Seventy Thousand Camels

A. Brewer Angelica

Description

Born in Rome in 1965, Angelica A. Brewer faced a tough childhood. Lonely and abused by her mother and family friends, her school life brought her some relief as refuge from the ravages of home.At the age of 16, Angelica ran away from her new home in Australia and lived for a while in a youth refuge. Enrolling as a TAFE student, Angelica met Rhys and the two embarked on a relationship and eventually married. Over eight years they had three children, but their relationship deteriorated as Rhys became abusive. After 15 years of marriage, Angelica and Rhys separated. The following years saw Angelica embarking on a variety of careers and re-entering the dating scene, only to be disappointed.Finally, Angelica met Adam Brewer ('Brew'), a fellow correctional officer, but despite his unfailing love and support, she entered a downward spiral of depression and anxiety, ending in attempted suicide. Now recovered, she takes stock of her life and all she has learned from her journey so far.

Sujets

• Philosophie et théologie
• Roma (serie de televisión)
• Memoir
• Rome
• Australia

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 30 octobre 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781838597139
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 6 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2019 Angelica A. Brewer

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.


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ISBN 978 1838597 139

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.


Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd



I dedicate this book to my husband Adam Heath Brewer.
Without your wilful love or resilient patience, I’m not sure
I would have made it. Thank you for not giving up on me

‘ Life, it’s no fun when you’re hunted by the things that you feel.’
Lyrics from ‘I hope I never’ written by Tim Finn ( Split Enz )
Contents
Introduction
Preface

Chapter One
Ssssssssssss
Chapter Two
Arrivederci Roma!
Chapter Three
The suffering of the child
Chapter Four
Great Southern Land
Chapter Five
Cabramatta High School
Chapter Six
The face of freedom
Chapter Seven
Homelessness and other drugs
Chapter Eight
Love and other drugs
Chapter Nine
Madness and other drugs
Chapter Ten
Blackmail and other drugs
Chapter Eleven
Dogma and other drugs
Chapter Twelve
The most beautiful girl in the world
Chapter Thirteen
Magick
Chapter Fourteen
Faust, what face dost thou wear today?
Chapter Fifteen
Moments, seasons, eras
Chapter Sixteen
Somehow i’ll find my way home
Chapter Seventeen
Rebound
Chapter Eighteen
*Pain Body
Chapter Nineteen
Güney Güneş
Chapter Twenty
I’m swimming in the dark beside you
Chapter Twenty-One
A prickly spider flower
Chapter Twenty-Two
You ruined me
Chapter Twenty-Three
Seventy thousand camels
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Hills
Chapter Twenty-Five
Soft Reed Place
Chapter Twenty-Six
Earth Angel
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Horizons forged from agony
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The bucket list
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Till death do us part and other drugs
Chapter Thirty
Succubus no more

