Frank

Jarra Freehart

Description

Have you ever thought about the life you have lived? The person you have become and what you had to go through to get there? Well, Jarra Freehart has and it wasn't all good. I can tell you that. Horrific might be a good description. Attempting to destroy yourself is one thing. But equally effective is destroying other people's trust and confidence in you along the way. Fancy having to admit something like that. Self-awareness can be very elusive. Jarra had his hands on it several times. But it always slipped away. The only thing he'd ever really achieved was not dying along the way. He came close a few times. He had to write this book. While there was still time. He had to empty his head before he could develop any further and maybe become a better person. Although he would never consider himself a bad person. Just lost in a world that no one else was allowed into. His own private world. Visitors were not welcome at all. Not ever.Jarra Freehart didn't find this laborious task easy, you know. It was hard work. That's for sure. But he's so glad he eventually did it. Because now, his new life could begin. But that's another story.

Sujets

• Memoir
• Philosophie et théologie

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
• Date de parution: 30 novembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781398469402
• Langue: English

Extrait

F rank
Jarra Freehart
Austin Macauley Publishers
2022-11-30
Frank About the Author Dedication Copyright Information © Acknowledgement Synopsis True Story Related Themes -->
About the Author
Jarra Freehart had no chance to be a normal kid. He was a different kind of kid. Right from the start. Slightly dyslexic. An undiagnosed epileptic. Bullied mercilessly at school. Couldn’t express himself verbally. A confused misfit in an alien world. Part of a large family but all alone until he discovered drugs and alcohol at 14. That changed everything. A new Jarra emerged. Full of confidence. Life of the party. Feared nothing. Indulged in all life’s pleasures. What a blast! Until he crashed and burned at nineteen. How he’s still alive is a mystery!
Dedication
This book is dedicated to Jarra Freehart’s mother. His long-suffering, very brave and selfless mother. She really loved Jarra. She couldn’t tell him that, till her dying days. But she did tell him and that’s the main thing.
Copyright Information ©
Jarra Freehart 2022
The right of Jarra Freehart to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The story, the experiences, and the words are the author’s alone.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781398469396 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781398469402 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published 2022
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd ®
1 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5AA
Acknowledgement
There are many individuals who would prove worthy of being acknowledged in regards to their contribution to this life story. And to the personal growth and development and eventual emergence of Jarra Freehart. They are all in there. But will never be openly acknowledged. Not by Jarra anyway. This is not out of any kind of negative attitude or unkindness. Or preference of one compared to any others. Because they all had a significant impact in one way or another. They were all contributors. Some far more than others, that is true.
Jarra gradually became an unaware collector and a hoarder. Of all the influences made available to him. Whether the contributors were aware or not, of how much influence they were actual having, is still a mixture of varying levels of understanding and misunderstanding.
And this is why he has decided to leave it up to others, in deciding who deserves more acknowledgement. Or less acknowledgement. The only thing that is fully understood by him, is the continual struggle to become the individual he never was in the beginning. And he has all the contributors to acknowledge for that.
Of course, there are the girls from the magic café. And what wonderful girls they all are. They acknowledged Jarra, from his very first visit to the café. Their caring words and warm smiles, gradually penetrated the crusty exterior. Their youthful enthusiasm and generosity of spirit, gave him strength and brought out the best in him. They knew exactly what they were doing. They seemed to know him better than he knew himself. If it wasn’t for them, it’s unlikely this book would ever have been written.
And now there is a special place for all of them, in his rejuvenated old heart.
Synopsis

True Story
Set in Industrial city, Newcastle. NSW. Australia. Suburb of Mayfield. Beginning early to mid-1960s. Relevance to mid-1970s. References up till around 2010.

