Home is Where the Vomit is. *

‘Time waits for no man but true love lasts forever.’

Well, except when it doesn’t.

Because lets face it I am sure we have all ‘fallen in true love’  a few times, at some point.

You know, back in our histories, back when true love didn’t involve cleaning vomit out of our eyelashes at 3am, we must have all, at some point,  lay in our beds at the age of 19 or 13 or whatever and fantasized and Romancasized (and other words ending in ‘sized,’) about this ‘one true love’ we just met!!!

And we all also no doubt whittled away countless hours day dreaming happily and excitedly to ourselves before falling in to a contented sleep about this amazing ‘true love’ who we had totally ‘fallen for’ who we really believed was the dogs gingganggooli’s.

(Sorry. I could have just written the ‘dogs bollocks’, but I have been trying to get ging gang gooli’s in a post for so long now and I saw this as my opportunity. Go on… it’s ok. Sing the song! I am! Ging gang goooli goooli goooli gooli gooli, ging gang goo, ging gang goo!)

Because that’s what girls do!! It’s the whole fairytale thing!

‘This is it. This person is ‘the one! THIS is TRUE LOVE’ we surely have all smiled to ourselves excitedly in bed, picturing the wedding and the ring and, well usually I would think about how fabulous and drunken my hen party would be but whatever, this isn’t about me, this is about us, ‘this person is the one!!!’

Yes you.

Me and you. We have all done it.

Me as in the one writing this, and you as in the one reading it. Ok? Admit it. Even if it was Jason Donovan you were picturing, you pictured it. I know you did. You did? Right?

And now we, (us) can undoubtedly and inevitably look back on those failed flings and relationships and think ‘how did I not see back when I was with him that he had a penchant for, I don’t know, watching animals fornicate or something. (Seriously reader, you have been out with some right weirdo’s!!) How could I have not seen what an absolute Tool he was back when I first starting dating him?’ and we shudder and carry on washing up, changing a nappy, cleaning up sick bleary eyed or talking to the wall or something.

So the tagline for the film ‘Forever Young’ a 1992 classic starring Mel Gibson, (bear with me this will all make sense in a second) isn’t exactly true but whatever, I am willing to overlook that for the purpose of this post.

Have you ever felt homesick for a time that has passed?

Mel Gibson is a soldier or something, don’t quote me on that, and in this breath catching, stress popcorn eating film, he basically asks his friend to freeze him cos he thinks his girlfriend is dead. (As you do) Which his friend actually does for him (FYI- what kind of friend does that?? Why couldn’t he just, I don’t know, let him grieve at the pub or whatever? And seriously! Who has a person freezing machine handy anyway?! ‘Oh come in, make yourself at home! This is not a sunbed no! It’s my cryogenic coffin, just in case you fancy becoming an ice pop later!!’ I mean it is so bizarre but anyway.) What ends up happening (spoiler alert!) is that he wakes up forty years later in 1992 (which is such a coincidence cos that’s the year they made the film) and his whole world has zoomed on forty years and it turns out his girlfriend wasn’t even dead and they find each other, and well she turns in to a frog.  (That last bit may not be true but I didn’t want to ruin it for you if you hadn’t seen it.)

But basically the point I am making is, that is how I have felt for the last two weeks while I have been ‘home’ in Spain. (But without the dead girlfriend, the frog and the friend who wants to cryogenically freeze me. Because with friends like that, who needs enemies??)

I sat on my dad’s wall one night while I was there, staring at the coastline lit up by the clear night sky, legs dangling down on to the rocky mountain below, glass of wine in hand and feeling a bit well… melancholy.

The silence, as I sat there, drinking it all in, was only broken by the odd echo of a car horn in the distance and the ever present night time sound, the deep hum that gives away the baseline to a party that is no doubt happening somewhere without you.

It came as a shock to me right then, with the palm trees rustling and blowing in the wind beside me to my left, and the humid air dancing around my shoulders, that I had been homesick for a very long time.

It was overwhelming how acutely this speared through me.

I must (seriously!!!) be an idiot not to realise how homesick I have been. Why has this never come up in therapy? Had I blocked it out because it was just too painful? Or was I really, just a flipping idiot, and had not realised?

Every light, every car horn and every twinkle has a memory attached, but, but… it isn’t the same as it was…  everything has moved on, has changed, has evolved.

I pressed the side of my forehead against the cool air-conditioned car window as we weaved down strange roads during the daytime, roads, streets and alleyways, which I used to know and adore, like family.

Every corner had a memory attached, every smell made me inadvertently close my eyes, breath in and secretly smile to myself.

But when I would open my eyes, having seen and felt myself so vibrantly in the moments of the past, heartbreakingly, everything was different and I couldn’t recognise the place it now was.

Different school children running down the street, not my friends or their younger siblings, instead faces I would never know, could never have known, and would never recognise.

10 years have passed.

How could 10 years have passed?

My friends all grown up now, and with children who vomit on them at 3am, all of their own.

The flats where I lived, where I spent my happiest years, demolished. A Starbucks and a shopping center instead, stood majestically and polished in the place where I laid my head every night, and grew up.*

That night I sat on that bloody mountain (with my ever present glass of wine) and I re-lived the way it was.

I took in as many deep breaths as I could and I smiled.

I remembered the laughter (3 girls all squished on my moped piss drunk at the age of 14?) and I laughed.

I remembered the tears (1 of the 3 girls crashing my moped because she encountered a rock and didn’t know what to do – DRIVE OVER IT LAURA!) and I cried for the way it was, for the times I didn’t appreciate until right at that instant.

