Cruella, Devil on my Shoulder.  Been with me since the beginning I think, or maybe, more specifically, since I needed to create her.  She's been with me through thick and thin.  A strong, determined voice when I've needed it.  But now, changes are happening in my life.  Wonderful changes.  Cruella has been speaking up more and more since these changes started, becoming much more vocal.  Now, I'm starting to question the validity of her voice and the agenda she has.  Starting to question how necessary she is to my survival or if she is indeed a harmful, destructive influence, the one holding me back.

She's been there since the beginning, not the beginning of my life, just the beginning of troubles. A voice that at first spoke up every once in a while, when bad things happened.  When life was very difficult and I needed someone to encourage me to pull myself up by the bootstraps, to bring me out of the corner where I huddled crying my heart quiet, she would emerge and talk strong with me.  She was my cheerleader and my best friend all wrapped into one, telling me I was stronger than the situation, sometimes telling me that I had to push the emotion and pain down and just get on with it.   She constructed the rooms in my mind, the rooms and the locked doors.  The place to hide the bad things away, to slam the door on it, giving me the courage to get back up again and carry on living.  She pasted the smile on my face, she taught me to laugh at myself, the situation, the person who hurt me.  She taught me to smile at life.

Over the years, she became more vocal.  She held me together through my divorce, through the court system, through the fight to keep my child with me.  She stood shoulder to shoulder with me during years of abuse.  She kept me mentally alert during my time living on the streets, her eyes constantly moving and searching for danger, watching over me while I slept.  She literally propped me up when they raped me, making me focus entirely on the one thing I could control, the contact lens I held in my hand that had slipped from my eye when the tears started.  Keeping me fixated on it, my eyes staring at that tiny lens cupped in my palm until I could get home and cleaned up.  She showed me how to lock them away in the shadows of those locked rooms.  She instructed me on how to deal with them by thinking about them as if they had happened to someone else, a stranger.  During this time she taught me not to just laugh at life, but to stick two fingers up at it.  Helping me to build the wall high and strong and tough, inpenetrable, so no-one could really get in, no-one could touch me or hurt me again.  She promised me I would never be alone, she would always be with me.  I put my faith and my trust in her to do the right thing by me, to the end.

Then she started to take on the voice of others, she adopted her own critiques too.  Gradually, she built up the pressure and the intensity, to criticise, to nibble away at my spirit, to keep me quiet and placid and in my place.  "What do you expect?  Do you really think you deserve any better? Do you really think they know you, like I know you?  Do you really think they would like you if they knew the real you? What if they knew all your secrets?  I helped you lock those doors, I have the keys, I can open them anytime I choose.  Do you want me to start unlocking them?  Never forget, I keep you safe!  I am your only protection in a very mad, bad world."  

Chain smoking and food became my drugs of choice, my solace and my nemesis.  Eating to fill the emptiness inside that forcing emotions into locked rooms left behind.  To fill vast areas of isolation, to curb the hunger of not really being me, to stifle the feelings of anguish and anxiety, to fill me up with something, anything.  Playing into her hands, becoming in reality exactly what she told me I was "fat, useless, lazy, ugly, despicable me."  Holding down two jobs, trying to "make" something of myself, constantly seeking approval in the work force that I couldn't find in my social life.  Consistently juggling those balls in the air, trying to be anything to anybody and achieving nothing.  A spiralling of depression, leading into counselling, where when things got really tough, she would bail me out of the situation by insisting I quit.  A viscious circle and cycle of life. 

Chronic illness hit and it hit hard, literally knocking me off my feet.  Constantly trying to keep going, to keep fighting, to remain strong despite the adversities and adversarys, eventually became my downfall. My mind and spirit telling me I could survive and my body finally telling me "enough is enough".  Crash, bang, wallop.  No warning, no hesitation, bodily breakdown.  Just like a car, pushing it all those miles, not giving it the attention and care it deserved and needed, going in for an MOT and being told "it's only good for one thing, the scrap heap!"  If I'd been an animal, they would have practiced humanity and put me out of my misery there and then.  This, however, is not the answer for humans.  No matter how wrecked you are, you are human and you must endure. 

For a few years, trying to come to terms with illness and the realisation that I was not as strong as I had thought, drove me downwards.  Everything spiralled.  I became housebound.  Bound to pain, fear and depression.  I didn't understand my body any more, I couldn't comprehend my illness, no matter how much I researched and read.  Questions, questions, questions, flitting and flirting around in my mind, a mind that never seemed to turn off.  I either couldn't sleep or I would sleep for days on end.  Madness crept in, not the weirdness that I had always known, something much deeper and so very dark, and there in the dark Cruella's voice nagging and chastising me, over and over again. 

