You Don’t Have to be a Writer.

“You don’t have to be a writer to be a blogger, you just need to have something to say.”

I overheard this recently while going about my humdrum life, in my closed minded, protective, humdrum way.

A life I have gotten used to living recently.

A manageable life where inside remains quiet, letting the outside world thunder past.

I immediately paused for a split second, becoming aware of the tilting of my head in the direction of the conversation, desperately wanting to hear more and yet almost repulsed with myself for not walking away quickly enough.

Move away from the life that brings you back out of the quiet!!

Do not get involved!!

Do not connect, my brain screamed at me.

You were barely a blogger, let alone a writer.

And now you are neither.

Walk away!

‘You do not have to be a writer, you just need to have something to say.’

I rolled my eyes, a reflex, an escape mechanism, and promptly encouraged myself to carry on with my day.

I stalked away from the sound of the word ‘blog’ and off in the opposite direction completely.

I hurried around my desk, plonked myself down with a jolt, immersed myself back in to this new life I have created.

I sent a few snappy emails, answered a few telephone calls off a few angry people, visited my locker for a snack, fetched a coffee, drank the coffee, thought about the school run and ways in which I could possibly make it easier and less stressful for both myself and my son.

I thought about money.

I wrote a list.

I ticked things off the list.

I waited for the sun to set behind me, and as I usually do nowadays, left the office after dark.

‘You don’t have to be a writer…’

I briskly walked back to my car, across the badly lit car park, busying my mind with the evening ahead, and what I could do to fill it.

I drove home listening, as I always do now, to the TED talks on my bluetooth speaker, talks about Impact, Parenting, Leadership, Medicine, talks about all different walks of life and of the emotions attached, and how we deal with them.

Noise.

Other people Shining, Teaching, Sharing, Loving, Living.

Noise. Any noise really.

But not music.

Never music anymore.

As music is one of the unwanted keys to everything, and everything is what I have been striving so hard to avoid.

‘…You just need to have something to say.’

I have arrived home over the last few weeks, key in the front door, living my humdrum life, like I now do, in my humdrum way.

Quiet, Faffy, Calm, Manageable.

I have eaten the dinner usually waiting for me, blankly and without feeling any emotion, read Addison his bedtime story and kissed him goodnight, and finally and thankfully sank in to bed, book at the ready to dive in to, film to mindlessly immerse myself in, sleep – the illusive elixir always there to greet me if I scamper and crawl hard enough towards it.

‘You don’t need to be a writer… you just need to have something to say..’

Frustration in abundance that all the while, this inconspicuous little bastard of a phrase has been creeping around the back of my brain and occasionally setting off an electric spark in my heart, nibbling away at my apathy, not so gently jostling me towards the place I do not want to have to face.

‘You don’t need to be a writer to be a blogger. You just need to have something to say.’

It smacks me across the face. Hard.

If Apathy is my Fire Exit, Writing is my revolving door.

Writing is my return to the charred remains, a way to go back and visit the scenes of the casualties, that make up the different jigsaw pieces of my life.

But I haven’t been ready, I have to be ready.

A place I can dip in and out of, I can visit, and when the going gets too tough, can skirt back out around the edges of for a while.

Dancing the avoidance dance, slipping back in to my humdrum life.

A life that has recently raised up like a whale out of water, and swallowed me whole.

I don’t want to write. As I am waiting for the lift.

I have nothing left to say. As I am pulling out a smoke.

I will live this humdrum, I will not think outside of this circle, will not dare to dream, feel the elation of the words going down on ‘paper.’

I will not suffer potential embarrassment of opening up. I will fall back in to obscurity. Disappear.

So aloof I do not even know if I can be genuine with myself anymore.

I have nothing to say. As I am pulling up to the petrol station.

I have said it all. As I am pulling Addison’s jumper over his head.

How have I contained myself in this Tupperware box, self preserving for so long, without noticing I have been gasping for air.

Or maybe I have known, and have subconsciously and studiously avoided the return, fearing for my own stability when I do.

What could I say? As I reach the speed limit.

Emergency Exits can definitely be useful in emergencies, but I think it is time to face up to the decisions I have been making, and push on that revolving door.

The one marked, Time to Reflect.

And write.

So here goes.

I think I may have found something to say.