I remembered my home, when it was my home and I was sad. Sad that now people were drinking frozen Frappuccino’s in the exact place where we buried the dog. *

And maybe it was never as perfect as I remembered it, but if I could just go back and touch it, revisit it, for just one evening, I would.

My childhood. (The good bit.)

Because I miss it, and I am pretty sure that is how Mel Gibson must have felt when he woke up after 40 years of being a human choc-ice, and found out his girlfriend used to be a tadpole and he had made a stupid choice and missed all the bits in between. (Like the bit where she grew legs and hopped out of the pond.)

Before I licked the wine glass clean though, I caught sight of the stars.

And I smiled.

The stars were still exactly the same.

(Look reader, if you study astrology then you are probably dying to comment right now and tell me that they aren’t the same as they were 10 years ago, as we see them how they are five years ago or something, but I am asking you nicely not to ok? I need the stars to be the same SO JUST LET ME THINK THEY ARE THE DAMN SAME, OK?)

The stars, I noticed, were still EXACTLY THE SAME. Still winking mischievously at me, and cleverly reminding me that I can see them from where ever I am, at any time. (Obviously not in the mornings, but you know what I mean.) And that I carry my memories with me. And they can never be stolen. (Except maybe by dementia, but let’s just ignore that for the moment.)

The stars reminded me of one simple truth, and eased my pain.

Home, is now, and will forever more be, wherever Addison is.

And that is the future for us to carve.

And that, Dear reader is fine with me.

————————————————-

*Why does Addison only every vomit at 3 am?

*How cool is that??? A Starbucks where I used to live!!! Its destiny is what it is!!! I’m like Mel Gibson! Maybe true love doesn’t die?? MAYBE STARBUCKS IS MY TRUE LOVE!!! Oh my god!!! It’s a total sign!!!!

** Not Doodle. Doodle is alive and well. Just so you know I would never bury Doodle while he was still alive.  Well not totally anyway, having fun in the sandpit doesn’t count does it? DOES IT?

I WRITED YOU A POSTCARD.

Hi it’s Addy here! Did you hear me?

I SAID ITS ADDY HERE, IM WAVING! wave back!!! ITS ADDY HERE!

I thought i would send you a postcard cos we are in spain which is a long way a way and i got to go on an airplane to get here.

It was big and noisy and white and it was fun to keep taking off and putting my seatbelt back on  while mummy went white and gripped the seat. I don’t know what was wrong with her but she kept making funny faces and trumping then blaming it on me. I know it wasnt me so i pointed at mummy very loud and shouted ’SMELLY MUMMY’ just so everyone would know i was innocent.

Everyone laughed then mummy went red. But not as red as she is now. She looks like my red truck and keeps darting about to get out of the sun. I follow her sometimes and smack her legs. She asks me not to cos it hurts but i know she wants me to really.

I was upset at the airport because mummy had to take a lot of my toys out of my lightening mcqueen race car bag cos the woman with the big red lips said my bag was too heavy. Daddy said ‘I told you so’ a lot to mummy who was acting a bit drunk and grandma had to come back and pick my train stuff up.

That was fun cos i love seeing grandma but then daddy said ‘i told her so’ and when grandma went mummy kicked daddy in the shin and said a word i intend to use very loudly next time we are in a posh restaurant.

Mummy thinks im sleeping but she’s wrong cos i never sleep….ever.

Well except for the times i have done a really big poo and i try really hard to sleep in case she decides to give me a bath. I Hate baths. I HATE THEM I HATE THEM I HATE THEM! Except sometimes I dont. Sometimes i dont know if i do or i dont, so i scream anyway. Its fun to shout and scream.

There is a big cold bath in the garden outside here and mummy keeps trying to get me to jump in with her, which i would consider doing just to be nice to her if she didnt insist on dressing me up in a stupid tigger outfit first. I hate that tigger outfit. I HATE IT. Except for when I dont. Sometimes i don’t. But usually I do.

I mean I am two. I am too old for mummy to be choosing what i wear, so i decided from now on i will choose.

This morning i wanted to wear my jeans with my arm floats that have fish on, around my ankles. Mummy said I wasnt allowed to in case i fell and gave myself a concussion, so i lay on the floor and didnt move for h0urs. Well except for kicking my legs a lot and asking for things we didnt have. It’s fun to watch mummy fret and i like it cos i get lots of cuddles.

In the end i got to wear my jeans but then i decided i didnt want to wear them either, i actually wanted to wear my tigger costume for once but then once i got it on, i changed my mind.

Mummy said ‘maybe concussion wouldnt have been such a bad thing’ to daddy and daddy laughed. I know they love me so it’s ok. In the end I just stayed in a nappy with lots of cream on and then got an ice pop. Somehow i ended up in a t-shirt but i dont remember how. Mummy is sneaky.

Anyway this afternoon we are going for spaghetti in a restaurant so i have been practicing my new word a lot. Grandad thinks its hilarious but mummy doesnt, but she taught it me so its her fault. (According to daddy and i believe him so i say it again and again and again and again.) I can’t wait to say to the waitress ‘spaghetti please twat.’

That will be fun.

ANYWAY i better go because i want to go and dance to thomas the tank engine again in the garden and then pretend to run at the pool with all the water in, when mummy and daddy arent looking. It’s hilarious when they think i may fall in. As if i am going anywhere near it!!!

well i might. I dont know yet. Maybe ill ask if i can go in it at 4 in the morning again. I know mummy loves me and god a lot in the middle of the night because she often says so. She also yawns a lot and I smile and jump because i know she loves me. Sometimes i try and count my toes really loud to get back to sleep but i get stuck at three and then i get angry. Why cant i remember what comes after 3? I think it is a TOUR BUS TOUR BUS TOUR BUS or a MAN PLANE MAN PLANE. But its 4am so who knows?

