“Welcome to Your Longest Night” Warning You May Never Recover!

PART ONE

What Happens After Someone Tells You “Welcome to your Longest Night”

I have never been a fan of conspiracy theories, however after experiencing a run of bad luck that has lasted 15 years it’s hard not to deduce that someone is really out to get you.

The reknowned psychotherapist James Hillman talks a lot about the importance of “Telling Your Story”, as a way of maintaining mental health, and as a writer and artist I have always held onto the Credo of “bearing witness” to the times we live in and the environment around us.

So, although in various ways I have tried to tell my own story within very negative environments over the last 15 years, where I have been told that “there are people trying to “erase you”, from history,” finally I feel I have no option but to tell it all in one place, here on Medium.

Of course, all of the details would probably get tedious, but a lot has happened, and I would dearly like to prevent anyone else falling, or being pushed, into a similar hell.

I first heard the saying above whilst taking a walk one Sunday morning whilst staying with a friend in Oxford back in 2009. A complete stranger stopped in front of me delivered the statement and then disappeared.

I had already had my life turned upside down. In 2007 shortly after moving from South London where I had lived for 10 years (exactly to the day), to North London strange things began to happen.

To begin with things were going well for me in North London. I had wanted to move as I seemed to spend my whole life on public transport going to and from to central London. I had an exhibition of a video art piece at the Great Eastern Hotel, and was invited to perform my poetry at a prominent gallery in East London. Finally, it seemed like my visual arts career was taking off.

But an unexpectedly short temporary assignment as an Executive Assistant at ECM seemed to trigger a chain of increasingly bizarre events.

Certain individuals and Gangs of people started following me around, wherever I went they would be there. Now, after living in London for over a decade I was fortunate enough to know quite a lot of people, mainly on the arts scene as I was an active poet, visual artist and theatre maker.

But, when random people who you’ve never met start screaming rubbish at you, and around you with increasing frequency it’s very disquieting.

Suddenly I found myself side-lined by friends and professional acquaintances and ignored by my temp agencies.

Temping as an executive assistant kept me afloat between my more interesting arts projects and suddenly, I couldn’t get any work.

And when I did go out, as normal, to arts events around town I felt increasingly intimidated and “unwelcome”. (Later I put this down to the “ethnic cleansing” of London in the run up to the Olympics).

I know what you’re thinking — 2009 was the beginning of the economic crash, but it felt more than that.

I eventually retrained as an English TEFL teacher, after putting my remaining credit together, and got a part-time job teaching in Charing Cross for awhile and the “craziness” seemed to recede. Then I twisted my ankle and that summer teaching job ended early.

Then 2 things happened that confirmed I was being pursued, or scape-goated for something.

The night before I was to read a newly commissioned piece, at the BBC Radio Theatre for Radio 3, I couldn’t sleep and ended up popping into a local bar for a drink. I got talking to someone on Islington High Street who I got on with really well. Simultaneously I was contacted by a colleague from Manchester who was unexpectedly stranded for the night and needed a place to crash. So, after the place shut, I invited the guy home for a coffee, as I knew I wouldn’t be alone and felt quite safe (I really was looking for nothing more than a continuation of our chat — yes, I had imbibed way to too much).

Anyway to cut a long story short, my “friend from Manchester” did turn up and stayed in my front room, and I did take the guy to bed, but fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

Nothing strange there you might think, but wait!

The next morning — nearer mid-day — I woke up with the worst hangover ever. In fact, I felt like I had been drugged. (This had happened to me once before in South London and I recognised the feeling).

AND although I was completely out of it, I was convinced that the guy in my bed was not the one I had taken to bed. Awful right?

I got him out of my flat as quickly as possible, followed by my “girlfriend”, who I now suspected of being somehow involved in letting a stranger into my flat in the middle of the night.

But the nightmare was still not over.

Although I could barely walk, never mind speak a coherent sentence, I somehow got washed and changed for the live event at the BBC. I stupidly waited for the bus, which of course was late, and arrived over 20 minutes late, but in time for the live transmission.

Somehow, I got through the evening without fluffing my lines!

After this, and several more awful job experiences, and random people telling me “You have to fuck him”. (????)

I decided I just had to get out of London. I decided to get the best paying teaching job I could abroad.

I was accepted for a PYEP job in a girls school in the Middle East, and packed up my flat. Transporting everything I owned, apart from most of my furniture, into storage broke my heart, as I realized I would never come back.

Living in London is tough, especially as a physically challenged, female writer and artist, and I had worked very hard to build up my professional work contacts and reputation. However, I was feeling increasingly threatened, and was sick of the verbal abuse I was suffering EVERYWHERE I went, and felt I had to get of the country.

However, as I was to discover, the “stalkers” would not leave me alone, even there.

(To be cont.….)