 30th December 1954 at ten past five in the morning, everyone got terribly excited. Hugh, being well versed in astrology, did my horoscope. He was amazed at the planets that heralded my birth, and predicted that I would be a very special person, possibly even an important spiritual leader. Marjorie simply doted on me. Because she was shy she rarely went out and mixed with others; but she was kind and motherly, so a little one arriving in the middle of her world was a dream come true. She often came and took me for walks in the pram to give my mother a break when Shelley was away in town.

  Shelley was pleased and proud, and Carmen was overjoyed but perpetually anxious: that I would survive, that she would be able to feed me, that she would fail as a mother.

  This is the dynamic I was born into, and it continued for two or three years. I saw my grandparents most days. Either they came to Pillar Cottage, or I would be taken down the road to spend time in their house and garden, where I was very happy. Then my parents decided we should move away, because it was time I mixed with other children, and perhaps being the sole focus for these four adults might be too much for me. Hugh was upset, and told them that Marjorie was so unhappy at the thought of my departure she may consider suicide. Being so young, I presume I just accepted what was happening, but I can still feel a faint sadness about it: I think there’s a way I have missed my grandparents ever since. But we left, Marjorie survived, and from then on I only saw them every few weeks.

  However, I had two devoted parents, and we lived in the country surrounded by beautiful nature and beautiful things. I can’t actually remember Pillar Cottage. My earliest memory is of hanging around at the back of Long House, where we lived until I was twelve, waiting for Melanie from next door to come home from school – because I didn’t go to school yet. This piece of concrete behind the house was somewhere to sit in the sun, somewhere to play with my hobby-horses and dolls, and when there was a thunderstorm a place where I rushed up and down with no clothes on, singing in the rain.

  Long House had a big black and white AGA. The bottom oven was for drying wet hair with my head on a folded-up towel, for warming toes and keeping food hot. The top was for making toast and cooking in saucepans, and when it was closed for perching on the hot, shiny lids. And the top oven was for baking.

  When I was a child my mother was still quite domestic, though later she began to put more energy into her career. Every week we would make wholemeal bread. I remember the feel and taste of cold, fresh yeast on my tongue, and kneading the warm dough on the wooden table, then making it into plaits or loaves. I was always allowed to make a dough man, sticking his head and limbs on with a dab of water, giving him eyes, mouth and tummy-button with a poke from a piece of cutlery. Sometimes we would make coconut-ice with brown sugar (everything was always brown), and sometimes flapjack, for which we had to melt the butter and syrup in a saucepan before adding the oats and pressing into the tin. It came out gorgeously sweet and gooey.

  My father, Shelley (named after the poet) was a sculptor, with a studio in the garden, and Carmen had a pottery in one of the front rooms. They had both been to art school and the house had a middle-class arty feel to it, with rush matting on the quarry tiles in the kitchen, home-made mugs and plates on the dresser, and all sorts of tasteful paintings and carvings and bits of lino-printed cloth and what-have-you all over the place. There was an Adam and Eve theme which I solemnly took on-board and wondered about. Everywhere I looked were images of a man and a woman together, as if it were the religion followed by the people in this house. They stood out in colourful relief on a cereal bowl that Carmen had made, and she had painted them onto a big, brown plate. Were they Carmen and Shelley, or were they the original man and woman? It all became muddled in my mind, and a little awesome. There was a statue of Apollo, complete with genitals, and paintings of naked ladies. And a lot of the sculptures that Shelley made alluded to the same mystery.

  Although I was a shy little girl and often preoccup
ied with big, troubling questions such as who is God, why are we vegetarian, what would happen if a bomb was dropped, and does Mummy really love me?... still it’s good to remember that those early years were a time when I grew to know and love the world in which I found myself, in that magical way that can only really happen when you’re new to the planet, with no preconceptions and a small territory in which to explore.

  Carmen wasn’t particularly house-proud in the sense of doing the dusting and keeping everything spotless: the emphasis was much more on things being aesthetically pleasing. And as I tended to see her as a perfect being who knew everything, I can remember from early on being delighted to find that she sometimes left things dirty, because it made me feel for a moment just that little bit superior to this lofty being if I could clean up after her, tut-tutting in my head like those cleaning ladies that I later learned to fear. I also enjoyed grungy things for their own sake. There was the grime in the grooves of the wooden table where we did all our eating and preparing, drawing and writing; I could scrape it out with a knife or a stick – a satisfying grey curl of puttyish stuff. Then there was the fluff and dust that collected under the rush-matting, and the odd raisin or bit of plasticine that got squashed onto the surface and could be picked away by my little fingernails.

  I had a playroom of my own, down a short corridor lined with old cupboards, in the back corner of the house. Up to the picture rail the walls were covered in off-white wallpaper-lining on which I was allowed to paint or draw. Soon this was covered in big colourful scribbles, followed by paintings of me and Mummy and Daddy and the sun and birds... and by four years old I had progressed to exercise books where I wrote and illustrated stories about kings and queens, princes and princesses, witches and goblins.

  There was a chest-of-drawers on the far wall with a lot of grown-up stuff in it, but one drawer I was allowed to go in was full of lovely bits of fabric: thick, silky satin in a deep golden yellow, the softest black velvet, pieces of pink netting and purple embroidery. Before I could read, my mother made me a small picture book out of these scraps, which contained a feely black velvet cat, a scratchy, sparkly fish, a satin bird and a man made from coloured felt.