Anyway i am going to pretend to wake up now cos i just saw mummy pick up her book.

BYE! Wish you were here cos i’d let you know more of my secrets and we could sing about poo. I know what poo tastes like cos once i ate some but then i got poorly and poo was on the walls and on mummy’s eyebrows, and it wasnt nice so i wont do that again. Its fun to pretend i just did though. You should see mummys face, it goes white! (It wouldnt now like, cos its like a big red beach ball but normally it would.)

BYE BYE BYE BYE BYE BYE I WISH YOU WERE HERE THOMAS THE TANK ENGINE AND SAUSAGES!!!

come and see me and wave wave wave.

lots of slobbery kisses

WOO.

NightSwimming. (Me, Dave, and the cast of Chicago.)

She locked me in the toilet.

It was not fun.

Last night while staring with unbridled rage at the back of the Irish One’s innocent, unknowing and gently slumbering head, while trying unsuccessfully to get to sleep, my brain (which clearly hates me) seized the moment and escorted me on a not- so magical -mystery tour of my youth.

In all honesty I was seconds away from venomously flicking this bruise that currently lives on the back of the Irish Ones neck, such was my frustration and jealousy at his peaceful sleeping form (and in all honesty I hate that he swans off to play football, so it serves him right for getting a bruised neck, he’s lucky I haven’t punched it, its big enough to have it’s own name) so it was probably best that my attention was averted away by my brain (the brain that still clearly hates me) on to yet more memories I had long forgotten.

Insomnia at it’s best ladies and gentlemen.

Like he hasn’t been through enough, bless his little Leprechaun socks, my subconscious must have been thinking.

But ‘Thwack!’

Just imagine how great it would feel to flick it though!

Then I could totally pretend I had done it in my sleep, or even better! Just deny it ever happened at all, with a casual and groggy ‘what? You must have been dreaming honey but I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU WOKE ME UP!’

I could pretend I was in Chicago the musical and burst in to song! (You know! Like in the Cell Block Tango? ‘I DIDNT DO IT!’ I could sing,  ’He ran in to my finger! He ran in to my finger, 9 times!…’ actually forget that. That sounds a lot ruder than I wanted it to… we aren’t that kind of couple… I mean there have been times when I… you know what? Lets move on.)

Oooo just thinking about it is making me grin. (The musical…)

Ahhh nighttime frolics, how times have changed. (Ahem.)

Anyway.

Bruise flicking aside, I am actually, usually quite a nice person, honest.

This leaves me unsure at to why my brain decides to regularly torture me for hours on end, when I am ravenously desperate for sleep, with dragging me on silent but very painful journeys, jam packed with my biggest regrets, most embarrassing moments and greatest and most horrifying adrenalin pumping life memories.

Dave. Dave is what the bruise should be called.

Insomnia is too calm a word to describe not being able to sleep.

Who comes up with these names?

Maybe I should apply for a job doing that.

In honesty there is a fair few I would change.

Insomnia being the first, I would immediately change it to Headfucknia.

I would also change the spelling of diahhorea diahorrea diaherria diahorria, (case and point)! And change it to Bumburnsplateria.

Anyways.

I assume that this particularly high voltage memory came as a courtesy aperitif to what will no doubt be tonight’s action packed main course of fuel jammed adrenalin anxiety 4am deliberations.

On Sunday we are flying to Spain.

Those who know me, will know I hate flying almost as much as I hate Dave the bruise.

Yes, Dave suits him.

My house wont be empty though, for any would be amateur burglars out there, no it won’t be empty at all, it will be full of massive burly German Shot putters wearing lederhosen and weedy but clearly dangerous mafia types in trilby hats all smoking cigarettes and whispering about their collection of guns and knives and er, stuff. I am having these house sitters flown in from… well… Germany and Russia…. to er… protect all the valuable foot tearing toy trains and cars and… Shall we move on?

DON’T BURGLE MY HOUSE. Seriously, it’s not a healthy place for feet.

Anyway, during this particular memory, I was flying home to visit my father for his 50^th birthday.

I had glandular fever and was pissed off.

Not just because I had glandular fever but also because…no it was mainly because I was stuck on a plane and had bloody glandular fever.

Me feeling hopelessly dizzy, dopey and rough, of course meant this trip was bound to involve a hefty amount of embarrassment for me and of course, a dopey, ditzy, and not very apologetic flight attendant.

The very same flight attendant that ended up locking me in a tiny toilet coffin (did I say coffin? I meant… well… coffin) at 800 million feet above sea level.

As if being stuck on a fuselage attached to two enormous steel gasoline and match holders, cleverly designed to look like safe engines at that height wasn’t bad enough, I was now trapped in a cubicle with a loud swooshing hole that dropped the poop out.

‘I can’t get out!!’ I had screamed, upon hearing a lock clunk from the outside and dropping a big one.

I never lock toilet doors, just to be clear, on account of being incredibly anxious in small spaces thanks to being scarred for life by Virgin trains and their electronic door invention, which resulted in me being trapped in a shit stinking toilet from Manchester to Brighton for 7 hours (!!!) at the age of 25. (And if that wasn’t bad enough, I was on my way to visit a potential boyfriend at the time, And let me tell you, no amount of channel number 5 masks the stench of sweat, cheap bleach and condensed commuter poo. Marilyn Monroe clearly never traveled on a ding a long, or whatever those swinging trains are now called…)

Anyway, back to my memory.