Related Themes
A different kind of child. Mildly dyslexic. Epileptic. Not with it. Always off with the fairies? Dreaming. Always dreaming, man. (Mental illness?) One of 11 children. (Catholics)
Bullied mercilessly. Laughed at. Ridiculed. Primary school. Daily. No assistance. Other childhood traumas. Shingles. Fits. Comas. Hospitals. Nurses. Catholic schools. No advantage. That’s for sure. (Voices in the head) No sex education. No nothing for this kid. But discrimination. Misunderstandings. Lived in make believe. Own fortress in the head. It got him into all kinds of trouble.
Sexual abuse. Domestic violence. Misogyny. No connection with anyone. Mother hardly knew he existed. Until the idiot came home after long absence. Threw Father out of house. Took over. Before he went mad. Drugs. Alcohol addictions. Gambling. Pubs. Drug parties. Sexual experiences with girls. Always open to interpretation?
Ended up a champion bullshit artist. Believed everything he heard. Made them his thoughts and actions. Always called stupid. Always called an idiot. Taken advantage of. All his life. Went through stages of positive development. His life was more like a series of episodes.
Always ended up the stupid idiot. Eventually went crazy, with all the other idiots. It was his only friend? Except for the dero, of course?
Lots of swearing in parts. Sorry about that. That was the reality. Accuracy, you know. Way I wrote this. Just the way it came out.
“Do you know what happened?”
“Do you know where you are?”
“Do you know who you are?”
Another one of them fits called epilepsy. They happened all the time. In hospital again. A nurse, asking the usual questions. Nearly the same questions every time. But hospitals were good. The food was good. Better than he got at home. Everyone was nice and friendly. Especially the nurses. He could never hate nurses. He didn’t feel like talking. He never felt like talking.
“Okay then! Try and get some rest. We can talk later if you like. Are you hungry? Would you like a drink of water? No? Okay then. I’ll come back later and see how you’re going.”
Just lying there, thinking about the old dero. He was probably dead by now. He was really old. He lived in a cardboard castle. There was a bridge and he lived sort of under the bridge, right next to the railway lines. He was always getting cardboard boxes from this place that sold clotheslines. They were big boxes. So funny watching him drag them across the railway lines. Sometimes he would almost fall over. He could have been run over by a train and killed or something. Always remembered him. Especially when lying in hospital. After another blackout. That’s what everyone called them. Blackouts.
The dero told him lots of stuff. He was good to him. He didn’t yell at him. He didn’t trick him or lie to him. He told him some really bad things. Sometimes, he still sees him.
There was someone else here. He knew there was someone else there. No one else was ever there. But there was someone else there. He knew there was.
“It’s just me!”
What? Who’s me anyway? He had no idea who me was. There was no way to explain the sudden appearance of me either. Me was just there.
“Yes, I’m here all right and I’m talking to you. We can be friends if you want.”
He didn’t have any friends. He didn’t want any friends. Go away.
“Okay then. If that’s what you want. I thought we could be friends.”
He had always wanted a friend. That’s for sure. Someone to do stuff with. Like a normal kid. But he wasn’t a normal kid. He knew that and everyone else knew that too.
He’s really tired right now. He’s got a headache. He said he’ll think about having a friend. You can come back later.
He should have told him then, to get lost and never come back. But he didn’t, did he?
His mother was always telling the girls to stay away from strangers. Especially old deros. But they never saw the old dero. Or at least, they never said they did. His mother was always talking to the girls about all sorts of stuff. Like cooking, cleaning, washing clothes, sewing and knitting and a whole bunch of other girl stuff. There were lots of dirty nappies to change on the youngest kids. The older girls were expert nappy changers. There were ten kids all together. When a new kid came along, all the girls were like mothers for a while. One day, they would all get married and have their own kids to look after. They talked about that stuff all the time.
The boys were kind of not noticed. Their father was not home that much. When he was there, he was most of the time drunk. He was always yelling.
Telling the kids to shut up. Do as you are told or else. Hating him was easy. But he never yelled at one of the kids. One of the oldest ones. He hated her too. He stopped listening to anything his father said. He had a way of just shutting down. He became very good at shutting down. Especially when his father was around. His father was such an idiot. His mother didn’t talk to him much. So, he didn’t bother trying to talk to her either. He stopped trying to talk to everyone. He felt like some kind of ghost. Living in this house with a whole bunch of strangers who he didn’t even know.
“Sounds like he needs a friend!”
That’s it again. Maybe it’s right. Maybe he does need a friend.
No one else would be his friend. No one was ever nice to him. Except nurses. He didn’t hate nurses.
“Of course, he needs a friend. Everyone needs a friend.”
Okay then. You can be his friend.
It was very convincing. Very persuasive. Got him, all right. If only he’d known.
When they were walking to school, it was always a bit behind. Looking at everything. The birds picking in the park. The little fish swimming in the creek. There were lots of lizards crawling along the bricks on the bridge. Trying to catch them was hard. They were so quick. Being late for school was normal. Always in trouble was normal too. Especially when it was there. The Catholic nuns hated him. Just like everyone else. From the bridge, the dero’s castle was about three of four metres straight down. You wouldn’t even notice, unless you looked really hard. He looked dow