Who we are and why we do what we do...

I’ve been thinking of clever ways to explain… then suddenly somebody ‘liked’ one of my earliest Wild Child private group posts and it reminded me of why I wanted to take what I do from one person, helping one family at a time to whole ideology… an entirely different lens to see the world and experience neurodivergent wonder … this was the post:

Trigger Warning: subtle references to self harm, suicide & abuse

“I have thought long and hard about posting this; but I thought if I could give a little insight into why I am so passionate about what I do and what I am trying to avoid others experiencing, it may help ...

4 years old: I taught myself to read a language I had only come across a few short months ago on my move to England. All that time hiding under a table coming in handy.

5 years old: My parents are told I am gifted... if only I would sit still and listen

7 years old: Still bright ... just a little quirky. That weird thing I do with my hands, asking too many questions, too intense, too pushy, too sensitive, always moaning about the sounds, the lights, how unfair it is, how rude everyone is, how unwell I feel

9 years old: No one is mentioning my schoolwork anymore, I am taken into a smaller room to 'work' most days. I don't remember doing anything there other than look around confused as to why I was there.

11 years old: Silence, isolation, confusion, why doesn't anybody like me? Who are my actual friends? I thought that year 9 girl was my friend when she asked me to come to the toilets to see her friends. A broken finger, lots of bruises, hollowed out.

I don't know how the teachers found out. I never told them... I never told anybody anything any more. The vodka helped.

12 years old: school report read, "school appears to be an annoying interlude on her social life" ... that's not why I had stopped attending Sir.

I. Just. Can't.

13 years old: Finally someone I knew the rules with. Yes, he was 32, but he understood me. He found my 'quirks' endearing ... so did that 40 year old, oh and the 28 year old... and, and, and...

14 years old: That chain I had pulled so hard on my neck that it cut the skin before it broke. It was an accident... I wasn't thinking. The scratches on my arm? I was just bored... you know, it happens. The daily vomiting ... ah, teenagers!

19 years old: Too tired to fight anymore, too weak to guard my autonomy. I packaged it up and handed it over to anybody who wanted it ... much easier than having it prised away from me, at least I was in control of that. I stepped out of my body and walked beside myself for the next 18 years

37 years old: looking nonchalantly at the little pile of pills I'd placed neatly on the bedside table pondering my next step... a switch seems to just click in my brain. What am I doing? Suddenly, I remembered, I'm actually free, I am an adult, I now have a choice ... I can lead the way.

I stepped back into my body and spent the next 10 years understanding my story, who I am, why I am and trying so hard to save as many of me as possible.

I am here, not as an accomplished 47 year old preaching, but as the 4 year old; confused, undiagnosed, a little afraid, very misunderstood... imploring you to change the story”