I had immediately, still sat in the squatting and weeing position kicked the flat of my feet up on to the offending door, to check what I had just heard was in fact the sound of prison.

The door, much to my disappointment, and most likely the relief of the people sat in the first few crushingly tight rows, did not open.

‘Let me out!!’ I screamed jumping to my feet and banging on the door still mid wee but so much blood rushing to my ears I swear I may have blacked out momentarily.

With my voice having been ravaged by my aching glands, my breath coming out in raspy glandular spurts and with the wee running cold down to my ankles I tried not to cry  ‘I didn’t lock the door but now I can’t get out!!’ I howled.

‘I know!!’ what must have been the orange shiny faced flight attendant yelled back relatively calmly from behind the metal door, ‘I locked it for you. Twas left open.’

‘I know!’ I now shrieked trying to steady myself and banging my elbows off every available surface in the process, ‘I know!’

What felt like an eternity of turbulence passed and when nobody responded I began to hammer on the door again and tried to push it open with all the puny feverish strength I could muster.

‘I am agoraphobic!’ I begged pathetically loudly to 245 passengers ‘ please UNLOCK the door, unlock it, unlock it, oh please god unlock it!’

‘Your agoraphobic?’ came the female voice again ‘Well you should be alright in there then, it’s tiny.’ She sounded confused.

‘NO!’ I had shouted now at full force. ‘Let me out!!!!’

‘Just unlock the door.’ She had calmly whispered back in her Liverpudlian accent. ‘You’re being very loud. It is simple. Just unloccccchhhkkkk the door from the insiiiide.’

In an immediate whirlwind, I grasped at the lock, slid it to the unlock position and with the force of a highly steroidal midget body builder, burst out of the cubicle like a hot rat out of a saucepan.

A hot semi naked rat, out of a saucepan, that was also covered in urine and shaking like a shitting dog.

A hot semi-naked rat covered in urine and shaking like a shitting dog who had just inadvertently mooned, front bum and back bum, 75 rows of skint Malaga to Manchester holiday makers.

The bastards actually applauded.

Oh the shame.

‘AGORA-PHOBIC’ I had stuttered directly in to her face, trying desperately to salvage any pride that may have remained, while hurriedly trying to pull up my jeans and hide my face, as well as ignore the horrified gasps coming from the old man sat in seat 1A, who got so close at one point he nearly got a bite of my left cheek instead of his soggy salad, ‘is actually a fear of not being able to escape.’

‘Oh.’ She had retorted blankly ‘I thought it was a fear of open spaces. How do you get on in lifts then?’

I don’t really remember much from here as I actually did black out and was escorted off the plane and in to the arms of a mustached Spaniard supporting a first aid box (we landed first) but I do remember that air stewards face very well and so help me god if I ever see her again… (I’ll go bright red and wish for the ground to swallow me up whole.)

It really was as simple as that, one minute I had been lying in bed not flicking any bruises and the next minute… well I was still in bed but on the back of that memory my heart was pounding and I was literally curled under the duvet in shame.

Bloody insomnia.

Bloody glandular fever.

Bloody Virgin trains.

Oh I was curled up like a donut!

Not for long though.

I’m resilient; I soon went back to staring at but not flicking Dave and planning and stressing out about my wedding. (He hasn’t asked yet, but you know, I am sure he will! I am such a catch!)

On Sunday we go to Spain.

We are travelling back to my birthplace!!

(I wasn’t actually born there, I was actually born in Rochdale but that’s wholly beside the point, I should have been born in Spain and totally would have been too if it wasn’t for the fact my mum and dad lived in Rochdale at the time of my birth… )

I won’t be using the toilet on the flight unsurprisingly and plan on fashioning instead an adult size pair of pull ups out of a bandana and 25 Tena lady’s first thing Sunday morning right before I down 3 diazepam, 6 anti depressants and a bag of square crisps.

(The square crisps are just in case I never get to eat any again.)

I do realise this cocktail will undoubtedly ensure I miss Addison’s excitement at being so close to a plane and not being a drooling blob (he was 9 months last time) and I am sure, like his daddy (and Dave) he will love flying, but alas, it will be the only way I will make it through.

Wish the Irish one luck.

I won’t need it.

I will be off my face before we even leave terra firma.

I better apply for a passport for that bruise, as it’s probably going to spread somewhat.

God love Dave.

He’s part of the family.

(… And he’s got it coming…he’s got it coming…)

I love me a good musical.

Night Terrors (and Suicide Letters.)

Last night I had a dream I attended my own funeral, wearing my mother slippers.

I don’t know if the fact I was wearing her slippers is symbolic, I just know that as far as dreams go, this one was very vivid and when I awoke in a cold sweat, the first thing I thought was-

‘I need to return those slippers before she notices they are gone and all her toes fall off.’

Made perfect sense as I was coming around at Dawn’s crack this morning anyway.

I had in fact actually said this out loud too.

Luckily though, the Irish one ignored me and turned over, he is well a versed by now you see, to my morning ramblings and milk curdling screams in the middle of the night ‘because I am sure there was an axe murderer stood at the end of the bed and couldn’t he just turn the light on to check.’

I can’t thank the Irish one enough for all he has put up with since I started taking these heavy duty anti-psychotic drugs before bed, (not exactly a great catch am I? Fancy a shag or are you feeling particularly psycho tonight?) And I think in all honesty he is probably just relieved that I don’t sleep walk anymore.

He can probably cope with a bit of nutcasery at 7am quite happily, given just how mental my nights have been over the last 7 months.

As an example, he once woke up, about two weeks after I was discharged, to find my side of the bed empty at 4am.

