I’m like, totally Vulnerable. (Are you?)

My legs are hairy.

Like really hairy.

Like hairy where you aren’t sure if there is actually skin under there anymore of whether you are slowly morphing in to a gorilla woman from the caves of the Outer Hebredi jungle. (Which is somewhere near north wales, according to my Sat Nav.)

The Irish one hasn’t noticed, which basically tells me one of two things.

Either he secretly has a penchant for cave women with furry shins, or it has been far too long since he got up close and personal with my knees.

Probably a bit of both to be honest.

But anyway.

I am telling you this because apparently, according to my therapist, I have this affliction where apparently, I put myself down in front of people and then laugh it off, because apparently I have this fear they will do it, and so if I get in there first and then I do hear an interject, I think it will be easier for me to shrug off.

Are you following?

An interject, just in case you aren’t aware (I wasn’t) is when somebody will say something to you like;

‘Oooo you look like you’ve lost weight!’ and even if you know it not to be the case, you automatically believe it, as why in the hell would somebody say it if it wasn’t the case?

Which is great if people tell you are skinny all the time (and like me, you then allow yourself a big mac on the way home, cos its put you in such a great mood and you feel positively waif like) but not so great if someone says something like, oooo, I don’t know….

‘You are over sensitive.’

And you laugh it off, cos you know you’re not.

You know you aren’t.

But… and this is the bastard thing about interjects… while washing the pots an hour later….you catch yourself…

Am I? Am I? Am I over sensitive? Am I over sensitive?

…You even put the sponge down for a minute while you have a proper think…

‘I must be. I must be!! Otherwise, why would they have said it, if it weren’t the case? Oh my god I’m over sensitive! I am such a dick!’

You knew at the time you weren’t… but… the sneaky interject… it creeps up on you…

And by the time you have washed the knives and forks (that he ‘forgot’) you have ultimately and concretely decided nothing is ever allowed to upset you again, because that person was right!!!! And you just need to get a grip.

Once upon a time…3 days later…

You are in a great mood, but then, out of no where, while you are busy thinking about how you may shave your legs tonight and maybe if he is very very lucky, the Irish one may get some, Tom the office plank walks over and…

‘What’s up with you today misery guts?’

… ‘Hey planky Tom!’ you respond, averting your eyes ‘No, I’m not miserable! I’m having a great day thanks!’ you sing as you walk away, muttering ‘dickhead!’ under your breath for good measure…

And fighting the sneaky interject…

You know you aren’t miserable; you even have lipstick on today!!!

But…an hour later, after one other person, who you actually like, has said something similar…

You put down your pen and..

‘Do I? Do I look miserable? DO I? Do I look miserable? AM I miserable?’

…You even go to the toilets to get a look at yourself in the mirror to check…

‘Oh my god!’ you think to yourself, ‘I do look miserable! I thought I looked ok today but I really do look miserable. I must do! Because why would they have said it, if it simply weren’t the case?’

And there you were thinking you were feeling great!

The sneaky interject, it creeps up on you…

By the time you get back to your desk, you have plastered on a fake smile so bright, you look like the village idiot and unsurprisingly… you are starting to feel completely and utterly miserable.

Shocking right?

Either I am completely weak… or I am not the only one life has this annoying effect on?

Hellloo?

Oh god.

I hope I’m not the only one.

So what was I saying?

Yeah!

Even if I am the only one!

It’s ok! Cos I have a plan!! I can beat the interjects!! (And I sincerely hope you join me!)

Basically, by telling you I have hairy legs (and have my hair tied up with a pair of knickers right now – god the Irish One is one lucky man) I am essentially guarding myself from interjects by not putting myself down, but by being honest and proud!

I am proud of every one of my crispy, stubborn hairs! (Honest…)

Apparently I should have gotten to know myself well enough over the last 32 years that only I, Lexy Ellis, should be able to control my own mind.

And I need to share with you my vulnerable side so that I get more comfortable with human contact (blah cringe blah) and ward off others controlling me.

So with that in mind… I share with you some therapy… honesty… cringe, cringe, cringe…

I am miserable but no longer psychotic. (DO NOT ARGUE WITH ME ON THIS ONE!) But sometimes I wish I still were psychotic, because when I was, everyone left me alone except when they brought me cups of tea. Now no one ever brings me cups of tea anymore. I miss that.

I hate shaving my legs and this makes me a bad mother. (Look I don’t know why ok? I just think if I was a good mother I would probably want to shave my legs more often, but I don’t… how do you get over the knee without slicing yourself? It’s a nightmare! Scabby knees aren’t sexy!!)