I am not a writer. As I sit down to write.

I am a full time mother, a wife, a team manager, a therapist, a friend, a sister, a person with incredibly low self esteem, a person who loathes and loves technology in equal measures, a person who loves laughter, gets hurt easily, has made some utterly idiotic decisions recently and also some pretty good ones, I am a coffee drinker, a procrastinator, a scaredy cat, a regretter, a drama queen, a clinical depressive, a fighter, a giver upper, a clown, a bitch, a daughter, and I am also a blogger.

And I do have something to say, after all.

Even if I am only saying it to myself.

Lessons in Unconditional Love.

‘I hate you!’

‘I Actually HATE you!’

This week my son’s school are participating in anti- bullying week.

‘You are horrible and mean! And believe me when I tell you mummy, I am never CUDDLING YOU AGAIN!’

And I’m so glad they are doing this y’know, because it REALLY seems to be having a positive impact. (Kill me. Kill me now.)

‘You are a cruel poo face!!’ (Did he just essentially call me a shit head?!? TO MY FACE??)

The last part of this abusive monologue is shouted at top volume and with full force, body stiff, little shoulders aimed towards me, spit flying from his little mouth, little fists bunched up in rage, from the bottom of the stairs, where he is busy over gesticulating and very dramatically strapping his Velcro shoes, unfortunately on to the wrong feet.

I pause, debating whether now is a good time to shed light on the shoe error, the wind completely knocked out of my sails.

Practice patience, practice patience, that’s what Supernanny says isn’t it?

Practice patience – do not raise your voice.

Speak in low tones, communicate effectively and with clear objectives.

Set realistic goals.

‘Addison you absolutely can Not go to school in a pair of lightening McQueen Y front’s and an ankle length superman cape.’ I begin, giving Barry White a run for his money.

‘For a start, it is freezing outside, much too cold for you to be showing off your knobbly knees, superheroes get cold too you know! So you need to wear your uniform because everybody else will be. Now please stop shouting at me, say sorry to mummy, and let’s have a cuddle.’

‘NO! I HATE YOU!’

Ok, well I tried.

I retreat to the bathroom and shove a little mascara, which comes out of its aero dynamically shaped tube, dried out and yet gloopy at the same time, on to my hurt features. (Mental note to self – need new mascara in less phalically shaped container incase I suddenly decide to stab myself through the heart with it.)

I take a another deep breath.

He has never told me he hates me before.

‘Daddy is my favourite! I love him! Not you!’

They are just words, he doesn’t know what he is saying, Practice Patience, ignore the bad, congratulate the good. (Mental note to self- try this with the Irish one.)

But,

Ouch.

7am and… Ouch!

My heart hurts.

According to our official noticeboard (the tattered letter that is secured to the very battered fridge door, hidden at the back of the kitchen) all of the children in Addison’s school, including reception, and therefor him, are taking part in ‘many’ anti-bullying activities throughout this week, culminating in them all wearing their own clothes on Friday.

I idley wonder, as I grab my shoes and thump down the stairs to join him, now lying on his back, pounding his feet against the front door, if these ‘activities’, include not telling your overtired, mildly depressed mummy, who spent half the night rubbing your shins (growing pains at a guess) And then bleary eyed, rose from her pit like the undead at Dawn’s crack, to put the heating on so your little feet wouldn’t be cold as you come down for breakfast. Slaved over your packed lunch- being sure to cut the crusts just how you like them, ensuring butter distribution was perfectly equal and finally and thoughtfully hung your socks and uniform on the radiator so they’d feel snug when you put them on – that you hate her and she smells like poo.

The issue is this.

Addison is convinced today is ‘Superhero day’ and having checked (so convincing is he, in his confident tirade) by ringing the over worked and underpaid receptionist at the school (the very same lady who I have now cried in front of on 2 occasions and clearly thinks I am mad) I can also confidently confirm today isn’t actually superhero day at all.

The tantrum, if that is what we are calling it, (emotional abuse seemingly sounding a tad harsh – although it feels that way!) got worse in the car, and no amount of straight talking, avoidance techniques or reminders about Father Christmas watching could get him to stop crying and/or insulting me.

‘I am heartbroken mummy. You have hurt me so deep. You were my best friend. Your bottom is huge.’

Ouch.

