Becoming older, becoming wiser, not worrying as I did, did, did, how people perceive me, see me. Learning the secret of who I am, breaking the unconscious silence that has blocked the true vision of who I really am. Why can it take so long to discover our true identity? Why do we suffer in the pursuit of truth? Why is life painful? This blog is going in search of answers to these questions. Exploring DNA in relation to Epigenetics and how it controls our behaviours, environments we choose to live in, which direct and influence the development of our spiritual journey.
They’re talking about the world entering a new consciousness,
A new era of peace and harmony.
The Age of Aquarius is upon us,
However, for this to happen and become reality,
We, as the human species, need to grow and develop,
Healing our past traumas, becoming whole,
Then we can be reborn into this new earth.
It is true that writing is one of the best forms of healing. Getting thoughts out of your head and into the wider world allows you to share your experiences. It’s about overcoming the obstacle of fear and confidence, worrying that others may not be interested or may be judgmental about what you are writing.
I was fortunate to receive guidance while training as a Buddhist meditation teacher from the Abbot of the Temple. He told me, “When you succeed in becoming a meditation teacher, there’s something you should always remember from my teaching. If a hundred people turn up for your meditation class, that’s phenomenal—you have celebrity status. If seven people come, that’s good, too, because you can focus on each student and give personal advice and guidance, which will be very well received. But what happens when no one shows up? I like this class the best he said, because you can sit and meditate in peace and quiet without any distraction from the students.”
You can relate this to writing as long as you can read what you’ve written and find some solace in it, then it’s doing its job. You don’t need likes and followers if your aim is to offload thoughts from your head and use expressive writing to improve your psychological health. I use AI for editing, and as someone with dyslexia and ADD, it’s a lifesaver. It gives me the confidence to share my writing with the wider world, whoever wants to read it. Most importantly, it’s a way for me to explain myself; letting people read about me is much easier than trying to verbally articulate who I am.
Writing can be a powerful tool for healing, self-discovery, and connection. It allows you to process experiences, confront fears, and find clarity. Embracing both the solitude and the sharing of your writing journey can lead to profound personal growth.
Be open, be vulnerable, be In Control and on your way to greatness, you may fall, but like the Phoenix rising from the ashes you shall rise again.
Before you embark on a journey of self-discovery, uncovering the past traumas that have shaped the person you are, as opposed to the person you might have become, be careful not to unearth aspects of your life that could trigger emotional turmoil and anxiety in the present day. This journey has taken me more than twenty years to unravel, but it has been in the last two years that I have dug the deepest to find the keys to those dark rooms that hold the secrets of my past.
Gabor Maté describes this process in his book Scattered Minds in neurophysiological terms; my prefrontal cortex never allowed me to access this emotional history. The process of discovering what I have uncovered in the last year was always there. I look back now and think, “Why didn’t I explore this years ago?” My subconscious mind was protecting me from painful emotions I was not ready to re-experience on a conscious level.
I like the idea that this is also a form of spiritual protection from guardian protectors, which some might call angels, ancestors from the past looking over me and guiding me on through this journey of self-discovery.
In the grand scheme of things, it took someone like Gabor Maté until his fifties to delve into his dark past, even though he was a psychologist. For the rest of us, it can be a perilous journey to embark on. If you’re unsure how a journey like this may affect you, have a professional backup ready to help with any emotional trauma that may resurface.
This is something I should have had in past episodes of my life when I got into hot water that burnt my emotional state, but I have a history of not doing what is right. Many times, I have come out of situations where trauma has developed into PTSD, and I’ve always managed by myself. I don’t recommend this path of self-healing to others but if you decide this is the path to take, I hope my experience can help in some way. Always be careful when confronting past trauma.
I relate my life as a jigsaw puzzle. The jigsaw puzzle represents the emotional complexity that comes with trauma. Each piece evokes different feelings and assembling them requires me to navigate through my various emotional landscapes.
