This last week has had it’s really low points, I really thought I’d destroyed a good thing because of my insecurities perhaps and my desperation to find a job and move house has stressed me out.
So I’ve decided to tackle a few things and deal with them head on and put them to rest with any luck and bring the positivity back into my life.
Today I spent the morning burning my care files. Files written about me and my life by ‘professionals’, their opinions and perceptions in a collection of reports on incidents in my life, issues and problems I have with development and behaviour, rejections and disappointments… I don’t want to remember my childhood as that. I was a child, a human being, with qualities, attributes, emotions, likes and dislikes, a personality… I was a terrified 3 year old when I was taken into care, when they started on those damn files. Reports and concerns and medicals and case reviews written by health visitors, doctors, social workers, care workers, foster carers, teachers, psychiatrists, counsellors, therapists and police… 15 years worth… 1975 – 1990.
But nothing in there was written by me. None of my opinions were in there, none of my aspirations or ambitions… Nothing in those typed up reports was anything positive about me. Nothing about what I was feeling, or what I thought I needed. Nothing about the real me. Who I was underneath all the bullshit of those reports that were written by people who came into brief contact with me as a child. In all honesty they didn’t even have all the facts, had they ever asked me about my own life, I could’ve probably divulged a hell of a lot more that had been locked away for so long and maybe I wouldn’t have gone through as much as I did.
As I watched the flames consume those papers, I wonder how many of those professionals have given me a fleeting thought over the years, those that expected me to fail at life, what would they say if they knew what those years of paperwork means to me now.