Kick me while I’m down why don’t you.

Ok. Be the parent. Be THE parent.

‘No Addison, I am your mummy,’

Calm voice – no shouting – patience, practice patience.

‘I love you very much and for this reason amongst many, mummy will not bring you to school in December in no clothes! DO NOT TAKE THAT JUMPER OFF, PUT YOUR PANTS BACK ON, GET BACK IN YOUR CAR SEAT! NO! PUT YOUR BELT BACK ON!’

Breathe.

As we pulled up in front of school however, there was a truly unbelievable transformation.

In a split second my screaming, devastated banshee devil child, magically evolved in to a butter wouldn’t melt model photo frame – esque contented child.

‘Lucas! Lucas!’ he shouts joyfully, all of a sudden snapping out of devil child while banging merrily on the window.

‘Quick mummy,’ he turns to me pointing, ‘there is Lucas! Let me out please, he is my friend!’

Smiles, waves, happy happy joy joy little boy bounces in to school.

‘Bye!’ I shout at the door, rather hoping for a cuddle.

He glances over his shoulder at me, in acknowledgment, but doesn’t respond.

And he is gone.

In to the part of his life I know little to nothing about.

I knock on the classroom window tentatively as I walk back past the main school building, on my way back to the car.

He glares at me.

I point at his shoes.

‘Wrong feet!’ I mime from behind the thick glass, sending him a loving smile, a smile I am hoping he will receive, as a peace offering.

He looks down, turns his back to me, sits down and begins the process of changing them over.

I walk back to the car dejected, preparing myself for the busy work day ahead.

I hope today’s anti- bullying activity focuses on compassion for mummy’s, but somehow, I doubt it will.

Tonight, if I am home before bedtime, I shall ask for an apology, and see how far that gets me.

They are only words.

He doesn’t mean them.

Only words.

My bottom really isn’t that big.

No Big News.

I have been actively reading around.

Researching, if you will. (Mental note to self: add research and development, to CV.)

And not so randomly either. (Mental note to self: add focused, to CV)

If you were to check the search history on my iPad, and I, like my husband often does (much to my delight), had forgotten to clear the search history (Seriously Irish one? You are looking to improve the performance of the boiler, Again??? Just pay the damn energy bills!! It’s winter!!) For the last week, you would most likely find the following search terms.

• How do first children cope with the birth of a second child?

• How do mothers who completely and utterly lost their tenuous grip on reality and fully lost the plot during the first year of their children’s lives, fair, once the second child comes along?

• Can you rip your bum hole open twice?

• Can you take medication for animal inspired auditory hallucinations, while pregnant?

• Cheap Disney world holidays.

• Is gin taster a real career?

• Can you still get pregnant with a marina coil, while taking the pill, and point blank refusing to have sex?

The search results vary. (And bizarrely tend to include a lot of monkeys.)

My pregnancy test results don’t vary.

Negative.

Negative every single time.

Unsurprisingly.

(Mental note to self: Remove calculated risk taker from CV.)

And yet I still buy them and pee on them, in the hope the decision will be taken out of my hands.

I am terrible at making life decisions you see, just awful.

And as much as I hate it, I prefer it when other people make them.

By other people I don’t mean the Irish one (he wouldn’t dare. Put the damn heating back on!!!) I mean, the universe.

I am a procrastinator, a worst case scenario jumper, a ditherer, and then ‘maybe we should have chosen the other option’ type person.

Mother Nature I have found, isn’t, she makes decisions and sticks to them.

‘I shall immediately and without consideration rip her undercarriage to absolute shreds!!!’

And it has to be said, that’s kind of admirable.

She just goes for it, wand in hand. Hair and dress billowing out behind her, or whatever.

But, alas, her customer focus isn’t what it once was, and therefor I am being forced to make this decision myself. (She’s probably ignoring me after my complaint letter, in fairness.)

Even so though, It is a weakness this dithering, a huge one, and not one I tend to mention at interview stage all that often, and it holds me back.

I’ve not always been like this either, but it seems when I lost my mind, I also lost some of that unshakable positivity and faith that all will work out for the best.

It’s left me a little scared.

It’s left me not really knowing my own mind, my own worth, or my own strength.

My facebook timeline is litered with scan pictures and second baby’s, even some third babies, adorable new borns, huge happy families, birth announcements….
Well you get the picture.