I am curvy and I love it (but call me fat and ill cry for a week…. Ok a month, maybe a year.) Ok, I don’t love it. Sometimes I wish I were really thin, but only so I could eat my way back up to a size 16.  Why do Diam bars taunt me so?

I can’t stand people who hurt others by telling nonsensical and cruel lies. Sometimes when somebody hurts me, I sing nasty songs to him or her really loud in the car and picture myself being interviewed on the telly about it. It’s actually fun. ‘No Oprah, I believed her completely, until I found out she thought I was a mug.’

I am all talk. Except when I am thinking, and then mostly I am analysing. Like, could someone actually swim to America from Blackpool? And, if I eat a donut and keep my eyes shut, maybe my hips won’t notice. And, did they really walk on the moon, or was that a cow in the background? What will Addison look like when he is 21? Will they ever invent a self filling car that doesn’t need petrol?

I love my son. And it scares the living shit out of me, because if anything ever happens to him, and he gets stolen from me, I will stop breathing.  I will actually fold from the outside in. The thought of this happening sometimes makes me want to die. Sometimes I wonder if this feeling is worse than the possibility of perhaps not having ever felt anything for him at all. Love is terrifying to me.

When I was younger somebody stole an important part of me. One day I will tell them this. I will be brave.

I suffer with clinical depression brought on from postnatal depression brought on from a life of not knowing I was missing something.

I AM NOT ASHAMED.

Right now, I am trying to think about me. It’s really hard! (See how I snuck the real stuff in there? DONT MENTION IT!! PRETEND IT DIDNT HAPPEN!!! ARGHHHH I HATE BEING VULNERABLE!)

I hate interjects, because one way or another, I usually end up believing them, but from today, I will try really hard not to.

I am a good mum. What I lack in money I have in love.

I am kind, friendly and loving.

Occasionally I am psychotic.

I take no sugar in my tea and love a nice chocolate biscuit…

Ahem.

You Can’t Dance with the Devil on your back. (So Shake Him Off!)

I am currently wearing tiny, frayed, daisy duke esque, denim shorts on a hot sunny day.

Not only am I wearing tiny, frayed, Daisy Duke esque, denim shorts, that my perfectly hard thighs look simply marvellous in, obviously, but I am also of course sporting bright white roller skates.

I am, in case you havent already guessed, also elegantly weaving my way, like a ballerina on wheels, around a basket ball court singing the lyrics to the 90′s classic ‘Its my life’ by Dr Alban.

Isn’t this what we all do when we get our period?

Ok, so I know im a bit late (10 years too late) to weigh in on that particular hair brain of an advert for Tampax, but … well…

I’m irritated, aggrieved and bloated.

And so if I wanna stomp around in my frayed, primark, denim shorts, my dimpled, flabby thighs sticking together causing what can only be described as rub burn, stumbling about all over the place on Addison’s roller skates in the living room, looking more like Daisy Duck than Daisy bloody Duke… then I will.

And so help you god if you try and stop me.

I have beef this month.

Big beef.

‘Lexy, you seem irritated’ my kind and beautiful souled therapist mentioned yesterday. ‘You are telling me you are fine, and yes, I can see the smile plastered on your face, you are positively all eyes and teeth today, but ooo, I don’t know.. Beneath it there seems to be some sort of anger? Something lurking? Would I be right?’

‘Nope.’

‘Ok’ he sits back, disbelieving my forced conviction, and fair play to him too.

After 12 long minutes of confluent stubborn silence I erupt.

‘Gina ford is a total idiot, the Tampax advert from the 1990′s was clearly created by a man and on what level is it ‘ok’ to comment on something you have no experience in? Tell me James. Tell me!’

‘Ok, so let’s start at the beginn….’ he tries to finish, leaning forward, a rue smile playing on his lips, before I rudely interrupt him, the irritation gaining momentum as it starts to roll down hill , towards the mental hospital inpatient admission forms.

‘Who wears roller skates when they are on their period? Who gets out of bed, realises they have come on, and reaches for roller skates? And who the hell is Dr Alban to tell me it’s my life?? I know it’s my life!! These bloody doctors, And she doesn’t even have kids! There she goes, going on about how I was supposed to have catapulted myself back on to the Irish one’s willy after 4 weeks, but seriously James, what does she know about torn rectum’s?’

‘I er, …’ he tries again, shifting in his seat.

‘Also, you know those new mental health adverts where the guy picks up his shoe and starts talking in to it when that bloke in the office asks how he is? Well that annoys me too, these adverts created by idiots are annoying the hell out of me!!’ I slap the side rest on my chair, excentuating my point, and lean back, glaring at him.

This time, he senses the pause, and says nothing. Wise man that he is.