He got up to investigate, only to find me in the kitchen, fast asleep but doddering about, making a sandwich using two electricity bills and a slice of turkey.

When he asked me what I was doing, I apparently responded-

‘Well honey, I’ve just killed the dog, and so obviously now I’m hungry.’

After immediately cacking his pants, and leaving me there with my EON sarnie to check that Doodle was in fact still breathing and very much alive, he woke me up by freaking out incredibly loudly right next to my head, and in doing so, he nearly ended up killing me in shock, which in turn nearly killed him (I was brandishing a kitchen knife around by this point, ‘WHY AM I IN THE KITCHEN YOU BASTARD, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?????’) as I nearly stabbed him.

So yeah, I think more than anything the Irish one is just relieved that I wasn’t trying to boil up his balls in a saucepan or something to pay too much attention to me proclaiming my mothers toes were going to fall off.

I know hearing about other people’s dreams is boring so I wont go on too much, but witnessing your own funeral?

Well, Isn’t that something everybody would love to do? (In a kind of idealistic lets see how much everyone loved me, sort of way?… or am I sicker than most?)

Well, mine was disappointing to say the least.

My coffin looked like it had been delivered on the back of an Ikea truck the night previous, and had been put together by the Irish one huffing and puffing over a set of Swedish instructions, while drinking a Carlsberg, before he had clearly finally given up, abandoned the nails and many elongated curved pieces of plastic, (It was a bendy coffin, god knows how I died!!) and had gone on a mad search for the gaffa tape, to ‘sort things Irish style.’

It was falling to bits!

None of the mourners noticed though, come to think of it, they were all too busy chatting to One Direction and Mr. Tumble, who thank god, wasn’t in his bumper car, but did keep asking me where his magic spotty bag was and trying to teach me how to sign ‘Dead’ in Japanese.

No sign of Mr. Bloom and his talking marrow though unfortunately, and believe me I searched. Oh, what I wouldn’t do to that man in his compostarium…

Aaaaanyway,

I couldn’t find my son no matter how much I searched, and I couldn’t find my mum either.

This really upset me, so much so, that I ended up doing that slow motion running and crying thing that you do usually right before you realise you are in school with no clothes on, or something.

I then remember getting incredibly angry about the fact I had an open casket and no one had bothered to check I was wearing my fake lashes.

Which I wasn’t and it gets worse.

I was wearing a peach shell suit.

I mean, who decides to dress someone in a shell suit, knowing that this is what they will no doubt spend all eternity wearing???

What am I supposed to say at the pearly gates?? Sorry, Saint Nick, (my religious knowledge gets a little hazy here, I’m not sure it is Santa that meets you at the gates to heaven, but if it isn’t, it totally should be…) I really don’t know why I am dressed like a Scouser from the 90’s Father Christmas, but could I come in anyway? Is there a Topshop up here? I could do with a change of outfit!

Ridiculous!

The whole thing was terrifying, frustrating and wholly random.

It doesn’t strike me as odd however that I had this dream, given how the last few weeks have panned out for me.

Maybe it was a warning.

A bit of foresight telling me to be kind to myself.

But then again, maybe I should just reduce my prescribed loony medication.

What does strike me as odd however is how upset I have felt all day by it.

‘You didn’t actually go to your own funeral though babe,’ the Irish one tried to console me this afternoon ‘ but I get it, I think. Is this like when I dream cheat on you and you are total bitch to me all day?’

‘Exactly.’ I responded cracking open a bottle of wine ‘exactly.’

And now that I have finished that bottle of wine, I am going to be brave, and be totally honest with you.

Something my therapist, persistent little soul that he is, tells me I need to start being with those people that matter to me, so that I can accept support… blah blah blah… (I’m not great at getting support, in case you hadn’t noticed.)

So here it is.

I know why I had this dream.

And I know why it has got to me.

(Warning!! This post gets incredibly miserable from here on in!)

This week I wrote suicide letters.

I never did that before.

Not because I didn’t want to say proper goodbye’s before, but mostly because I’m crap at planning.

Each and every other time I have found myself with nowhere else to turn other than the ideological view that death would be a silent paradise, incredibly lonely, beaten and exhausted, I have ran with the idea at high speed.

I have popped the tablets out, I have drunk charcoal, and I have been institutionalized.

But in all honesty, medicated of not, I have thought about dying endlessly for nearly a year now.

Some days it hasn’t been every hour of every day, and some days it has.

I bargain.

If I killed myself I wouldn’t have to get out of bed in the morning…

Just have this one last difficult conversation then you can think of how much easier the world would be without you in it, to take the edge off…

If I were dead I wouldn’t have to smile and pretend to feel the love, pretend to be normal, put together, if was dead I could stop this pain in my chest and this non stop commentary of evil in my head…

The bargaining is exhausting.

The last few weeks though… well they have been really tough.

And so I wrote Suicide Letters in a bid to silence the inner voice telling me to Just Do It! (Nike, did absolutely not sponsor this post!)

Writing suicide letters well… It was surprisingly hard, and not at all as romantic as I had imagined it to be during the many hours I have spent wishing things like smiling, being normal, and functioning were easy, wishing I wasn’t ill. Wishing I was breezy.

It was heartbreaking.

And in hindsight, choosing Starbucks as the place to write them, well… that probably wasn’t the best idea. I did however get a lot of free coffee as the tears streamed down my face and the concerned baristas’ took pity on me… Which eventually meant I had to give up as I was bouncing around the place like a depressed space hopper and getting nowhere fast.