And I kinda get the impression people are waiting for our announcement.

And here’s the thing,

I just can’t decide.

I can’t decide whether to remove all barriers, jump on him and essentially start trying properly (Let the humping commence!! Mother Nature may shout!) and let fate decide, or to allow myself to feel lucky I survived a terrible illness and a mentally challenging few years and have one beautiful, inspiring, adorable four year old, who I enjoy and love more everyday, if that’s possible, and allow that to be enough.

I know its not just my decision whether we try, but i kinda feel it’s important I’m on board you know?

That if we are gonna do it, I’m 100% confident it’s the right decision.

I’m scared I’ll go mad again.
I’m scared Addison will feel rejected if I do go mad again and also if I don’t.
I’m scared of not having enough money.
I’m scared I’ll end up bludgeoning the Irish one with a rusty fork during sleepless nights.
I want to go back to Disney world.
I want Addison to have a sibling.
I want to touch, hug and have a baby I can enjoy again, but this time without unbearable numbness and sorrow.
I love little humans. I want more little humans.

But I also want to stay sane.

I need to stay sane.

I could lose everything, and yet I could gain so much more if I don’t.

I need help.

How did you all you mothers with second? Third and fourth (God bless you all and your undercarriages) children make this decision?

And also- if Mother Nature ripped it once before, she’s unlikely to want to rip it again…. Right?

(Mental note to self: Add deluded to CV.)

In fact, you can just decide for me.

Do we do it or not?

SuperTato!

Oh Jesus.

Here I am.

I don’t know where to start, or even if i know how to.

It’s been months.

Basically,

I am back stood on the finish line, at Square one.

And I don’t mean in a poor mental health way.

I mean literally, I crossed the finished line, every finish line I could possibly find, all determined and ‘yes! Finally I know my own mind, I will embrace change goddamn it – no one can stop me!’…

But now, now that all the clapping and cheering, determination and acceptance is over, well, i’m all kinda like, well, that’s all good and well, you finished, but, now what the hell are you gonna do? (You idiot.)

This was meant to be a really deep post, at least I wanted it to be.

I dived upstairs full of gusto, newly dyed (ginger) hair flying out behind me, arse swinging from left to right, and grasped for my laptop.

I have things to say! I will not let this fear beat me!

I can write again and what’s more, I want to!

I have embraced change! No more confidentiality contract (that came with my old job) no more fear (that comes with the illness) and no more biscuits (we have run out.)

This lady will write!

It’s hard though, you know, trying to make a post deep and insightful, when your Irish husband is falling around drunk next to you with his best friend, (who ‘TANK GOD’ is only here 1 night) throwing out phrases like ‘beejesus whas the craig ’ and ‘ack theres no food in the press.’

Also, they keep turning Enya off.

How is a girl expected to be deep and meaningful with The SUGAR HIL GANG blaring out in the background. (I said a hip, hop, hippie to the hop, to the rhythm of the boogie, the beat!)

Addison is in bed reading a book about potatoes.

(Seriously. It’s called SuperTATO! And guess who bought it for him…)

He can’t read.

So when I say ‘Addison is upstairs reading a book about potato’s’ I actually mean ‘Addison is upstairs staring at a picture of a potato in a cape.’

It’s educational stuff.

He should be asleep by now but I don’t blame him for being awake, the noise levels are reaching ‘paddy festival’ limits.

At some point in the proceedings 500 miles will be played, let’s face it.

I feel like I may need to fling some mud at them both shortly, maybe twat him with a welly.

So Anyway, where was I?

James, my comforting and trusted therapist has left two voicemails for me this week.

I have been avoiding him with enthusiasm, in a superhero like manner.

The anti therapy potato hero, if you will.

All I need is a cape and I’ve nailed it.

SO. Back to the point.

This year has been nothing but change you see, and so far I feel powerful, strong, fearless…

I have moved from the longest home I ever lived in, to a house with stairs.

I have never lived in a house with stairs before. (Honest!)

I was extremely excited about this, until I had to hoover them, now? Not so much.

I had all my hair cut off in a bob.

I was extremely excited about this, until The Irish one mistook me for a lampshade, now? Not so much. (WHY? WHAT WAS I THINKING? MY HAIR IS TOO HUGE TO BE SHORT! I KNEW THIS!)