‘People in work, keep asking me how I am ‘Howwww areeee youuuuu?’ before tilting their heads to the side, and clearly,  they don’t want to believe me when I say ‘fine thanks’ like a normal person, as clearly, CLEARLY, they are simply gagging for me to pick up my damn shoe and start singing ‘if you like Pina colada’ in to it, to prove I am actually mental and not just ‘faking!!!’ So it’s not enough to be miserable anymore, I have to start moon-walking on my desk too? Or maybe arriving in the office with a drum kit and a pet fish in my mouth? Give me a break! How in the hell are those adverts breaking the stigma?’

‘Yeah I never thought of them from that perspec…’

‘And another thing, who the hell does she think she is, to tell me I’m supposed to have sex after six weeks, when she doesn’t even know what its like?’

‘Who are we talking about now?’ he interrupts.

‘Come on James, keep up. Gina Ford obviously. Do you know what I was doing at six weeks past my son’s birthday, the time that I now usually refer to as the anniversary of the apocalypse?’

‘I have a feeling you are going to tell me.’

‘You are right James, I am! I was sterilizing bottles and emptying my boobs in to a salad bowl!! A salad bowl!!! At what point was I supposed to have said ‘hang on babe, ill just drain this last litre of milk and then ill ride you like a cow girl WOO WOOO!!! While swinging my size 18 maternity pants around above my head in joy!! Does she actually think The Irish one would have wanted to shag me too? Did she not think of that? I looked like a limping moose with a crispy set of udders banging about my knees! And what if he had said no? How would that have made me contenter? My non- existent self esteem would have been 6 feet under! That woman needs locking up!’ I spit.

‘Gina Ford?’

‘Yes! And who the hell do the MAYANS think they are? They tell us that the world is supposed to end on the 21st of December, well I’m not being funny but when I spoke to the Natwest and applied for a credit card they basically asked me why, so I was honest. I told them ‘The apocolypse is coming!’ because If the world is gonna end on the 21^st of December then why not?  Why shouldnt I get in more debt? And you know what James? I got the damn card! And so I told The Irish one to use it to book us a holiday to Disney World.’

‘That’s great, so that’s a good thing. When do you go?’

‘HE BOOKED IT FOR THE 26^TH OF DECEMBER JAMES! We will have been dead 5 days!!!’

‘Ah. But you know that the chances of the Mayans being right are impossible and…’

‘So now I’m refusing to pay the minimum payment on the card, cos what’s the point? The Irish one can pay it. Also how DARE she call her book HOW to be contented? So because I wasn’t content in the first year, I have to feel even guiltyer for that? And does she really HONESTLY think if I had jumped back on the Irish one’s rope ladder, then I would have been MORE content? LET ME TAKE A PAIR OF SCISSORS TO YOUR BUM HOLE THEN TELL YOU HOW TO BE CONTENT WHILE ENDURING A LARGE MAN FILLED OBJECT BEING SHOVED UP YOUR FLUTE!!….’  I take a deep breath, slowly running out of steam, and smile shakily.

‘Gina Ford?’

‘Yes! Gina ford. …But….. you know, other than that I’m fine. Really I am.’

After a healthy silence, a silence I use to catch my breath and look out of the window, he leans forward.

‘Could this have anything to do with it being Mother’s day on Sunday?’

‘Nope.’ I respond, still staring out of the window.

‘So, this year, you deserve to be celebrated for what an incredible mother you are?’ He asks disbelieving my conviction and fair enough to him too.

‘You know James, when I come on my period I reach for the chocolate, it took 4 months before I let the Irish one even suggest sex, let alone even wave his dip stick my way, and as far as being mental goes, I don’t think I need to talk in to my shoe, do you?’

‘Um, No.’

‘So you see, I ain’t ‘media’ perfect, but I deserve to be celebrated.’

‘You do.’

‘So this year, yes, I will be enjoying it. I will do everything in my power to ward off the feelings of guilt.’

‘Good for you.’

So…

Happy mothers day to all the UNCONTENT (and incontinent) mothers, who may or may not be mental, who may or may not have ‘baby in a strict routine’, and who may or may not go roller skating instead of using a sanitary towel. And most importantly, Happy Mothers Day to all those mothers who didn’t get back on the ‘magic wand’ (the wand of dreams, as the Irish one calls it) until they were ready/ couldnt listen to any more begging off their men, and not a moment before.

Happy mothers day to all the mothers, who adore thier monsters, no matter what state their particles have been left in.

You are precious.

I think I need an arthroscopy, rollerskating with a poodle knocking about, did not end well.

Hold On To The Crazy. The Crazy Spurs You On.

I know it is in there.

I can run at force, and lunge my shoulder in to the door. I can rattle the decaying and stained gold handle and scream, pound and shout through my tears. Let me in, goddamn it let me in.

