Once upon a time, I was in a therapist's office at the renowned Tavistock Clinic. It feels like a fairytale, it's so long ago. This was the meeting with the Goblin, or some other wicked character that provides the Heroine, aka moi, with the grist for character-building.
She was saying, "You must feel remorse about being in this situation."
"Yes," I replied, "I wish I wasn't in this situation."
'This situation' was akin to being locked in Bluebeard's cellar. Defending a court case against my ex over our daughter's care and domicile required all the pugnacity and wit that Bluebeard's hapless wife needed to escape once she had made the mistake of marrying the charmer. I want to write more about the true horrors of what passes for justice in the family courts, but circumspection is necessary. It's enough to say that while the police and fire service turned our flat into something that resembled Bluebeard’s cellar with barred windows and alarms to keep us safe, spineless judges were granting access in deference to the Fathers for Justice rhetoric.
"I wish I wasn't in this situation. But if I hadn't had a relationship with this man, I wouldn't have my daughter."
"Yes, you'd have a different one."
"I don't know what I'd be doing now if I hadn't had this relationship and this child. And, it doesn't matter to me because the child I have is the one I'm grateful for and she came about because of this relationship."
The Goblin insisted again that I must feel remorse.
I replied that while I'd rather not be using every ounce of strength and reserve I have to keep myself and my daughter safe against the absurdity of the court system, I didn't have a jot of regret about having my daughter. She was my sunshine. It was in all of her specificity that I loved her. She wasn't any old child. She was my child and she came to me out of a love I had felt for her father.
Confusing as it is, I had thought of him as my soulmate and, while, at this juncture in the story, I loathed and feared him, I couldn't bring myself to say that I regretted having had my daughter or forgetting that she had come from a place that felt like love. The Heroine's journey has been long and arduous and she has learnt many lessons about love along the way, most importantly that what passes for love often bears more resemblance to neediness and co-dependence. But, it was as close to love as I could get at the time and it was important because on its tide, rode in the infant that made me a mother.
The therapist's insistence that I feel global remorse regarding my circumstances brought the session to a premature close. I was certain she was not the professional who could help my daughter surf the choppy waves ahead given the exhortation that I should regret the very existence of the one for whom I sought help.
A newborn's sight extends about 30cm, meaning that the mother's face is perfectly in focus when the infant is suckling. As the mother gazes at her baby, the child's image is reflected in her eyes, in the apples of her eyes. My firstborn was the apple of my eye. She opened up a whole vista of experience hitherto unimagined. The two of us were halves of some unfathomable whole that once made manifest, could not be undone, sent back, regretted. Now, I am not saying that there aren't mothers who do regret the existence of the infant who has dropped into their arms like an alien invasion. Every woman comes to motherhood with a complex array of emotions – some very uncomfortable, some culturally taboo, some unwelcome and resisted. Allowing ourselves to know the truth of our own emotional response is part of our awakening consciousness. What I'm referring to here is the professional's insistence against my own feelings of acceptance, that I should regret her existence because my circumstances were difficult and I was frightened.
Be encouraged, my friends, that when the professional or cultural norm cuts against the very fibre of your being, you do not need to succumb to it. And if you do for a time, you can rise again. The Heroine's journey, by its very nature is thwarted with misadvice, dangerous circumstances and mistaken paths. Bluebeard was presented to the youngest daughter as an ideal match after he had been rejected by her older and wiser sisters. Suave and charming he wooed first the mother, who blessed the union between the devil and her daughter. With her mother in favour, the young woman can be forgiven for not seeing the warning signs that her beloved was not a worthy companion. When mothers and professionals urge us down the wrong path, we can also forgive ourselves for ending up in a magic bog that sucks at our soul, or a castle full of bodies. It is part of our maturing consciousness to forgive the faux way-showers too. And, to return to forgiveness of ourselves when we, as professionals or parents, urge those who look to us for advice, into ill-conceived action. We play all the roles in this fairytale. One day Heroine, another, Goblin.
I often describe the British court system as the thief that stole ten years of my life. Perhaps it would be better to say that the family justice system was the Dark Forest that took ten years to traverse. How many years did it take for Bluebeard's wife to appreciate the true horrors of her situation? At first she lived in the lap of luxury with her charming beau. She must have been delighted with her choice. Even if there were a few niggling concerns, they were easily dismissed. When Bluebeard suggested she invite her sisters to stay with her while he went away on business, there was still nothing to alert her to her imperilment. When he handed her the bunch of keys that unlocked the many rooms in the castle with the proviso that one tiny key to one tiny room should remain unused, there was still not much to arouse her concern. He was by and large generous; it was only one room; he didn't need to explain himself, I am only his wife; perhaps there's something in there he wants to surprise me with – ooh, that's exciting, I wonder what it could be? We've all been there, explaining away the red flags. Cheering ourselves up with hopeful possibilities, rather than allowing ourselves to hear that little voice of intuition that's whispering, 'This doesn't quite add up, be cautious, you don't know what this means, you might be in danger'.