My mum left me with some interesting pieces that I have kept in the box, ready for the day when I feel brave enough to put the picture together. There are pieces that stand out: one has “nursery” on it, another has “court case,” and words like “whore” and “prostitute.” There’s also one with “daddy’s name,” and the most prominent one says, “We have to forget that dad; you have a new one now, so never talk about him again.” There is a picture on that piece of me sitting on her knee as she whispers in my ear.
These pieces of the jigsaw relate to three important links in my story. My mum told me she had to put me in a nursery at a very young age dropping me off at 7am in the morning and picking me up at 5pm when she finished work, but we had each other at the weekend. I’m talking about being months old, not years. The reason for this was that she took my alleged “father no name” to the National Assistance Board to try to gain some financial assistance. As a single mother, she had little or no chance of getting any help. In fact, the stigma from her daring to stand up and do what she did would have brought more financial devastation to her suffering. The gossip and shame in small communities back then spread like wildfire.
It was a devastating action she took, as it resulted in her being called a “whore” and “prostitute” by the overseeing panel. This ordeal was made more painful as she had to take me to the tribunal hearing, and “father no names” wife showed up with two more babies not much older than me. The same woman turned up at my nan’s door another day with those two babies screaming at my mum to stay away from her husband. It was a proper shit storm and I’m witnessing all of it.
His name is on one of those jigsaw pieces, this one a proper golden nugget “Luby” she went as far as telling me it was a special spelling of the name that I could find in the book Angela’sAshes by Frank McCourt. And there is the piece that has a prison on it. I’ve found his name in articles in the Liverpool Echo (1960 – 1964) relating to his violent history, that he was prosecuted for and went to prison. By all accounts he was an angry man you didn’t mess with. And there is the very sad piece when she locks his memory away, the day she tells me I must forget that man as I’m getting a new dad and we should never talk about him or see him again. I have a vivid memory of that conversation sitting on her knee in my nan’s parlour, I can still feel the fabric of the settee; I was three and half years old.
As I get through this and find solace in what I’m accepting as the truth, there has to be a day when you just accept this is how it is, I’m becoming lighter and feeling freer to go forward and be the person I want to be. I don’t want those dark dank memories to linger and fester more and more each year as I get older eating away at me, because you know why that is, because it wasn’t my fault; I had no control over those times that created the person I became. But I have control now to make a change for the better.
We need to start at the beginning of me. I arrived in this world at approximately 9:15 AM on Thursday morning, January 18th—an intrepid, courageous little thing entering a landscape marked by division and chaos. “A bastard born into a bastard world,” sums up my introduction to the outside world. It was a cold, miserable day when my mother squeezed me into the harsh reality of life.
My birth certificate bears the name Kenneth Oswald Calland, with my mother listed as Elsie Margarete Calland. But my father’s name? Blank. “Father: No Name” was the first cry of my existence, a haunting echo that has followed me throughout my life.
Some say that as babies, we see and hear everything. Our souls remain intact from a previous life; some even remember the moment of conception. Spooky, isn’t it?
It’s All in the Name
The Name, The Name, The Name—if I repeat that enough times, it loses its meaning. What is the name?
Get ready for this one—it can get confusing. I’ve legally changed my name through deed poll three times. The first time was when I was eighteen and needed a passport. I realised my name hadn’t been changed after my stepdad adopted me, so I became Kenneth Oswald Baker, known as Kenny Baker. I wasn’t truly a Baker; I never bonded with the Baker family. I felt like an anomaly, a blip that didn’t fit in. They were always polite, but I wasn’t one of them. At family gatherings, I felt uncomfortable way back then never really went to any Baker gatherings, there were lots of Calland get togethers for all types of occasions, it was a proper party tribe, but i always felt like the little black sheep, bleating and getting drunk. Alcohol was my perfect friend and soother.
I got on with it and it all seemed fine until I got to my mid forties and became curious about the origins of my name, coinciding with my interest in my biological father. I asked my mum where my names came from, especially Kenneth—why did you call me Kenneth? Her response was bewildering: it was fashionable at the time of my birth. And Oswald? That was an uncle who died down on the docks just before I was born.
