Arrested for impersonating myself
By: The Spiritual Muse
Tags: Domestic Violence, Life Lessons, Poverty, Trauma, Crime

The courts incarcerated the kid’s psycho father, Toby into Leicester’s infamous prison castle.

It was 1996 and I itched for drama and with chaos carved in my veins it felt like my religion. I discovered you can get away with a lot, if you pay attention to the game.

I discovered the hidden benefits of 7 years with an unsuccessful career criminal. I say unsuccessful because Toby rarely had money and was arrested often. On the flip side, Toby satisfied his greatest needs, drinking and being inside women’s knickers, it’s all relative success, isn’t it? Toby used crime to survive and, in many respects, did well and he taught me a trick or two.

Toby was a menace and arsehole, but I missed his humour, spontaneity and fun. I missed our ‘moments’ of sweet innocence playing board games and watching children’s films. I have fond memories of us singing ‘Ben’ by Michael Jackson, bunkered by our belongings, curled up on our sponge.

The years tangoing Toby’s daily onslaught of cruelty left me bewildered and incapable of settling. I spent the days driving my girls to different shopping centres, if I wasn’t at work. The shopping centres were safe, lots of people and cameras. I carried the sleeping girls into the empty house at the end of the night and the absence of Toby’s exploitative custody, forced me to find alternative chaos.

Another red letter from the bank slapped my cheek, “Fuck it.” I thought I’m going to hammer my bank account with the twelve remaining cheques each worth £100. I was flat broke and barely covering the bills and reasoned, ‘I’m up to my eyes in debt and have nothing, so I might as well screw the bank and have something to show for it”.

Living below the bread line justified my decision. I didn’t have central heating, and it was 1997, not Victorian Britain. My house was unkindly cold, I wore a woolly hat and socks to bed, it was frequently warmer outside. The four gas rings in the kitchen were used to heat the house during colder months. I fiddle the gas meter, which made running the hobs 24/7 economically feasible.

Prozac soothed the raw sting in my veins and my mood elevated to a colourful state of consciousness. I increased the dose after discovering it made me feel sick, this unexpected bonus brought a sickening excitement towards cleansing through starvation. My protruding hip bones, and gaunt face made me feel successful, like Claudia Schiffer. Minus the height, looks, success, money and glamour. I was thin with candy floss hair and eyes lacking stories and begging a pitiful pardon from you all.

Rare Footage of the 22 year old me

Comments from colleagues about my disappearing body, I started to enjoy. Mum was concerned about my deterioration and I refused to acknowledge her bloody theories, fidgeting asking her to stop it.

Mum often asked, “Lex, are you okay?”

That question always irritated me.

“I’m fine” I snarled. I started.

“Why is your skin like that?” pointing to the broken skin on my shins, she asked. My scratching annoyed Mum, who regularly picked at her face. We were not that different, my mother and me.

I lost control and waltzed manically captivated by the idea; I was invincible. I was brave for the first time in my life and flew the dizzy heights of madness soaring the weirdest terrains of life, unaware of what loomed ahead.

My traumatised ego climbed from a shadowy wardrobe pushing for visibility. I gave up caring and trying to be good. What was the point? All I got was shit back. God had let me down, and I thought he was like all men, shit. The police told me I was a victim of a sociopath which I misinterpreted as permission to convert unknowingly to a narcissist.

Debts and threats sat in unopened envelopes on the table as I slammed the front door. I didn’t lock the door; I didn’t fix it after Toby’s final appearance. I had nothing left to steal, and with him locked away, it didn’t matter. My car started saluting this adventure, maybe God sanctioned this mission.

I drove to Nottingham and still without a license and was greeted by the city centre’s morning sunshine. My menacing smile exposed my delight at detonating my credit score, I was convinced I would be dead soon which upon reflection was wishful thinking. My aim was to leave Nottingham with shopping. I wanted to screw the bank by spending exactly £100 in twelve shops. I bought everyone gifts and matching underwear for myself. 2o year later this sounds pittance, it felt like millions to me back then.

I sniggered at my reflection laden with bags in shop windows, I felt human and beautiful. My philosophy ‘live by the day’ accommodated criminality well. Living in the moment soothed the aching neurosis of whatever beyond today was. The future was inconceivable for me, I struggle with time.

“Damn, oh shit, ohhh FUCK” security are following me.

Within seconds I’m swept into a private office and told to wait for the police who arrested me under suspicion for fraud. Toby acquainted me well with the law, I knew the drill and flicked pity with my eyelashes. When my Morse Code went unacknowledged, I squealed details of my abusive life. That fell on flat ears. My back story was of no relevance.

The back door of the police van swung open, and I joined a mob of obnoxious drunk men. This is an unexpected twist to the plan, I thought. It was mid-afternoon, and being the only female made me a target in this van, I deflected their filth with a deadly stare and snarling upper lip. Twenty minutes later, I’m herded into the station and facing the officer with a stern gaze. My little nose snarled in repulsion to the man I’m cuffed to. He ignored my disgust and informed his colleague behind the desk of my details.

“Name, please?” The officer behind the desk asked.

“She claims to be Alexia Elliott”.

Sounding childlike, I replied, “I am Alexia Elliott”.

“She claims to be Alexia Elliott”, said the policeman I’m handcuffed too.

Snickering, I said, “What? This is crazy. I am Alexia Elliott.”

I was under suspicion for impersonating myself, or fraud, as I was advised.

The cell resembled a telephone box with fewer bars, thick plastic instead of glass and a low perch to sit on. The cells were full and the panoptical scrutiny, didn’t stop the riotous sounds. The air thrived in the vulgarities and the noise didn’t bother me. Sat on the bench I knew how to kill time and switch off. A few hours later, I’m upgraded to a cell preferable to the former, and several hours later, I’m escorted to a small concrete yard. I circle the yard like a dog wanting to take a piss and return to my cell and contemplated, I’m no longer afraid, just confused.

Sometime later, a policeman with bored eyes led me to a dingy room for my interview. His pitiful attempt to flirt ignited fierce aggression which I hid in my tight fists. If only they listened to my backstory, they would have assigned my case to a female officer. I felt my tongue sharpening like a mighty sword behind my teeth while I stared through his eyes. The policeman fished through my shopping bags, scrutinizing me and making enquiries. He lay out my underwear on the desk, and his greasy smile slid across the table and made my stomach itch regret.

The underwear was reckless and self-indulgence, I’ve never owned beautiful lingerie and wanted to catch up with other women. I wanted to experience being a reasonable person and not being on the outskirts of life. I justified silently to myself. The shame burnt me and kept my gaze firmly to the ground. In the periphery of my vision, the policeman slowly examined the knickers, and I lifted my head to inspect him.

“Okay, I’ll let you off the charge if you put this on for me now.”

His perverted smile twisted my gut

“FUCK OFF!” I spat, and I’m escorted back to my cell.

Why fly into the world from the amniotic sea where life matter and mortality great us. We have a burning desire to discover who we are on our brief and precious transit in life.

“Continually trying to look on the bright side interferes with our finding the wisdom that lies in the fruitful darkness. Continually striving upward toward the light means we never grow downward into our own feet, never become firmly rooted on the earth, never explore the darkness within and around us, a darkness without whose existence the light would have no meaning.”

― Stephen Harrod Buhner

A chapter from my book on Domestic violence and personal power

Love Alexia X