Too Much I

By Simon Whetherill

BAM! It all changed.

Subtle . . . but a good invasive; spirit spoke. The path wouldn't mean the same to those around him. To them it only brought chaos.

With eyes wide open — any forward movement was often lit with fantasy. Couple that with fears and delusion it didn't promise peace . . . not yet anyway.

What is Mental Illness? How close can we get to that, and still call our path a Spiritual Rite of Passage? This story, quotes and poetry explore that theme, covering nearly three decades.

A Kundalini Awakening at thirty-one created psychosis like symptoms. The journey would only be managed with an open mind and simple steps; mired with difficulties.

Join the author, in his struggles to maintain balance in a world gone mad.

 

Main story: A bio of a simple man, 22,000 plus words.

Quotes, Poems and Song Lyrics: 6000 plus words.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Whetherill
• Release date: May 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224409464

Book preview

Introduction

2024: as I amend again, and for the final time the following story — I start to see the real value, in the events of the last thirty years of my life. The idea for a book has been an existent pressure, for most of those years. Considering poetry initially, and some of my favourite quotes — the deeper dive, took me beyond such simple pleasures. With the thrill of not knowing, the spiritual veil thinned; like a mist; dismantling for moments the reality I had known.

As I deconstruct that period, and the events that surround it; time has offered more insight. Please, bear with the discourse, and the interruption of the amendment, 2024. I think it best to open all doors — risking for a moment the loss of the narrative. I’m sixty now, and the essence of this work was put down ten years ago; while it was still fresh in my mind. The last ten years haven’t always been kind; and yet, they have been transitional to my wellbeing. Finally, as the mind quietens with age, and I forget what it was like to go through hell — looking back, is filtered through the deeper veil of understanding.

Sadly, for the most part, we dance around certain knowledge; and more than once, I’ve been warned, ‘to play my card’s close to my chest.’ All this has done has created more than my original fears, when really, all there is to do is document my case. In its entirety fact or fiction, you’ll no doubt filter this short story through your own screening — and that may not prove easy. For sure, the road to self-discovery is not well signposted; the sensitivity required not always something you aspire to; and yet time will tell.

Please read the following pages with suspicion — for if they are not the diary of a madman, they may just prove the undercurrents of a fanciful world.

For many years now, I have said of myself, I am a simple man — and yes in my own defence, this would be true, of the more mundane realities. My life, however, is much more complex than simple; and full of many different disciplines that serve me well.

As we now progress through ‘Too Much I’, some of you might find a common theme, in what is being related. Others won’t be able to see past the delusional quality of the writing. If ever I need a liberal dose of grounding, or to be told what a load of hogwash I believe in — I only have to raise topics beyond the so called normal with my daughter’s, and they’ll tell me.

In finding this short story, it’s a mystery; you’ve either been led to it, or you’ve had a copy thrust at you by a friend. Whichever way, there’s something for you in the following pages . . . even if that simply means, you looking at yourself a little closer.

If I was to write a book purely about my work experience, it would be based around my knowledge of reptiles: their husbandry, their use in demonstration, and even venom extraction. This is not what I feel compelled to write about. In choosing to write my story, I choose shaky ground; something more along the lines of fiction. There might not be any truth in it, and yet I live my life by this truth; so much so, ‘I can’t believe I’ve only done 341 words.’ Ha-ha, sorry about that. It does change the tone though, hey?

Laughing. When I reread what I just wrote, I find myself pausing; bewildered; becoming more aware of the shift in myself. This is what I want to write about, the story I wish to share — that shift in awareness, that would shape the latter part of my life.

Going back to my younger years, little did I realise how much life held. Sure, there were moments when I was amazed. I had a beautiful and loving wife and saw all of my daughter’s born. The first, after twenty-five hours of hard labour, would scramble upon her mother’s belly — I’d also done some dreamlike jobs.

Nevertheless, there was a definite lack of responsibility. Thoughts were something to act upon, despite the outcome; and the future, not really planned, would take care of itself. I see that part of my life as looking through a shuttered window, half asleep. I am sure, looking at some of my actions, people might say I was fully asleep — and that begs the question, what was I like?

Look! . . . Before I go further into this . . . I’ve just come from the latter part of the story; and recognise the need for privacy. As much as I have tried to find the right in every wrong and tried to disguise my friends and family; some will know who I am; and there’s no real need to know who I am. I am, as you are, in the wider circle; nameless, and lost among the masses. If not me, I owe the people who find themselves connected through this story; their privacy.

Through a Child’s Eye

Alright! . . . What was I like?

Looking through adult eyes might be a wee bit different than looking through the eyes of a child. With that said, I can still say, ‘my childhood was the greatest.’ I was born into middle class England in 1964, and by the next year, my parents would immigrate to Sydney, Australia, as Ten Pound Pom’s — my sister and I in tow. Being that year and a half older, my sister could walk the ship we sailed on at ease — getting lost among the crowds. She would later be found, sat amongst the foreign sailors; they’d caress her cheek and whisper, ‘Bella.’ The trust my parents had shown was a window, into the carefree parenting back then.

The only thing I can recall about England was being carried up flights of stairs, into pitch darkness; I have the sense I was still a baby. On a return visit to England when I was five years old, the school lunches were hot stews, full of chunks of meat, and very tasty — that’s about all I remember.

As youngsters in Australia, with the warmer weather patterns, we were always out of door’s . . . influenced, by our father’s love of nature.

Weekends were for adventure, and we’d be off into the bush, sightseeing. One of our favourite spots was Wisemen’s Ferry, on the outskirts of Sydney. There, we’d spot a myriad of wildlife. My father, by this stage, was bringing home the Eastern Water Dagon’s, and Bearded Dragon’s, for my sister and I to look at . . . one day though, he brought a large Diamond Python in. My sister and I had to stand on tiptoes to get a look at the snake — peering over the lip of the tea chest, it was housed in.

An event that would impact me, and fashion an interest in venomous snakes, started later, as a day like any other. We were out in the bush, on a campground at lunchtime, and the day was warm. There were families, scattered, all along the watercourse; eating.

A young, Red-Bellied Black Snake, decided to swim across the river towards us, causing absolute mayhem. Some people started to gather closer to the snake; shouting, ‘kill it, kill it’. I’ll never forget my father’s actions . . . he quietly walked out of the group towards it; and placed a sneakered foot, gently over it — in such a way as to pick it up safely. I watched fascinated, as he grabbed it behind the head, and carried it away to safety. How could something like that not affect a young boy already flooded with so much stimuli?

We had started to fish, at a place called Church point, in the Northern Beaches of Sydney. We could fit eight people — four of those adults — in a fourteen-foot Tinnie.

Sunk low, with the water lipping the edges, she was always slow going. The excitement was not tipping everybody out of the boat, when a fish was caught — or being swamped by the larger boats, as their wake threatened to capsize us.

We walked the parks and creeks, close to home, for our everyday fun.

By now, however, the mid seventies — in some of Sydney’s suburbs — would herald an increase in drug use. With the threat of drugs, filtering into the school system, my mother would prompt a move into the country; away from such influence.