I was never comfortable with the name Kenneth—or Kenny, as I was known. It didn’t fit; it wasn’t me. So when my stepdad passed away, I decided to change my name back to Calland. I wasn’t a Baker—no bloodline or DNA connected me to them—and I sought balance and understanding of who I was. In the process, I made Oswald my first name and abbreviated it to Oszey. I wanted to drop Kenneth entirely, as it held no significance, being named after some fashionable celebrities from the late ’50s and ’60s.
To my surprise, my mum got very upset about my desire to drop Kenneth, Kenny . She made me promise to keep it as my second name, saying I would always be her Kenny. So, I became Oszey Kenny Calland.
During this time, I grew more curious about my biological father. I eventually connected with someone who knew “Father No Name’s” family and got to meet his sister, my auntie. I discovered though this brief but informative meeting that I was named after my ‘father no names’ deceased brother, Kenneth Luby, who died at eighteen in 1945, fighting for the British army. He’s buried in Allerton Cemetery, where many of my mum’s relatives rest. Spooky. I also got a lot more insight and information on the relationship that my mother and father had and how it affected both families and the distress they caused by their relationship, creating me in the process.
This period was intense as I sought to uncover my roots while caring for my mum, who was dying of a terminal illness. I hoped she would open up and reveal the full story, but she only shared little gold nuggets, taking the unresolved fragmented story of my life to the grave. My psychological state took a battering during this time—juggling being a full-time carer, trying to discover who my true father was and why there was such a shadow history to it all. And then grieving the loss of my mum, the now-missing link holding the keys to my past. I became an emotional rollercoaster becoming the hard man with no emotion just a will to survive and move on. Six months after my mum passed away, I found myself living in Thailand—“the great escape.” More on that later.
Everything went quiet after that in my search for Kenny; I simply became Oszey, never using Kenny again. It was eleven years after my mum’s death while at university in Cheltenham that a good friend, Mary, offered me a chance to live in her cottage in Sligo, Ireland, for a couple of months. It was there that another name change began to emerge. I was in an isolated location perfect for meditation and reflection when I met Jeanie, a lady living in the end cottage, who was into genealogy. Jeanie opened the doors of inquiry putting the light back on to help me see who I was.
I discovered that the name Calland originates from Ireland; my mum’s family were Irish—a fact never discussed in the Calland family. By Jeanie’s reckoning, I had Calland family history in Roscommon, ten miles from where I stayed, and ‘father no names’ family connections ten miles the other way in Sligo.
Through extensive meditation and inner exploration, I decided to create a new name for myself, letting the old one go. After researching the psychological effects of names, Sonna Aronaran was birthed—the Happy Loner. With no family left, all ghosted, it felt perfect for me.
I recently discovered that the name Oswald comes from my Grandad, John Oswald Calland—a man my mum physically and mentally fought with, especially when he came home drunk from the pub. She would carry me from where I was sleeping and run out the other door to my aunt’s house on the next street. I believe her when she told me she fought with him, taking punches and punching back, but he never laid a finger on me. My Grandad was the only man I loved; I cried at his funeral.
“No one needs to take the blame, as the blame comes from the guilt and the shame”.
That last post broke the insecurity mold, and I’m now running freely in the field, skipping through the daisies. This blog, as mentioned, is about me and my quest to find out who I am in this world. With that in mind, I’m not delving into present-day relationships with siblings, relatives, or past partners. There’s no need to poke around looking for past drama or to blame anyone for my chaotic existence or for not telling me the truth about who I am.
From what I have recently discovered about my dark early days, most people close to me might not have known the deep, hidden secrets that were locked away so many years ago. This blog will focus on my relationship with my father and mother—the ancestors whose blood and DNA contributed to who I am.
I’m delving deep into my neurodiversity, exploring the traits and disorders that unknowingly influenced my relationships. Those odd behaviors I had, which I didn’t see but others did and judged me for, are now coming to light. I thought I was the “normal” one, always wanting to be right, but looking back, I realize that many things about me were wrong.
I’ve come up with a descriptive phrase for myself: “simply complicated.” In reflecting on my life, that phrase couldn’t be more apt.