Epilogue
Cast and crew
Alessandra and Ileana (Umberto Primo school friends – Rome)
Maria
Carla
Noel and Valerie
Doug
Allira and Patrick
Alastair and Marianne
Rhys
Eser
Jason
Denise and Fiona
Valeria
Acknowledgements
Bibliography and Works Cited
Introduction
I do not recall my childhood beyond a certain age; perhaps as a six or seven-year-old. What I do recall are the things that were important to me emotionally and tangibly.
I didn’t have much, and what I did have I treasured. A Cinderella handkerchief for example; it was almost transparent from overuse but I loved it. Disney films were my first introduction to fantastic escapism, and I was enamoured with all of Walt’s heroes and heroines. I also revelled in old Hollywood films and their beautiful, translucent actresses.
My rollerskates spelt freedom from everything and everyone. Where other children received bicycles, our poverty afforded me only a pair of used skates, the type you strapped over your sneakers. I really loved rollerskating and when I wasn’t zoning out on them, talking to my ‘Invisible Friend’, I’d readily take on the challenges of Castel Sant’Angelo’s bituminised terrain.
My books; I had a thirst both for knowledge and for fantasy that has never dissolved. I cherished my Topolino comics and fairy tales, but sought out true life accounts as well – particularly those concerning crime and punishment. As well as reading, I would write my own stories as avidly and eloquently as I could recite poetry or illustrious quotations. My classroom comprehensions were always well received by my teachers, and my drawing skills were above my age group average. My peers lined up to have me decorate their homework pages. I could have been an artist someday.
Celebrations like Christmas and my birthday were to me hallowed days because it seemed that at long last I, as the only child in a miniscule family, might just receive all the attention. Ironic I know.
My imagination was boundless. Within my mind’s eye, anywhere I found myself, I would create an adventure – with all of my quests bound by a common thread. I’d be rescued by a beautiful boy who’d fall in love with me at a glance and take me to magical heights such as I’d never before seen, and where no one would ever find me – especially not my mother.
Friendships were also important to me but, because of my upbringing, I was not always able to maintain or nurture them. I was a possessive, calculating child who needed to own someone in order to feel completely honoured. I was the same with my food, hiding goodies so that no one would ask to share them. I was happy to lend someone a book or a toy but beware if it was ruined or not returned.
I was the spirit of contradiction – as Mother dubbed me. If someone disliked something or someone I made it my mission to uncover why and proclaim the subject a hero. I developed this personality trait to defeat a narcissistic mother whose maternal warmth I could not have.
I was very tactile. I craved human touch and nurturing; it was rarely forthcoming but wherever possible I’d take it by force. At the same time, I found myself an excruciating empath, forever the champion of the underdog, and sporting greater insight than most of my peers. As I grew older this ‘admirable’ quality only intensified and was to cause me a great deal of personal grief. What I now realise of course is that I wasn’t really saving others from circumstance or themselves, but was in fact projecting my inner trauma onto them, and attempting to save myself by proxy.
My fantasy world saw me the winner of titles, and the beguiling goddess who would blind all with her iridescent omnipotence and mystique. Inside my Olympic Universe I was the best runner, the best dancer, the smartest in the class, the one everyone wanted to know and be friends with, the most beautiful, the strongest, the queen of the Roll Arena, the wealthiest, the most generous, and a ruler of humankind. I was a prepubescent megalomaniac with too much empathy, who desperately needed to be loved and acknowledged, and was inherently afraid of loss.
I soon became obsessed with the unattainable and developed a morbid interest and admiration for cultures whose pre-eminent trait was to gain power via the subjugation of others: The Nazis, the Ancient Romans, and the Vikings. Yet I was not like these tyrants – I cared for people, especially the weak and helpless. I was extreme, dark, complex, excessive and antithetical, albeit kind, considerate, practical and logical.
These polar proclivities in my make-up were the same ones that would colour the rest of my life, creating opportunities and obstacles alike. For many years I thought I was somewhat mad, and this was compounded by tongue in cheek ‘affectionate’ remarks made by people close to me: “You’re weird Angelica!”, “You’re just my crazy friend!” and that old chestnut, “What planet did you come from?”
The truth is I’m hypersensitive and open to everything. In my opinion I hail from Planet Empath , as do many others like me. I absorb all that surrounds me like a sponge, and have trouble cataloguing events and interpersonal interactions according not to reality, but to subjective expectation. I do not detach or regroup easily and I offer way too much without prior investigation. Life for me is often a simultaneous assault on all the senses, but I don’t consider myself to be ‘Asperger’s’. I have a penchant for tautology both in the literal and metaphorical sense. I’m quite possibly borderline personality disordered, or something like that. Mystics would categorise me as an ‘empath’.
Yet, at the end of the day I am simply me and cannot be anyone else no matter how hard I try. All my life I have made an attempt to adapt to how things should be and found myself wanting. One aspect of the complete liberation of the soul is accepting oneself’s inimitable authenticity. One must then embrace it, fall in love with it, and to hell with public consensus! They are not the ones walking your path.
This story ends very differently from how it may be interpreted by run-of-the-mill perception or wishful thinking. I began life holding on to one steady view, but by the age of fifty that view had changed so dramatically, I felt left in contempt of my true self and make no apology for that.
And so folks, this is my weird and fantastical yet very true story. From ‘Imperial’ Rome, to notorious Cabramatta in New South Wales, to nondescript Tunkillo in South Australia and beyond. Enjoy a ride of a different kind and bless you all.

Namasthae )0(
(This is how it is written in Hindi)
Adel Angelica Brewer
Preface
Around 1980, I wrote my autobiography. I was fifteen years old. By that age I had already experienced a great deal of adversity, yet not in a context from which I, or most people, could learn.
In 1998, at the age of thirty-three, I rewrote my autobiography