I can sink to my threadbare knees in front of the bastard armor of thick brown wood, which blocks me from entering and claw at my face with my nails and shout please please, make it stop, just please make it stop.

I can lie down beside it, heaving sobs at midnight, beaten. The cold of the night, the slap of the concrete floor, laying claim to my wet face.

I can get up before the sun rises and plaster on my heavy smile.

A smile plastered on to a face, which is becoming more manufactured with every passing day.

I even have fake eyelashes now you know.

My own eye lashes, you see, weren’t long enough or battery enough to protect me from my own self depreciating thoughts or the preying eyes of vultures trying to catch a glimpse at the crazy woman with the cuts on her arms inside of me.

I just changed Crazy girl, to crazy woman.

Because I am no longer a girl am I.

It is a fact.

I should grow up, I should shut up, I should get a grip, I should… get Botox.

Or fillers!!!

Anyway,

I know it is fucking in there.

I just can’t get to it.

I can visualize it oh so clearly in my minds eye, I feel that if I could only grab a coat hanger, I could shove it under the door and coach it out with a gentle puff and huff, like one does a mini dinosaur.

Or car.

Or chip.

I know what it looks like.

I can almost certainly remember what it feels like, and I can all too easily reminisce about the way it would positively mold itself around me, like a python, ensuring every bone in my body would fill with a fulfilling tingle, a glow, an honest to god fantastic inner smile.

A taste of hope.

If I could just get to it, if I could just find a way.

The problem with medication, one of the problems with medication, should I say, other than the obvious ‘unusual’ side effects;

Included but not limited to,

• Excessive sweating;

Which of course causes me to smell like an old tea bag minutes after I arrive, bounding and false, in to the office gates, only to find the air conditioning ‘has gone down’ and I, of course, am wearing the skin cut from a thousand sheep, (who are all now stood shivering, cursing my name, on the moors.)

• Occasional bouts of Nausea;

Just as I walk in to a full nursery room, stinking of small children, wearing sagging and sloshy nappies and locate my child biting a beetle in half, (YES A BEETLE!) causing me to unceremoniously dump the contents of my stomach in to my new handbag on the way home, while Addy insect chomper wiggly tongue in the back, sings the theme tune to Ghostbusters. AGAIN.

• Increased sex drive;

Before I go in to how truly magnificent The Irish One is finding this particular side effect, let me move swiftly to the next one.

• A loss of orgasm;

Forget ‘it’s like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife’ for Irony. Alanis Morisette, take note.

My orgasm, however, is not what I have been searching furiously for. (When would I find the time, in between all the stomping around pretending to be happy? And besides that, Doodle is always staring at me, it is very off putting.)

No, what I have been searching for, is me.

My inspiration, my laughter, my hope, my happy vision for the future , the dreams I used to nurture.

My very sense of bloody me.

I know that behind that door.

That gate.

That grotty window that I have my nose pressed up against, struggling to see through the grime, lays a dusty and dampened room filled with boxes upon boxes of regrets. Crates filled with drunken memories I hurriedly discarded and sometimes even hid behind the screw pile labeled – CRINGE.

I know I will also have to bat away the numbers flying around the room, the numbers that of course never add up.

My virginity too, will be hidden somewhere in there. Ashamed and cross with me for throwing it away on the wrong man. A man with a crappy name and not my first love, the first love who I wanted to give it to but couldn’t.

I will also find my orgasm, smirking at me.

I will also no doubt find all the things I used to enjoy. Reading magazines, singing, dancing, cooking, drinking with friends, getting dressed up and going out, chatting, hugging, a good book, a film.

When did I even lose these things?

And of course, packed in there somewhere neatly, will be my ability to write without using brackets. (God damn brackets.)

Me.

Me.

I am in there somewhere.

Regrets, warts, awful memories, but also hope, and kindness, and hope, hope, hope.

I think I could fly through those boxes now, if I was just given the chance.

I am not proud of who I was, but I can be proud of who I can become… right?

Give me back my heart. Give back my mind. Give me back my fun.

I want to take back my life. I want to take back my heart, I know I can hold it together.

And that’s what matters.

If only I could get through the doors and… feel.

With medication I am alive.

But.

Numb.

Without medication,

I want to die.

But if I could just get in that room…

Then surely…

I could stay on the medication AND swallow myself whole again.

Give me back my heart. Give me back my life. I know I can hold it together.

I don’t know.

There just has to be a way in.

Doesn’t there?

Isn’t that where the light switch to the end of this tunnel is kept?

It just all feels so pointless.

I’m back on my knees.

Will somebody please bring me a Krispy Kreme?

This concrete floor is awfully cold.

What time should I expect you?

From what I hear, we don’t have to do this alone.