Newton Knew.

“So, you stole it?”

“Yes.”

“And, two years later you sent it back?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it started to talk to me.”

A woman I mentor is struggling with knowing when to trust herself. An incredibly bright human. And colourful. But raised in black and white. She came to me to discover the magic in the spectrum of achromatic grey.

This was me. Back in the day. The extremist. An anarchist of edges. Living at the farthest ends of the continuum. And line. I didn’t take sides. There is only one when you reside in the counterpoint. Like Newton’s cradle. Constantly in motion. Unable to settle, find balance. Or the middle. The grey.

I spent time in institutions when younger. Both challenging and unenviable environments. But they met needs. I was in one for 168 days. It forever changed me, and my trajectory. I’ve never looked back.

In a favoured room there was a well-known prayer pinned to the wall. A dusty old A3 sized poster, frayed. Stained ageing yellow. It had mesmerising power. I had to have it. And thought about it all the time.

Weeks later, before leaving, I stealthy removed it in the dark of the night. I told no-one. Hid it in my belongings. Never spoke of it again.

Only those who’ve experienced an obsession with an unremarkable inanimate object, will understand this. It doesn't make logical or rational sense. With hindsight and objectivity, I could have asked the staff for it. They would have gladly obliged. But I didn’t.

Months later, I returned to Perth to start again.

I pinned it on my wall, feeling proud I had a literal piece of the past in my present. Like any symbolic talisman, it gave me hope. Until it started to talk to me.

Quiet at first. So much, I barely heard it:

“I wasn’t yours to take.”

I ignored it. Brushed it off. Justified I was too busy building a new life. It was hard. I deserved it.

Then louder:

“I’m not yours.”

The niggle of anxiety growing. The prayer’s power strengthening as mine weakened.

Until one day, hurrying past, I swear it literally shouted:

“You. Stole. Me.”

I felt sick. I knew I would never look at it the same way again.

This prayer of hope. This symbol of second chances. Which had diminished to a deep hatred and loathing. The antithesis of all it once represented.

Posters don’t talk. But my conscience does. And had been for a long time. It got louder the more I ignored, justified and rationalised it away.

I knew what I had to do.

Days later, I mailed the poster 14,499km back to where it came from. With a hand-written letter of admission and apology. I came clean.

And I felt free.

Trusting yourself isn’t about black and white thinking. Or deciphering nuances of grey. And lies, whether to yourself or another, don’t have colours.

Trusting yourself is about listening to what feels right. Within us. At our core. How loud the small voice within speaks, or shouts. These are the places we need to more readily seek advice, consult with and act from. Not social media. Not woke influencers. Not even family or friends.

My mentee didn't need my wisdom. She needed a mirror to see what was already there. A reminder to listen to the voice inside that wasn't shouting. But had started to talk.

And to ask the only question that matters: will I act on what it is trying to say?

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