I find music is important when one writes a suicide letter, and jacked up on caffeine listening to Ebeneezer Goode (not wearing a shell suit) well that was just stupid. I would be surprised if any of them make sense at all. (I’m in no hurry to re-read them.)

But anyway,

When I spoke to James the therapist, about what I had got up to, he said I was in recovery but I was testing how I felt, I was testing to see if the bargaining was a necessary tool anymore.

That in the pain, there was healing.

Or at least, I think that is what he hoped.

I think, I just wanted to think, that I could go through with it, if it ever got to the point where I really needed to.

That I needed an out from the inner argument, I needed to silence it with proof that I could take the proper steps.

And I also think, that if I did go through with it, it would be important for me to have had the last word and for those who I was leaving behind to know how sorry I was, but how I just couldn’t listen to my broken brain anymore.

I’m a bit of a cow like that.

I’m selfish.

I should just get a grip and get on with it.

I should just ‘snap out of it.’

I’m pathetic.

I wrote a letter to Addison telling him I loved him and that I was sorry but as much as I would miss seeing him turn in to a boy, and then a man, that I couldn’t cope, that my brain was torturing me, and that I would always be with him whenever he needed me. I wrote that every day he makes me proud, and that I would miss him more than I could ever put in to words. But mostly? I wrote how sorry I was, as I knew the pain I was going to cause, he was probably never going to recover from, but I just couldn’t carry on… the pain I was living with was too overwhelming…

I wrote to my dad telling him he could keep my poodle with the dodgy bowel and that I was sorry and I loved him, and that I would forever be grateful…

I wrote letters for my mum, the Irish One, Doodle (he’s a dog, but yes, he got a letter… I think this was down to the coffee more than anything else by this point) and to my two best friends.

All of them had the same theme.

How sorry I was but how I couldn’t go on anymore but how much I loved them (and stop pissing in the house.)

And now that I have done this, I can stop bargaining.

I just couldn’t sum up my feelings in a letter. I couldn’t get across how grateful I was, but how much I was struggling, how loved I felt, but how incredibly alone I also feel, how comforting these people are to me, but how difficult I find it to accept support, how much they help me through the days, but how long the days are, the fun times I have had, how much they meant to me, and how much I miss them now every day is a battle, and how sorry I was about what I was about to do…

I just couldn’t do it to them… or to me.

I couldn’t find my last word.

And for that I am grateful right now.

I owe it to myself and to them, to keep living, to keep fighting.

Maybe, just maybe…

Not writing the letters was my brother’s biggest mistake.

Maybe if he had, he would still be here.

Because writing suicide letters is the saddest thing I have ever done.

And I know now for certain those who have written them in the past and have died at the hands of this illness really went through hell.

It is an illness. Not a choice.

I felt sad today, but I also felt lucky, because at this point I still do have a choice. As hard a choice as it has been to make, because this fight isn’t easy, I know I am lucky, because whether I like it or not, I still get to choose.

And (sorry if I sound like a bad dodgy version of trainspotting… fuck it, I may as well tell you, I’ve changed in to my shell suit, it was the whole 90’s thing… it got hold of me…) but right now I choose life.

Anyway, I’m off to bed and to take my medication.

Spare the Irish one a thought it you are up at 3am? He probably will be too, protecting us from Santa and Gok wan, who will no doubt be stood at the end of my bed.

*This is my story, no one else’s, and I apologise if by telling my story, I have come across intensive or crass or horrible. I am not dispensing advice, I am in no place to give it, I am simply sharing my story. It may be wrong to try to inject humour in to something so serious, but I am in pain, It is the only way i can be this honest. I want to get better, but I also need help, and I also want to help those who need help but won’t or can’t ask. So before you have a go… just remember the reasons why I write ok? 

And if you feel or have ever felt like writing suicide letters?

You are not alone.

But please please, please, Please get help, or talk to someone. 

There is nothing to be ashamed of.

It is an illness, not a choice.

And the world would NOT be a better place without you in it.

I know this for a fact. 

Toddler. (Is there a support group?)

I will not refer to these years as the terrible twos.

I will instead refer to these years (for I have been told it can last longer than just one year) as ‘The years which aged me so much that I now look like Donatella Versace.’

I should explain.

Last month my angel, the one time little blob who used to just lie there gazing up at me with love, from his cute little crib, resting beside my heart, gurgling and being adorable, transformed before my very eyes, in to a… Well, in to a… Well, in to a bloody crazy ferocious 2 year old.

I didn’t think it was going to happen, I thought we were going to get away with it, but alas, I was deluded once again.

This very morning while relaxing watching telly together, having a cuddle and enjoying each others company, out of absolutely nowhere, he grabbed my left boob with such ferocity I honestly thought he was going to plunge his hand directly it my lung, twisted it as if trying to prize it off with his tiny nails, and before I could even think about how much reparative breast surgery would potentially cost, screamed ‘Toast!’ directly in to my ear, before howling like a werewolf may do, in the general direction of the kitchen.

He doesn’t even like toast.

Still, being the dutiful and peace loving mother I am, after I had pleaded through watery eyes for him to return my nipple back to where it should never have been removed from without a serious amount of anesthetic, I limped in to kitchen and nervously pulled out the bread.

I then, like any normal person would, turned towards the toaster to put the bread in to the damn thing, and was head butted in the crotch at full force for my trouble.

He wanted toast, but he didn’t want me to put the bread in the toaster to actually toast it.

I do not doubt that his communication style needs some work, but evidently so does mine.

I could only think of 54 ways to explain that without putting the bread in the toaster, it would never, ever be toast.