I stripped my hair of the black. (I went to a tiny festival in town and some stranger approached me, and I quote here ‘You are the oldest but brightest goth I have ever seen.’ Aaaaaaaand I am done with the black hair!)

I was extremely excited about this, I imagined myself youthful, with blonde long tresses, sun kissed skin and a size eight.

I now have bright orange hair the consistency of cardboard, I am more death kissed than sun kissed and lets just say the 2 stone i put on working at the Trafford centre, did not wash out with the goth. (I actually think I currently do a very good impression of Li’Lo Lil – if you remember her, from Bread.)

and Finally I left my job.

No more working for Apple.

That is HUGE.

I was so unbelievably happy there.

I start my new position in 3 weeks for a new company.

I am very excited.

I imagine myself a little between Demi Moore in Charlie’s angels 3 all suited, but minus the gun, and Working girl, all stressed and a red hot mess.

All size 8 with long blonde hair and killer heels.

So let’s see how that goes. (Did I mention I am currently 14 stone and have hair the colour of Fanta?)

I just know this is the right move for me, though.

I loved my time at The Fruit Shop, it was a means to an end.

I needed to get better and the role there allowed me to do so.

I feel better.

I am shit hot with technology thank you very much and now I want my career back.

But you see, I am avoiding James currently because I still feel powerful, even after all the feck up’s, the change, the move, the tears and the fear.

I am still smiling. Still striding forward.

Sure, I have my down days, but I recognise them now for what they are.

Down Days.

Not step backs.

Not the end of the world.

I am capable.

SO Then remind me again, why you are avoiding James?

Well,

Because Addison is starting school in september, and if he even mentions that, then this house of cards I have precariously built, may come tumbling down.

It is the big change I am unable to face.

And yet somehow I will have to.

I don’t want my baby to leave me.

(And yes I know he needs to. I get that he’s not always going to be fulfilled and happy just staring at drawings of potato’s. And yes I understand the reasons behind why someone needs to teach him to read and write, and count and stuff, but…. but….. )

Oh for Feck’s sake!

My Irish (insert swear word here) has just spilt a family sized bag of crisps all over the stairs.

And now he is apologising while walking all over them.

Kill me now.

Actually no,

Someone Pass me A BLOODY WELLY!

(To be clear- I ADORE ‘most’ of the Irish ones friends and they all know it. This post was intended as a funny comeback. Prendo I love you.)

Another Baby.

‘Do you think it is about time we start trying for another baby?’

 

 
The gap between this sentence and the last, is appropriately proportionate to the gap I left before answering the question.

I have gotten used to huge gaps since the last time I had a baby.

Huge gaps in memory.

Huge gaps in conversation where I have been completely distracted by my three year old showing a man in the post office his willy and nuggets.

 

And lest us forget, huge gaps in my anatomy too.

 

I stop walking.

My brain goes in to panic mode.

Alarms, sirens, bells, whistles, actual sympathy pain in my vaginal area.

He is casually checking the price on a huge box of Frosties.

Addison meanwhile is attempting to climb up the shelving unit making a beeline for the jelly.

‘The child, the child! Stop the child!’

He whips his head around just as an avalanche of Rowntrees cascades to the floor and our son lets out a banshee wail.

‘Why didn’t you stop him?’ The Irish one shouts flustered grabbing one trainered foot of our three year old and dragging him out from beneath the foray. ‘You were doing nothing!’

Doing nothing?

‘I was in labour again!’ I want to shout.

I was up at 3am counting out formula scoops, searching for my sanity under 40 million Muslin cloths, sponging off dried baby vomit with a sponge smelling suspiciously like arse.

I was prodding my empty bump and hoisting my boobs off the floor so i could pick the scabs off my nipples and consider letting the baby chew on them again.

I was back feeling guilty about wanting to walk away from it all.

I was god damn wetting my knickers in front of my mother in law because I accidentally had the indecency to sneeze!

I was trying to erect a pram the size of Albania, made entirely from unbendable and unforgiving finger size catch holes, while also single handedly burping a colicy baby, leaving wet patches on the front of my tent top and trying to hold a conversation with my next door neighbour who was wondering if we could keep the baby from crying at 4am as he was obviously trying to sleep.