Gradually, something else started to stir, deep inside, in the very core of my spirit.  A tiny spark ignited in my heart and I shouted out "enough" to myself.  The word just spurted from my mouth, before my mind had time to recognise it and digest it and, more importantly, before Cruella even knew it was coming.  It shocked her into a silence and it took me a long time to recognise that this had happened.  I picked myself up, cleaned myself off and started looking for some hope.  Reading constantly, anything that felt uplifting I poured into my spirit, overloading myself with anything to keep the darkness at bay and bring in the light.  It took many months but I just kept going at it, inching my way forward day by day, sometimes taking a few steps backwards, but always bringing myself back to it, pushing myself forward into the light.

My days had become much brighter.  Pain hadn't changed but I chose not to focus on it, my mantra had become "distract the brain from the pain".  Instead of constantly questioning my illness, I made a conscious effort to accept it.  Instead of "why me", I decided on "why not me".  This decision paid off and I learned to live with it.  Post-it notes covered surfaces displaying words of encouragement and I talked to myself, in front of the mirror.  Every morning and evening, talking to myself out loud, words of hope.  Over time, I managed to create my own belief in myself - not an all-encompassing belief by any stretch of the imagination, just small sparks of good, just for me. 

One day, in front of the mirror, Cruella spoke.  She shocked me into silence, an early depiction of the battles to come.  I hadn't heard her voice aloud before, she'd always just been in my head.  She spoke with my voice but her visciousness was unmistakable.  While she was spewing her vile words, I realised that she had been silent for quite some time and tracked it back to my outburst of "enough" many months earlier.  During this thought process, I realised something quite extraordinary, not only had I managed to silence her before but by actually voicing her thoughts now, she was allowing me the space to escape into my own mind, purely on my own.  This was a major "light bulb" moment for me and in my mind I could see banners displaying the word "applause" on them, I felt like taking a bow. I had never been able to escape her before.  The tide turning?

I'm Amy.  And in the years since this revelation I have discovered some very powerful things:- I am a good person; I have value; I have a kind heart; I deserve love and I have so much to give.  I deserve to be treated with love and respect and I deserve to treat myself with love and respect.  Recognising and getting to know Amy is my goal.  I need to find Amy's true spirit.  I need to speak her truth.  To do this, I need to discover exactly who Cruella is and to do this I named her Cruella, for she is cruel.  She is the devil on my shoulder.  I didn't give her the name to give her an identity, giving her an identity would make her stronger and that's not what I want.  I need to identify her though, find out why she chooses to be such a destructive influence on my life, why I felt it necessary to bring another voice into my life.  I now have tools for banishing her from my mind, by allowing her voice to come from me.  I use these moments to take a break from her.  I watch her from a distance, it's giving me the time to try and work her out.   I've realised that, in order to move forward, I need to discover if she has the potential to be a good part of my future, the way she was in the beginning, or whether my destiny is to be myself, flaws and all.  When I listen to my spirit, that's what it wants, it yearns for me to be me - to be truly me, encompassing all of my past and all of the future to come.  And so, the story of Amy begins and the future existence of Cruella hangs in the balance.

I've woken up in a really bad mood.  I don't know why, my head hit the pillow last night and I was in a good place, feeling happy within myself, so why today have I woken up feeling this way?  I make my coffee, two sugars, strong and milky.  It's my morning ritual and I cannot face a day without that little boost.  Sitting, opening the post, I sip the sweetness, going through these few envelopes quickly, all bills, all demanding payment for essentials, heating, electricity, water.  Leaving the post sitting there, I take my morning cuppa and head into the garden.  Sitting on the wooden bench, I look out at the day.  My eyes flit from the sunflower blooming in the planter, to the grass that needs cutting, then up into the beautiful blue sky, with fluffy white clouds.  She speaks. 