This simply would not do though, and what followed I can only now begin to discuss, having downed a shot of whiskey for shock and rang my best friend for an emotional meltdown, such is my post traumatic tantrum trauma.

She suggested, to guide me through the upcoming months, I should make a list of all the house rules and hang them up on the wall for him to see.

(The fact he can not read does not escape me, but whatev’s I’m up for trying anything at this point.)

So I did. And here they are.

Mammy’s house rules.

• You will not head butt mammy in the crotch. Ever.
• There will be no ice pops for breakfast; no matter how many times you kick the freezer and shake your little fists at the unfairness of the world.
• Jam is not to be squirted up Doodle’s bottom, for he doesn’t like it.
• Mammy will not squirt Jam up your bottom either, no matter how much you scream, because having been around a while, I am pretty sure I could get arrested, and I’m also pretty sure you wouldn’t like it either.
• You have to wear trousers to be able to leave the house. Pajamas aren’t trousers. Swimming trunks aren’t trousers and neither is toilet paper.
• Your left foot will never be your right foot, no matter how much you shriek.
• We don’t fish poo out of the toilet with our hands. Ever. This is none negotiable and isn’t funny. Throwing poo is never ok. We are not monkeys.
• The windows cannot be open and closed at the same time. It is physically impossible.
• If something is too big to fit in to where you want it to fit, banging your head against the wall will not change anything.
• Bath time is to happen in the bathroom, in the bath.
• The bath is fixed to the wall; I am unable to move it in to the kitchen.
• Mammy lives in the house with you, she will not let you lock her out or wait in the hall simply because you fancy some alone time and like waving at me through the window.
• Doodle’s bed is Doodle’s bed, it will never be yours, do not growl back at him, just get out of his bed.
• It is not funny to poke mammy in the eye at random times, just because you feel like it, mammy needs her eyes not to have your fingers plunged in to them. Ever.
• Worms are not food. Or pets.
• Saying hello to worms is fine, but stamping on them will not make them say hello back.
• Our car is the black one, not the red one, I am simply unable to click my fingers and change this, or in fact get in and drive/ steal someone else’s car just because you point at it passionately. It is not Car Park pick and mix and we don’t all throw our keys in a bowl, we just aren’t those kind of neighbors.
• Head butting mammy’s crotch, just to be absolutely clear here, is not an acceptable form of communication.
• 4am is not time to get up.
• You will never be able to fly. Please stop trying.
• You cannot have ketchup on cornflakes. End of.
• Sand isn’t food. You know this. Please stop eating it.
• Mammy’s lips are attached to her face. No amount of pulling will change this fact.
• The birds fly away because you run at them. That’s what birds do.
• Naptime is important for mammy’s sanity, please use this time to reflect on your behaviour and ignore mammy’s tortured sobs coming from the kitchen, she is simply re-attaching her body parts with sticky tape and glue.

Any you think I should add, or be aware may need adding at some point soon? All warnings much appreciated! All help needed!

He is only 2 and 1 month!

I’m gonna need one of those things American footballers use to cover their tackle, aren’t I?

I bet they look horrendous with skinny jeans though.

Motherhood.

Bringing home the magic and dialing up the drama.

Call me in 10 years if you need a Donatella look a like. (And send me some fake tan.)

But for now, does anyone know how I can get an ice pop to be in the plastic wrapper, without it actually being in the plastic wrapper? It’s important.

Banana’s in Pyjama’s. (Are not Actually that Rare!)

‘Can we get a man in?’

(OH NO SHE DIDN’T!)

I carefully and quietly murmur this, knowing that I will somehow have crossed the line between Venus and Mars, in an unforgivable way.

I immediately avoid eye contact as his head whips up, and look instead with feigned interest at the murky water slowly seeping up my pajama bottoms from my tired ankles, all the way up to my grazed knees.

Knees which have started to creek and click with such regularity I am wondering how much it would cost to trade them in for a bionic pair.

Not only would this help with my day-to-day endurance test, the endurance test I sometimes laughingly refer to as ‘life,’ but it would also mean I could actually call myself the Bionic Woman and mean it.

Ooo, now that would be so cool.

Plus I would then automatically qualify for my very own soundtrack meaning that I could run in slow motion whenever the fancy took me.

Running in slow motion is underrated considering how much fun it looks.

It’s a lot easier on the lungs too, although it does take a while to get anywhere.

Anyway.

As the water aims for my hairy thighs hiding beneath my once dry jammy bottoms, it dawns on me that not only am I living in the house that Jack built but I am also doing so, barely surviving in a body controlled by a brain that wont allow me to walk in a straight line without falling on my face, in the most horrific of circumstances.

A brain that lets me down so often, and stabs at my heart with such ferocity it is all I can do to not bend over and howl in pain the moment the sun creeps in through the crack in the badly fitted curtains. (Not a euphemism! Although in fairness if it was, it would be an accurate one. Anyway…)

He spins unsteadily on the water, like a terrible ice dancer filled with self belief auditioning for Britain’s got talent, from where he was stood staring agog, morning hair sticking up at all angles and eyes deeply hidden beneath two years of no sleep, staring in confusion at the dials on the machine that is supposed to wash our clothes.

A machine, which evidently can no longer be arsed to do the job, it was built for.

A machine, incidentally that I can totally relate to.

As he stumbles in his attempt to stay upright on the slippery floor and avoid an Irish broken tailbone, he propels a fan of water all over the child who, of course finds this absolutely hilarious and giggles loudly from where he is now sat, pounding his fists in to the soapy puddles and watching the ripples spread far and wide to every corner of the kitchen, with glee.