I was losing pretty much all of the skin off my fingers strapping him in to the car seat, only before having to immediately unstrap him, as he unceremoniously shit up to his neck.

I was wiping yellow chutney like poop off my eyebrow and inadvertently smearing it inside, yes INSIDE, my mouth.

I was skint! I was back searching through the grit under the sofa haphazardly hopeful that I would find a single pound coin I could spend all on myself. A whole pound just for me!

I was running back and forth between bedrooms in a blur of ill mental health, to check the child had not been stolen by Ant and Dec.

I was unsuccessfully trying to squeeze myself back in to my pre pregnancy jeans, my legs turning blue from the lack of oxygen, my muffin top receiving offers of advertising slogans from Gregg’s the Bakers.

I was turning down very generous offers of sex off the Irish one, using a spade and a body bag, to succinctly get my point across.

I was trying to sit comfortably with 18 stitches holding my undercarriage and bum hole together while also smiling and offering the house guests all of my precious biscuits.

I was holding my child in my arms and waiting to feel the overwhelming love everybody told me I would most definitely feel immediately.

I was back being sectioned for Post Natal Depression.

I was falling asleep standing up bouncing my head off kitchen counters.

I was spooning coffee directly in to my mouth in the slight hope it had the same texture and taste as a long, uninterrupted sleep.

I was holding his bottom cheeks apart to help him pass wind (the baby, not the Irish One) massaging his chest and crying in to my snot covered onesie.

I was listening to the tumble drier.

I was searching for my sanity.

 

Doing nothing?

Another huge gap.

‘You ok?’ he approaches me warily.

Addison is back in the trolley, a plastic straw wedged in his sticky mouth, singing the Go Compare advert, at the top of his lungs.

I would really need to learn some nursery rhymes this time around, IF we were gonna do it.

If I could just give birth to a two year old I may consider it. (Lets be honest here, I have the gap to manage it!)

I adore Addison now.

I adore him.

He is my entire world.

But new born babies?

I find them so dull.

Do you realise they can’t even sit up?
‘You want to try for another baby?’ I shriek a little louder than first intended.

He pauses.

 

A teeny tiny gap.

A man gap if you will.

‘Well, not here in the cereal aisle at Morrisons OBVS,’ he jokes. (HE JOKES! HOW CAN HE JOKE AT A TIME LIKE THIS?) ‘I think we should at least probably wait until we get home.’

It’s not funny.

I didn’t laugh.

I have imposed a sex ban.

Oh drive me to hell on a unicycle.

The conversation is coming, and I don’t know what I want!

Selfish Selfish Suicide.

I think if I was ever to end up topping myself, mothers day would definitely be the day that pushed me over the edge.

‘Oh how selfish!’ the people that live around here (and have all the sensitivity of dog poo,) shout on a regular basis. ‘You mean she has killed herself? In rush hour traffic? Her poor family! Another one to jump off that damn bridge. The poor people trying to get home who are all now stuck in traffic too! How selfish of her. What a selfish way to die!! So Cowardly.’

Sometimes I walk away from these conversations desperate to turn around and pummel their closed minded faces in to mulch, such is my instability.

At other times, when I do have the stability, I do jump in, verbal fists flying.

How could I ever possibly consider the fact suicide is not selfish?

Because it isn’t.

Simple.

Do you honestly think that the Father stood at the very top and at the very edge of a 60 foot bridge, the high winds cutting in to his face, the dark night biting at his nose and ears, the tail wind of the cars zooming past behind him at 60 miles an hour, the distant sound of the freezing cold water below him, the twinkle of lights from far below, from the warm houses, as people settle down to have their tea, the feeling as with numb fingers he starts to let go of the handrail, to face his fall…

Or the Sister, sat on her unmade bed, the contents of a hidden stash of medication in a heap in front of her on the un-ironed bed sheet, heart hammering, glass of water at the ready, lips dry, hands shaking, counting and meticulously re counting, before grabbing hold of one capsule between her thumb and forefinger and gently but determinedly raising it to her lips…

Or the Son, the son who has researched on the internet, who has practised tying the noose knot four times but who still isn’t sure if it is tied just right to break his neck quickly, the son who climes up on to the bedside table and ducks his head in to it, taking a deep breath and …

Ceasing to exist.