She's using her "friend" voice today.  No visciousness, but strong and insistent.  "Why do you feel the need to do this?  What do you think it will accomplish?  You've been there before and it didn't work back then, why do you think this time will be any different?"  I tune her out and focus on the dandelions scattered across the lawn.  There's been some sort of epidemic this year, a dandelion epidemic and they appear to have scattered the surface of the world.  I think they're beautiful.  Not just yellow ones, but maybe a new breed, red dandelions have emerged, quite extraordinary.  Seen as a weed, but despite them being a weed, I see their beauty.  I can connect with them.  I think maybe I'm a weed too, in a world full of beautiful, carefully crafted flowers that have been honed to perfection.  It's interesting that Dandelions are seen as weeds, a twentieth century take on a flower that was once seen as a healer.  In some cicles of this "modern" society, the dandelion is still recognised for it's beauty, for it's wealth of vitamins and minerals too, but it doesn't look good on a newly manicured lawn, does it?  It doesn't quite fit in.  I can relate to that.  Cruella would see it as a weed, something to be negated, plucked from the earth and dumped in the recycle bin.  Decision made, grass cutting isn't going to happen, just let them dandelions be.  This makes me smile and I head back into the house to face the mirror and turn this frown upside down.

My appointment is at 3.30, I'm early, ten minutes early to be exact.  I can feel the anxiety starting to bubble in my chest and the makings of a headache lurking at the base of my skull.  I close my eyes and concentrate on my breathing, pull the breath in, imagine it filling my lungs and then down into the stomach, circulating around all my organs, expanding the tummy, like blowing up a balloon to bring in a greater, deeper breath.  Then the breath out, the stomach deflating.  And again, pulling the white light into my core, imagining the darkness leaving on the breath out.  Five minutes later, feeling a little more centred and grounded, I head into the building. 

The receptionist turns towards me, and for a second, my breath catches and my stomach swirls.  I can feel my cheeks burning scarlet and the temperature has notched up considerably.  My heart is yammering in my chest.  My eyes focus in on his, blue eyes that suddenly turn really dark and black.  Soul searching eyes, eyes to get lost in.  Somehow, I manage to stammer out my name.  His head lowers to the Appointments Diary and the connection is severed, my breath rushes into my chest and I raise my eyes to the ceiling and count from 1 to 10.  He speaks, "Your appointment is with Andrew, Miss Field.  Please take a seat, he will be with you shortly".

My legs carry me to the seating area and I plop down in one of the chairs, all my energy is gone.  'His voice, Oh My God, his voice.  Those eyes and that voice, Oh My God!'  My legs have taken on a life of their own, my left leg is jittering around like some mad thing.  I place both hands on my thigh and try to control the madness.  My thoughts flit to my appointment.  'Oh please be late, if there's any humanity left in this world, please be late.'  I need to get a grip.  I need to compose myself.  Never, ever in my life have I felt like this.  She speaks, "Oh, please!  Seriously!"  I pour all my concentration into the breath, into stilling this jumping, jiving leg of mine, to tune out from her comments, to find stillness.  When he comes to find me, I have managed to quieten myself considerably, enough to raise myself to standing and follow him into the room. As he closes the door behind me, I sink into the chair, my legs feel like jelly.  He sits and starts to talk and I zone into his words, holding onto them, a link into reality.

"You look really nervous, there's really no need to be. I'm Andrew, may I call you Amy?" 

"Of course, yes, of course.  I'm Amy.  Please call me Amy."

"Your GP recommended you, Amy.  He feels that you may be in a place where you might want to talk over some things."

"Yes, that's right."

"Do you feel like you could tell me some of what's on your mind, Amy?"

"Yes, I'm ready to tell you, I just don't quite know where to start."

There's a silence in the room and it feels like it's lasting an eternity.  Andrew sits back in his chair.  He looks so comfortable there in that chair, so at ease.  He looks like he has been here many, many times before.  That gives me a little bit of comfort.  This man, he knows what he's doing, I think.  How many people have sat where I'm sitting?  How many people has this one man helped?  I blurt out the question.

"How many people have you helped?  How many people have you made a difference to?"

He laughs.  A soft, gentle laugh.  Shrugs his shoulders.

"I don't know, Amy.  There have been many people who have sat in that chair over the years.  How many have I helped?  I don't know, but I do know that many of those people have helped themselves.  This just played a small part in that process.  Don't worry about where to start.  Don't worry about the words you use.  Just allow yourself to start talking.  One word at a time."

My eyes search the room for a beginning.  Somewhere to start.  I look down, my fingers furling around the edge of my sweatshirt, worrying the cloth there, as my mind flits and finally closes in on the place to start.

"I'm Amy. I know you already know that but I'm Amy and I don't really know who Amy is."