Once Bluebeard is gone, his young wife is driven to find out what is in the forbidden room. Her sisters urge her against it. If we think of these characters as all features of the psyche, the sisters are the parts of us that know there is danger but don't want to look. But our Heroine is determined. Her shock when she opens the tiny door is incalculable. We can only imagine the true horror as she took in the scene – a room stuffed with female bodies piled up in various states of dismemberment and decomposition. She wants to unsee what has been seen and hastily shuts the door only to discover that the tiny key is running with blood. She cannot unknow what she knows and she cannot hide from Bluebeard that she knows the truth of him. Has she discovered too late the danger she is in? Bluebeard is at the front door, calling for his wife with all the charm to which she is accustomed, only this time she hears its menace and she flees to hide in her room. She locks the door and barricades it with furniture. She has not got long, the bloody key has left a trail. She flings open the window and calls for her brothers.
Bluebeard is rampaging through the house. He has seen the blood. She calls to her sisters, 'Can you see our brothers?' Peering into the distance from the ramparts, the sisters scour the horizon, 'Not yet sister!'
'Can you see our brothers?'
'Not yet, sister.'
Bluebeard is at the door and rattling the handle. His voice is terrible and what he utters chills his wife to her core.
'Can you see our brothers?' Her call is frantic.
'Yes, we see them, sister.'
At that moment, Bluebeard crashes into the room. He is in a fury as he sends furniture flying to reach his prey.
Just then, the brothers ride in. They haven't stopped to dismount at the door; they gallop up the stairs and impale Bluebeard on an outstretched sword.
When the Divine Masculine vanquishes the predator, known in our cultural discourse as toxic masculinity, the Heroine is freed. Just like the sisters, the brothers are a feature of the Heroine's psyche. She has taken action, been decisive, destroyed the enemy.
Sometimes, the Divine Masculine comes to us in the form of a man. I believed that the man who followed my personal Bluebeard, was the Knight from tales olde. He served this function honourably as he footed the bill for barristers with more hutzpah than any I'd had on Legal Aid. He rode into court and charmed the judges. One of the funniest moments, if funny can ever be used to describe a travesty, was when the judge praised my Knight for being the one to reunite Bluebeard with his ex! How wrong he was but how we sucked it up because it gave us the Get Out of Jail card for which I had been playing so long. But, my Knight wasn't truly in touch with the Divine principle. He turned out to be fighting his own demons that landed him a Restraining Order years down the line.
The Heroine's journey doesn't end here. I am resting at a little way station just now, not dissimilar to the shepherd's hut where the fervent jailer has carried Kolka when she is cast into a magic sleep by the wicked Queen. This is not a well known story but you'll recognise its themes. A poor man and his wife long for a child who comes to them in their old age with a jewel that bears her soul. She must not be separated from the precious stone so her father fashions her a necklace. Of course, she is beautiful and accomplished and spotted by the Queen who invites her to the palace where she joins the coterie of musicians. The Queen becomes jealous and banishes Kolka to the dungeon to die, but the jailer, distraught by this cruelty secretly brings his captive food. In a fit of rage when she discovers that Kolka is still alive, the Queen grabs from her neck the jewel, which unbeknownst to her contains her victim's soul. Kolka falls to the ground motionless. The jailor carries out his orders to bury the beauty by sequestering her sleeping body in a shepherd's hut.
I welcome the magic sleep. A time to rest, review, digest and heal. The dreamscape provides a fresh perspective on the characters of Bluebeard and the Knight. I find that I can forgive them for their part in my story. I might even be able to celebrate what they have taught me about the masculine as I become more attuned to the Divine Principle that operates in all of us, however misaligned we are. For Kolka, the Divine Masculine presents itself to her as the Prince. He falls in love with her sleeping form and steals from his mother's jewellery box a beautiful necklace which, when placed on the throat of his beloved, revives her to become his wife and Queen.
While I rest upon my bed, I reflect on the Heroine's journey thus far. I have vanquished the Goblin, overcome the Predator, forgiven Bluebeard and the fallen Knight. I have felt my life-force snatched from me and I have succumbed to a magic sleep. Do I feel remorse? Do I regret my daughters for all the trouble their fathers have given me? No! This piece of professional twatery did not take root. Thank God! My daughters have been a light to my way, and it's my hope that, despite the convoluted and tumultuous journey I am embarked upon, I can be a resource to the Heroine’s path upon which they walk. I’d like to be more Fairy Godmother than the Goblin. More Wise Woman than Wicked Queen.
What would your chosen character be?
If you have encountered the Goblin or need help vanquishing a Bluebeard or Knight turned nasty, book a free session with me and I’ll give you my best Fairy Godmother and Wise Woman combined.
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