The only option left.

You think those people are selfish?

You think their souls aren’t screaming out in anguish?

You think they aren’t scared?

You still think Mental Illness is a choice?

You don’t think they have tried a million fixes before this?

The feeling of plummeting in to nothing, the excruciating damage as your internal organs die, the harsh and unforgiving crack as you hear your own neck breaking, you think these are selfish choices made by ‘cowardly’ people?

How vile, dark and guilt ridden, how unbelievably sad and torturous must it be inside the head of the person considering something as terrifying as suicide, as their only escape?

You think the people who jumped off the 110th floor of the World Trade Centre’s weren’t frightened when they jumped?

Of course they were, you say.

But that’s different.

They had no choice.

Are you sure it is different?

They were forced to make a choice.

Burn to death or take a chance and jump, possibly to freedom.

What if the suicidal person wasn’t selfish, but duped by illness, in to believing they only had the same options?

Mothers day is the day I personally feel as if I am burning to death.

Irrational anger, sadness in buckets, shouting so loud coming from inside my head, I can barely hear myself think, guilt that bites chunks from my heart, chunks quickly replaced with self despising and cruel words of criticism, failure on a scale so big each time I blink, I cringe and wish for escape. Loneliness, isolation, a feeling of it never being over, or worth this much pain. Hopelessness, anger again, guilt at being pathetic, the shouting in my head, abandonment, grief, loss. Self hatred. Urge after urge to injure myself.

I suffer with Clinical Depression, I am lucky that it is only as dark as this, for 1 day a year.

I still have to sit and smile, eat and laugh, work and play toy cars, I still have to function, still feel embarrassed by asking for help when I should be so damn grateful.

I still have to be.

And then the day ends.

And I can crawl in to bed, exhausted and debilitated, under close observation, about to take a safe dose, of a tablet to help me sleep.

If I could get my hands on the whole bottle, I genuinely wouldn’t hesitate today, but the Irish One has learnt his lesson, and is stingy with his medication giving.

And caring.

If I felt this way everyday, and didn’t feel I could ask for help, or was telling myself I should just be able to get a grip, was struggling silently, I can easily tell you, I would have been ‘selfish’ (again) by now too.

Suicide is not selfish.

Nor is it cowardly.

Unless of course, the most important thing to you is not getting stuck in traffic.

And you have completely missed the point of being human.

Then yeah, I could totally see why you would think that way.

But that’s just my opinion.

Happy Mothers day.

A squirrel was after my nuts.

You know those globs of mascara that ominously appear in your eye triangle (you know the bit I mean right? I don’t know the actual medical term for eye triangle but you follow me right?)

Yeahhh you do.

No?

SO.

You put your make up on slowly and with great care, it takes ages and because of this maximised effort you think you look phenomenal.

While you continue to get ready to leave the house, you consistently return to the mirror a total of you 86 times, just to check it hasn’t slidden (slod? Slodden? What is the past tense of slide?) off your face while you were looking for your keys.

It hasn’t.

Today is a perfect make up day.

Winner.

You leave the house.

You get in the car.

The sun blinds you momentarily, so like hundreds of human beings before you, and no doubt as millions will after you, you take the appropriate course of action.

You blink.

Just like the other 74 thousand times you blinked post make up application.

This time was different though, but you don’t realise that.

So on you go on your merry way.

5 hours later, after a truly awkward business happening, you nip to the loo, only to catch sight of yourself in the harsh strip lit,  but horrifically clear bathroom mirror.

There are blobs.

Blobs so big Athlete could have written a song about them.

Big eye triangle blobs, akin to coal coloured sleep, protruding self righteously from the corners of your eyes.

The most humiliating thing of course, is that you thought you looked a million dollars and so have behaved as such, and yet, even though you saw at least four of your ‘friends’ on route, no bastard thought to mention to you, that you look like Adam Ant and you had better go sort your shit out.

You know what I mean now?

Well anyway.

I am pretty sure that each and every time I have a conversation with someone I need to impress, my mascara joins forces with those rogue white corner mouth sweat bits and no matter how much effort I have put in to looking like a goddess, I end up looking like a swamp tramp.

It’s not just my face that lets me down either.

It’s my ability to act like a normal human being. (Have you seen my wedding photos?)

‘What’s that on your arm?’