Now, let’s squeeze the juice from the lemon: what set all of this in motion? From what I am uncovering, it all stems from the situation surrounding my arrival in this world—the chaos and mayhem that ensued from my conception. For a long time, I had to refer to my father as “Father No Name,” since his name is not on my birth certificate. He was present during those early years; I know that, even though I can’t remember him. The images of him and his voice are locked away in the trauma room.
However, I am going to reveal him. I’ve uncovered a lot of information that proves he is my father, and I’m moving forward with that evidence. Some people might take umbrage with my decision to disclose this information, but that’s tough, isn’t it? This is my story—my life—that has taken sixty-four years to piece together, so what needs to be said will be said.
“Umbrage”—a fancy word from a skinny, rough scouse kid who didn’t go to school much. And that’s something I’m discovering: I come from a background of highly educated people. There’s much more to come about epigenetics and how this has shaped my development.
Here’s something interesting about confidence and ability—well, I’ve found it interesting. I have had a block regarding my ability to publish a blog, and it’s been due to that first picture I put up on the first post—the very biblical one, “Finding The Truth.” It’s weird because I created it with AI and was never comfortable with the image. So why have I not simply deleted it??? I kept telling myself, convincing myself it was there for a reason, nothing to do with the Bible, and that there was significance in the symbolism of the moons and people.
Looking closely now at the image, it’s making sense, as this blog is about going back and finding the roots of my existence—where I truly come from, my Celtic, Druid DNA. What I have been going through is known as “creative anxiety,” where that fear and self-judgment have caused paralysis, procrastination, and a lot of self-doubt, resulting in a fear of exposure. It’s that fear of writing about personal experiences. And those personal experiences will be the core subject of the blog—a gateway to completing my book that’s been on the back burner for the last five years.
I’m working on separating creation from judgment, getting over the imposter syndrome, and allowing myself to be vulnerable and more open. This feels better already—being able to explain myself. Self-articulation has always been a problem for me; the ideas, thoughts, and feelings are locked up in my head, and the key has always been a problem when it comes to unlocking and expressing what I want to say. Just writing this blog, I can feel something has shifted. I’m on the move, riding through the fear. It’s all going to be okay; I’m jumping the hurdles and winning the race.
For me in the present moment i want to reduce the clutter in my mind. I’m currently traveling and staying at the Roots Institute for Wisdom in Bodhgaya, Northern India. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a monastic environment surrounded by Buddhist monks and nuns. This setting promotes Dharma teachings and mindfulness, and at the moment, there are respected Lama Rinpoches offering informative teachings on the Middle Way to freedom.
I didn’t plan to be here at this time, but it seems to be the perfect place to uncover how messy my mind has become and to navigate the chaotic thoughts swirling around in there. This is the perfect place for reflection. I initially intended to stay for just a few days, but I’ve decided to extend my visit to three weeks to see if I can declutter my thought process and settle into a more organized mind. I hope to establish a routine for my writing.
I’ve been here for a week, but I allowed myself to get distracted from focused writing by attending teachings from the Lamas. Unfortunately, I’ve caught a miserable cold, coughing and sniffling all over my laptop. Despite this, I’ve started to write and find some sense of order. The order is simply that I want to write; I feel compelled to get the words out, and something seems to be clicking into place. The distraction turned out to be a positive one, as it allowed me to connect with compassion and deepen my understanding of what I’m trying to convey in my writing. This blog can serve as a resource for others who may have similar trauma-related issues that have contributed to a neurodiverse mindset. In compassion, we can find forgiveness. The best way to cultivate compassion is through meditation. Reflection from a third-person perspective, often referred to as the higher self, can also be beneficial. When we allow ourselves to slow down and create an inner environment for stillness to arise, things become clearer.
The third-person perspective—our higher self—offers a balanced view that can lead to a transformative understanding of how past negative events have affected our current experiences. Identifying the root causes of trauma, particularly if it was inflicted during infancy, can be challenging. Deep-seated negative experiences may be difficult to access, but approaching them with compassion can facilitate healing.
Out Your Head 