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[Read part 1 & part 2 first]

Did you think I wouldn’t go there? I know, I know… sorta left the story with a gapingly obvious question there, didn’t I? But the plan all along was to wade in, really. So don’t worry, coz here we are!

But before I could elaborate on this part of the story, I was lying in bed after publishing part 2 and… ohhhhh [the sound of stuff you never realised before but now see]! Reminded me of the time I broke the overhead light cover in the laundry last year because even to this day I’m *still* finding little shards everywhere. I suspect I won’t get them all until I shift EVERYTHING out of the laundry. But have you ever felt the need to move your washing machine once it was installed? Yeah, me neither… And exactly my point.

Before I go any further, I’ve gotta tell you about these dreams I had maybe ten years later. They seemed completely unrelated, even if they were terrifying. Of course, this is a huge hint that they aren’t unrelated, right? Because I’m not really going for that whole Sixth Sense he-was-dead-all-along twist [apologies if you haven’t seen that movie yet. Okay, not really because you should’ve by now!].


They started one night out of nowhere and weirdly. ‘Spose my sleepscape has always been awash with weirdness… realistic visions I could’ve sworn were actually happening, the occasional and incredible full scale movie in which I often had a starring role, horror scenes, vampires, flying, reptiles, alleged past lives and more. But also dreams of portent and that’s always been confusing, even to this day. Especially because I never really know the difference until after something I’ve dreamt has turned up and I get that oh yeah moment.

Even trickier is when fact and fantasy intermingle so it looks like one thing, but the message is important and not the visuals. Or vice versa. It’s never simple. And they don’t really give me an advantage at all. Fat lot of good that is, right?

Usually though, it’s not a retrospective message. Let alone many years later. And it definitely wasn’t pretty.

In my dream I was back in kindergarten, a place I remember well for some reason. Our cloakroom with the cool coat hooks in the shapes of animals or toys or ships, and the kid-size toilets tailor-made for tiny people. And the main area which was sort of divided up although it was really just one big space. The art area with easels and tables for masterful abstract kid-ling art. The story space with its huge rug and lots of room to sit next to your friends. The bookshelves. The spot where we’d eat our lunch and drink our milk. And the office.

We weren’t allowed in there except for official business and things like getting our eyes tested. And I was maybe four, and I was in there with my mother for some kind of medical check up. One minute I was sitting in her lap while she talked to the male doctor and the next… well, there’s no polite way to talk about a grown up being inappropriate with a child, is there? I felt like I couldn’t move, couldn’t get up. But my mother wasn’t there any longer. I was trapped in the office with this doctor and I… well, never mind…

I woke up distressed, crying. Was it real? Was it? Was it fucking REAL??? Oh. My. God. No… It couldn’t be real. I don’t think so. I’m sure it wasn’t. Unless it was? Fuck!

It wasn’t the last time I had that dream and before long I was a mess and completely confused. I tried to ask my mother a few delicately hedged questions without giving away my intent but to really explain properly, I had to spill. She was scathing. I mean, after all, I was asking her about stuff from a dream for crying out loud! I know that never happened, her voice tart and short, because there were NEVER any men working at the kindergarten.

So… that was it I guess? Except for the distress. I worried and wondered if this was some kind of repressed memory. I mean, I was a rather sexualised child in a way that apparently kids normally aren’t. What did it mean? Something? Anything? Nothing? No! I knew when I’d lost my virginity didn’t I? I’m sure about that if nothing else…

A friend suggested I go and see this therapist she knew. He was a kinesiologist and counsellor, and she had good things to say about him. If you’re not familiar with kinesiology then this all might sound a little strange. It’s a powerful practice and some especially talented therapists use it to help people tap into hidden emotional blocks, not just physical ills.

In this case, we analysed my very disturbing dreams using kinesiology to test my sub-conscious mind’s reaction to his questions. Which sure, can sound a little nutty but you really had to be there to understand. It was… impressive.

But I can’t describe the indescribable. I can barely remember what happened there. We talked, he used the muscle testing technique. I cried. He asked questions and I thought of certain things. He tested again. And on and on as we narrowed down the result.

And it came down to this: hidden shame and fear about my abortion. Feeling I’d lost the respect of my parents and feeling out of control. Note: this is what I worked out via thinking of specific things. I barely told him anything because he told me he didn’t need to know the specifics.

It made sense didn’t it? I was in that very compromising position as a doctor and his medical team scraped the contents of my womb under general anaesthetic and there was no escape once things kicked off. Consciously I didn’t feel ashamed or upset about it but clearly I held that somewhere in my body.

And so life went on. I’ve never fallen pregnant again although there’s been a few times where I’ve wondered. And some of those times I threatened myself. Body, I’ve said menacingly, you remember what we went through before? Well, it’s not that I ever want to do that again, but so help me if we’re pregnant that might just be on the cards, okay? So… let’s not be pregnant.

Who knows if it was the threats or if I simply wasn’t pregnant in the first place but eventually the bloody evidence allowed relief to replace tension and it was all okay. Sorta.

The other horror and shame of course, came from not knowing who that child’s father was. That’s right, I can’t tell you. It’s possible that had I been able to get blood tests from known the known contenders I still wouldn’t have an answer.

In an ideal/less than ideal world I often wished it’d been Chippy. I liked to think it was. Sweet, loveable cute surfer-boy dude of the sun-kissed golden hair and sunny nature, friend of M’s sometime boyfriend and all-round hot thing. And a wild man in the sack. They’d come over along with N’s (my other best friend) boyfriend when M’s parents were on holiday’s, having taken M’s younger brother with them. Three bedrooms of an otherwise empty house choc-full of horny young things, no vacancies, sorry!

I’d sleep on the floor on a mattress in M’s brother’s room and that’s where we’d romp. Chippy in many ways was my teacher. From this sweet hearted sexy thang, I learned about Grown Up Sex where extreme mutual pleasure was assured. So that’s what sex could be! No in-out-and-over with my surfer lover… it was always fun and downright awesome. Literally a booty call and nothing more, thank goodness for my Chippy!

But he was far from the only one. This was a time of sexual liberation for the three of us, doing what and whomever we wanted whenever it suited us. We never saw a down-side until it happened to me.

As far as M, N and I could figure it there were three possible baby daddy candidates. Well kinda. We joked about it a bit before that fateful train trip, but never after. But let me be clear: it’s not like I wasn’t using contraception. I was, mostly.

There was of course Chippy – my semi-regular lover, some guy I’d picked up at our local nightclub (oh my, the days when I’d go nightclubbing!) who’s number I never bothered to get, and then there was… well, stuff I hadn’t told either of them and could barely tell myself. Not the full story. Not the real story, whatever that was…

[Read part 4]