I blink lots and smile a little manically.

The mascara begins to clump and there is a bogey in my nose making it’s way down to say hello too, I can feel it. (Because why not? The bogey seems to jump around saying. The other two are at the party, why not a bit of snot to lighten the mood?)

Meanwhile I am silent and awkward, running through a list of possible responses.

‘I was playing violin with a carving knife?’

‘Next door’s cat is Wolverine?’

‘I got my wrist caught in a fishing net and unfortunately the fisherman had not kept his nets in regulation condition and so therefore I was tangled for quite sometime, causing some quite painful discomfort to my lower arm area?’

‘My husband tried to murder me with a pogo stick so I sliced my own arm off in a bid to use it as a weapon against him?’

Out of all the emotions I would usually struggle through in a day, coping with this god awful illness, it absolutely has to be said, that embarrassment is by far the worst.

As I sit here tonight in my Wonder Woman pyjamas (the shorts are blue by the way, they are ace! They look especially brilliant when I have had a drink and am running around the shared garden, in slow motion, OBVS, to the theme of the million dollar man.) I am feeling anything but wonderful.

In fact.

One may say, as I sit here burying my head under the sofa cushion, my not so wonder woman arse stuck up in the air, such is my need to hide my face right now, that I am ruminating.

I know normal is overrated but come on universe! Throw me a bone here!

Rumination.

They taught me about Rumination during my holiday in the mental hospital.

It was specifically brought up and discussed for my benefit.

Unfortunately however, it was brought up during the group session where one of the other inmates was trying to get my attention by piling tissue paper on my head and giving me repeated and most definitely unwanted wet willy’s. (Wet finger in the ear. – stop being dirty.)

Unsurprisingly I wasn’t paying much attention.

Rumination is defined as the compulsively focused attention on the symptoms of one’s distress, and on its possible causes and consequences, as opposed to its solutions.

Now, I totally get it.

‘I had an argument with a huge dog, but I am ok, the dog is worse off. It didn’t need to be put down, but I am fine now, so lets move on….’

‘Oh that cut on my arm? Shark bite. Great White actually… yeah. I was diving in the barrier reef on my lunch. So what time are we starting as I need to take my flippers off.’

Rumination is similar to worry except rumination focuses on bad feelings and experiences from the past, whereas worry is concerned with potential bad events in the future.

‘Pardon? Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that?’

‘I asked what have you done to your arm?’

The room is quiet.

I now have the attention of four important people.

I had hidden my arm too by the way, but like a complete numpty, had got warm when I saw them coming and of course, had pushed my sleeves up without thinking.

I should have just said I didn’t know how it had happened and moved the subject swiftly on.

Rumination. (To be sung to the theme tune of ‘Imaginaaatiiionnn’ from here on in.)

I shouldn’t have been wearing that skirt, it was too short.

Ruminaaaaaaation.

I shouldn’t have posed like an idiot for the photo.

I should have just acted normal and smiled.

I should just be quiet.

Ruminaaaaaaation.

I should just stop talking.

Why why why why am I such an ugly fat fantastical failure at everything I do.

Everyone thinks I am a twat.

Oh god what have I done.

Ruminaaaaaaation.

I need damage control.

There is no damage control.

Why is my mascara turning against me?

‘I have mental health issues and am currently experiencing feelings akin to suicidal thoughts. Except I don’t want to die. I want to cease to exist. To stop feeling. I cut myself with anything I can get my hands on as it dims the feelings of taking an overdose. If I die my husband will take my son to Ireland. I don’t want him to grow up more than 5 miles away from a Starbucks. It’s all costa in Ireland. SO. I can’t die, you see. I must live on.’

Nope.

Oh no.

No I didn’t.

Oh dear god.

No I didn’t.

He is stammering and looking awkward.

This has not started well.

And it did not improve much from there either.

But hey! At least I was honest right?

I am flying the flag for mental illness?

Oh I am so embarrassed.

Ruminaaaaaaation.

Not the best start to an interview. 

And also?

I pouted on the photo they took to go with my CV.

Ruminaaaaaaation.

Why oh why am I such a prick?

You wanna know what I look like when I pout?

Screen Shot 2014-03-23 at 23.07.27

 

I look like I am having a stroke don’t I?

Today can just shit off!