‘Maybe I should just bath him on the kitchen floor from now on, Seen as he wont let me bath him in the actual bath. Maybe that’s what Supernanny means when she talks about finding alternatives’ I think to myself with my 5am brain, cursing the moment we hit ‘2’ and the angel I gave birth to, developed a personality sent to me directly from crazyville Arizona.

Doodle as ever, is also in attendance, stood beside the child, an important input in to family goings on, he is now thigh deep in the water but seems unfazed by the commotion, simply nibbling at his bone shaped biscuits as they float past.

The Irish one roars at me without words, the dancing half-light of the early morning bouncing off the dampness of our situation creating a rainbow halo behind him.

‘No woman!’ he admonishes being careful not to fall on the child, and looking bizarrely, a lot like Jesus.

He needs to trim that beard, I think to myself again, as I picture myself bludgeoning him on to a cross in the name of my sanity.

We don’t have a free hammer though actually, and I think a hammer is an essential tool when one needs to bludgeon something, and as it is currently being used to prop the bed up that plan is a no go.

‘I can fix it! I fixed it myself last week, and I will do it again! Watch me Fecking fix it. AS LONG as I am the man in your life, no other  ‘man’ (he spits this word out, like it is herpes) ‘shall cross this threshold to fix any one thing. I am bloke! I am THE BLOKE! I am the one who sorts things, and therefore I am king of all things in this kingdom. I am THE FIX IT KING! And this is easily sortable. A man? Tish! what do we need a man for???’ His disgust is palpable.

God I love that mad bastard.

I sigh. Can’t bludgeon him today then. Not only is the hammer pre-disposed but also where would I get the wood?

I sigh again.

A deep sigh, belonging to a woman who woke up at 5am to find the ‘fixed’ washing machine had vomited its guts out on to the kitchen floor. Again.

I sigh.

A deep sigh, belonging to a woman, who for the last five months has been using a bent fork to close the washing machine and a length of rope ripped from an iPhone battery to open it.

I sigh.

A sigh belonging to a woman who for the last year has had to beg the light switch in the bedroom to work, trying over and over again to flick it from just the right angle, because of a; (and I quote)

‘A Dodgy electrician who fitted it in the first place who (clearly) cant be trusted to be called back in, because he has made it irreparable (of course he has) for a civilian not electrics trained (Irish) man and there for it is ‘fine’ if you flick it from this angle, I fixed it, look it will do!’ (No it wont blood do! ARGHHHHHHHHH)’

I sigh.

A sigh belonging to a woman who because of this ‘dodgy electrician’ has arrived at work on more than one occasion wearing navy blue tights coupled with a completely black ensemble… an occupational hazard of getting dressed in the dark, and as I am sure you will agree, wardrobe suicide.

I sigh.

A sigh belonging to a woman, who now has wet knees, ankles and thighs, who was forced to use the hoover to unblock the bath drain, and then got a bollocking from Dyson for doing so. (LIKE THE ONLY THING THAT WAS ACTUALLY FIXED GODDAMN IT!)

A sigh belonging to a woman who can no longer cope with a back door that has a pillow in front of it ‘to stop the rain’ seeping in and to prevent a community of ants seeking refuge from the stormy conditions outside.

A pillow, dear Irish one, may be a deterrent to a puddle, but it is almost certainly not a deterrent to a focused and motivated army of ants.

One day I seriously worry that I will go to sleep snuggled under my two duvets (-Because the boiler is temperamental, but ‘its ok Lexy, just put a jumper on!’) and will actually wake up 6 hours later (a full nights sleep these days) in the garden by the oak tree (who’s roots are now heading towards our bathroom causing the sewage to block up –and god help me he is about to buy a chain saw), the GOD DAMN ants having clubbed together and carried me outside in my sleep.

I will bang on the door in bitter regret as they sit on their ant bums on my sofa watching Living TV that I pay for, before one of them will get up and slide the broken curtains shut, my Starbucks mug in his claw, while shaking his antennas at me as if to say ‘you had your chance to exterminate us but you refused to get a man in, so therefor we now rule.’

Ant mutiny.

‘Just tell me what is happening on Grey’s anatomy’ I will shout in desperation ‘please!’

The Queen ant will ignore me from where she is stood in the middle of the living room shaking her behind and singing Beyoncé’s ‘to the left to the left’ wearing my new bikini.

I can picture it now, Addison will be brought up carrying five times his body weight by a colony of ants while Doodle will be saddled up and kept as a slave and used to carry particularly heavy stones for the ant pyramids.

It will be ant mutiny I tell thee! Ant mutiny at 23 Mental road.

Sure you are bobbing for biscuits now Doodle, but you have no idea what is about to happen!

Bless him.

‘Ok’ I mumble, wondering if water skis are a sensible purchase at this point and seriously considering emigrating across the Mexican border without telling him and setting up shop in a shack with a heavily tanned, mustached handy man eating a burrito.

It’s because I love him that I don’t argue.

I don’t want to demasculinate him, or whatever the therapy word is.

But how the hell am I supposed to clean my knickers now?

Do you think perhaps I could get a man in and then pretend he has fixed it all? Drug him or something, and then tell him that it was he who fixed it?

‘Can you get me a crow bar please babe?’ he asks perched on his sodden knees, prying at the washer with his Irish fingertips.

I sigh stepping over the commotion, in to the dry and badly lit hallway (the bulbs need changing and he refuses to buy a ladder.)

It is the sigh of a woman who is deeply in love with a mad man, but who really needs some relationship advice, a new house and the number of a man who can work quietly and discreetly around a drugged up Irish man, and fix stuff!

Drugging is ok right? RIGHT?

I think it is, given the circumstances.