I glance up into his face, looking for his reaction.  There's no reaction to my words.  He's just sitting there comfortably, no lines, no furrowed brow, no real reaction.  My own brow furrows in response.  That deep silence fills the room again and I start blabbing, trying to fill the void with words.  Trying to fill that silence with anything, with everything.

"She's lost.  She's been lost for so many years now.  She's lost and she's alone and I need to find her.  I need to find out who she really is.  I need her to know that it's okay, it's okay to be her.  To truly, really be her.  She needs to know that I love her, despite everything that's happened, I love her.  I want to bring her out of the darkness into the light.  I want her to feel the breeze and see the sky.  I want to get to know her, the real her, not the person she hides behind.  I want to tear down those walls.  I want her to be free."

I can taste the saltiness on my lips and feel the burning as the tears silently trace their path down my face.  Big, solitary drops, that leak one by one from my eyelids.  This is not a meltdown, it's just a small sadness, for a  lovely little girl, who grew up into a world that wasn't very kind to her.  A world that extracted that innocence, sometimes brutally, and made her construct a wall of protection.  A world where, sometimes, bad things happen.

"Some bad things happened to her.  Some very bad things happened to her.  She lost her way, started to believe that the world was cruel.  She built up her protection and developed a hard, outer shell.  She's damaged.  She's broken.  She needs to be rescued."

Silence. 

Ongoing silence.

"She needs to be rescued."

More silence.

"I need to be rescued."

"I need to rescue myself."

The silence engulfs me but I don't shy away from it this time.  I allow it to surround me.  This silence doesn't need to be filled.  It makes me smile and he asks me what I'm smiling at.

"I'm smiling because I've just realised that silence doesn't always need to be filled with babble."

I raise my eyes to his face and he smiles back at me.  He doesn't speak, but I see in his eyes that he "gets" what I'm saying. 

"I've always felt the need to fill silence."

I look back down and again my fingers find their way to the hem, moving the material back and forth.  My mind recognises this action, there's some comfort in it.  And, yet, I don't feel uncomfortable.  That's a really unusual thing, feeling comfortable in my own silence, not feeling the need to take those words further and have to explain them. Allowing that silence,  allowing that time, to just see where the words I have spoken sit within me. As the minutes continue to tick on by, I allow my mind to filter through those words.  The first time, I have "allowed" myself to just be.

"Wow, that's quite something!"

His eyebrows raise.  I think a little more, giving myself time to sit with it for a moment longer.

"Usually, around people, I speak alot.  Verbal diarrhoea, you know.  This is something much bigger, really spewing open my mind, my inner thoughts."

Again, I let the silence take hold.

"Speaking out my inner thoughts, I'm just realising, I don't have to justify them or babble them away.  I can sit in silence with them.  I can allow myself time to really hear them."

I raise my eyes to the window, to the tree standing outside.  Branches moving gently in the breeze. The sun glancing off the leaves, some in shade, some in light.  Different colours according to the level of light surrounding them.  A multitude of colours.  All unique, all only captured in that moment in time.  Never to be repeated, never to be the same again.  All individual.  All beautiful.  Again, the smile plays on my lips.

"You see that tree out there?"

He turns to look.

"You're going to see that tree differently to me. You're sitting at a different angle to me, but there's something else too, you're seeing it with your eyes, with your own unique perspective.  It's going to be different to my view."

A brief pause to collect my own train of thought.

"Different shades of green.  Some light, some darker, depending on the shadow.  Layers of different colour, all beautiful in their own right.  I have those layers too.  Darkness and light.  I've shied away from the darker sides, been afraid of them for so many years.  But it's the shadow and the light that make the whole of that tree so beautiful.  I'm like that tree, with one exception, I've been afraid to bring the shaded areas forward, afraid to bring them out into the open, scared to put them on display."

He turns back to face me and I look him straight in the eyes.  Keeping my eyes locked with his, my mind processes through those thoughts.

"The only perspective that matters is mine.  No, that's not right.  Other perspectives matter too."

My eyes leave his and return to the tree.  In those few minutes, the light has changed and the tree looks slightly different. I watch and as the minutes move forward, the colours change again and again.  I bring my eyes back to his.

"Other perspectives matter, they are relevant and valid to the person viewing them.  What makes all the difference, what's going to make all the difference, is my view of me.  And the whole of me.  Everything.  It all.  The light.  The shadows.  The dark.  The uniqueness of the whole.  Even if I cannot find a way to display that to the world, I have to allow myself to display it to me."

"