'Last night I dreamed I went to Manderley again.' Nah, wrong dream, wrong story...read on.

Easy As Falling Off A Bike.
by Angharad & D du Maurier.
Part 50 (Crikey that's half way to 100 - Don't even go there!).

It is very difficult to drink a cup of tea when you are shaking, and I was shaking, big time. I began to undertand how someone with Parkinson's must feel and of course the more I tried to stop it, the worse it got.

Trying to understand what I had seen in my dream was beyond me, so I tried to take enough notes to show it to Dr Thomas, writing was no easier than drinking with my tremor. Once the tea cooled a little I felt happier risking pouring it all over myself. Instead I seemed to calm down a bit and drank it without difficulty. I then managed to make the notes on the dream.

I could not believe that I allowed my mother to be dragged off by demons to hell, although I was paralysed by my suicide attempt, or so it seemed. I couldn't believe that either. Okay, I've had thoughts, who hasn't? Especially so after my father beat me so badly, I felt really worthless and emasculated by it. However, the pills didn't work and after some help from Dr Thomas, I decided to fight back by exploring my female side.

It seemed that my suicide attempt in real life was the end of my being a man and from then on, I was reborn to become a woman. Well that's what I tell myself and it makes sense to me. Stella seemed to have been the catalyst and here I am, living my fantasy.

Then life intervened and my mother dies and I am at a loss as to what to do about it. At least I went and saw her just before she died. maybe she was waiting for me, I don't know. I've heard stories about dying people hanging on to see a favourite relative or friend, and then croaking.

So what about the hell bit? Was that me seeing her religious beliefs as keeping her suppressed, in a sort of hell of her own making? It'll do for now, but why was I killing myself? Was that axiomatic of the difficulty I've had accepting myself especially through my parent's eyes?

It was three in the morning and no place for deep psycho-philosophical self examination. I went back to bed after a wee, and it took me a while to sleep again. I dreamt again, this time I was with my father. I was his little girl and he was walking with me holding his hand, I was about seven or eight I suppose, and I felt totally in love with my daddy, he was so big and strong compared to little girl me.

We walked through a park and sat on a bench for a little rest, I sat on my daddy's lap and felt something hard under my bottom. I thought it was his hand but he had both of those around me. He was holding me very tightly and it began to frighten me, he was breathing very rapidly and making funny groaning noises. I began to cry and he got very cross with me, calling me, "A girly cry-baby."

I suddenly realised that I had turned from a girl into a boy and was still crying as he called me names, then he was offering to buy me an ice cream if I didn't say anything to my mother. He also told me that if I said anything, he'd give me something to cry about. I got the ice cream.

I awoke in a sweat, the images were so real, as if I were recalling them from life. I sat up in bed trying to remember, but all I could recall was my dad taking me for walks to the park, what we did there I can't recall. The realisation of what I was thinking made me rush to the bathroom and I threw up, it was too horrible to contemplate. He was abusive in that he would beat me for little provocation until I got older, but the idea that he was sexually abusive - it seemed wrong. No it couldn't be true. No I couldn't accept that, it was my overactive imagination trying to justify my decisions and blame it on somebody else. There was no one to blame, I wanted to be female full stop. No one else was involved until Stella arrived on the scene, other than the professionals.

But part of me wanted to know, did my father do anything underhand or was he pure and simply a bully? I had to know for certain, I needed to know and for that I would have to meet up with him. But whether I could ask him, was another matter.

I wasn't sure about seeing him at all, not without the agreement of Dr Thomas, but now I felt that I didn't want to discuss it with her in case it was some form of false memory. If I could get to the truth, then I could discuss it with her.

I made some more tea, resolved I would call my father although I would set the parameters for the meeting. I knew where I would meet him, a small restaurant which had two entrances and I would ask someone to come and meet me there an hour after, whence I would leave whether or not we had concluded the meeting. I would definitely go as Cathy and I would spare no effort to look as female as possible, he would accept me as I am or I would reject him for good and all. Now who to ask? Stella or Prof Agnew seemed the best bets. I would think about it. I wouldn't call him tomorrow anyway, let him stew for a day or two besides, I needed to get my self sorted out completely and my plans laid.

I decided that what I actually wanted from seeing him was to be seen as his equal, but as a woman equal. I wanted his respect, which was going to be a tough call and of course I wanted to ask about my dream.

I had no idea what he wanted from our meeting. Perhaps he was just lonely, if he wanted me to come back home, he was barking up the wrong tree. I had ambitions of my own and they didn't feature looking after my father. No siree, I was a career girl! Yes, I liked that idea.

It was now nearly five and getting light, I pulled on my cycling kit and with my bike, keys and kit set off for an early morning ride, there is nothing to beat them. They clear your mind and invigorate your whole body.

The air was cool and I could just about see my breath as I set off towards that hill again, this time I knew I could ride it.