Scars.

‘My foundation was rocked. My tried and true way to deal was to vanish, my departures were old, I stood in the room, shaking in my boots. At that particular time, love had challenged me to stay.’ – Alanis Morissette.  

I woke up in my single bed on that afternoon, stretching and yawning, feeling entitled to my extended and indulgent morning of sleep like only a teenager could.

It was only as I turned over and the knife-edge soared through my right arm with such ferocity it robbed me of my breath, that I was reminded of the night previous.

The first genuine smile I had expressed in a number of months lit up my heart, I was relieved.

I felt alive.

The throbbing damage done, radiating outwards like the only ripple in a stagnant and forgotten millpond.

There is no beauty here.

In agony I now trusted.

A belief.

It couldn’t let me down.

It would never leave.

A blanket of pain wrapping around me like a hug, waking me up, wiping away my tears, consoling my cracked heart, listening to my fears, supporting my askew beliefs and allowing me to indulge in my sweet new friend, self-punishment.

The glint of the knife skims my skin again and I see my determined and gritty eyes looking back up at me from it’s tilted reflection.

It is a relief when the corrugated edge stops jiggling, jumping and bouncing over my skin as if in protest, and does the job it was made to do.

Harder, much harder.

Again and again, with grim resolve I drag it over my arms.

My mind clears with heavenly nothingness as the blood pops up in joyous celebration at being freed, ready to caress, soothe and mollify my anger.

The sweet release of tangible pain.

The feel of it gifting me with the same sort of relief,  you may feel when you remove your biting bra at the end of a long day.

The high is like cocaine. (So I hear) but all too soon it is replaced with a crushing shame.

A shame that disables me.

I hurt myself to remove the hurt.

I hurt myself as punishment for the choices I have made, that I can’t go back and change.

I hurt myself because the pain takes away my past, and that is worth it, even if it is only for a few moments.

I do not hurt myself for attention.

I hurt myself because I deserve to be hurt.

A faceless stranger sits in front of me, shaking with anger, her eyes filled with confusion and hurt, wet with the tears waiting in the wings.

‘She is a bloody attention seeker, my little girl. She was my baby only yesterday, running around in a nappy and oh how I adored her; we would play the days away, my best friend.’ She pauses with a ragged breath.

I stare at the floor, immobilised.

‘It is like she has been kidnapped. She cuts and she cuts… I just want my little girl back, but right now I hate her. I hate her.’

Her hair has a grey tinge and the light from the window behind her casts a shadow on me, plunging me back in to the dark.

She lifts her hands to her face in a jerky and surprised motion and sobs.

‘I don’t hate her. I just can’t save her. She wont let me save her. But save her from what? She has a great life!’

She stamps her foot, removes her hands from her face, brutally wipes her escaped tears away and fixes on to her face, a resigned and steely glare.

I carry this woman with me a lot.

She has become a part of my life.

She sits on the mantelpiece of my misery, her legs swinging off and her smile hopeful as I try to leave the house without her.

If she were a dog, her tail would be wagging.

Can I join you today Lexy? Can I? Can I? Can I?

Like I have a choice.

She usually jumps in for the kill, just after I have grabbed my overpriced handbag that I bought trying to fill the void in me, my happy pills, and all manner of crap my two year old, still in nappies, is insistent he ‘needs’ for a day at his cousins. (Like a bucket of stones, the top of a pink plastic shark, it’s bottom discarded in the slush pile of toys, 8 dummies but not the red one, one truck with a wheel missing and his Mr. Happy fork.)

I have named this woman.

She is called Madame. Guilt.

And you’ll be pleased to know she has friends too, so she doesn’t get lonely.

They are unsurprisingly named Senor. Regret and Ms. Victoria You cant change the Past so stop trying you twat, you are a Failure and only have yourself to Blame.

They weigh my baggage down.

Usually I find them unexpectedly, while I am busy searching for the red dummy my son is insistent he brought with him, and will simply be heartbroken if he doesn’t get immediately.

I find them slotted in beside my fear of being a failure as a mother, my anxiety that somehow I will accidentally kill my son with undercooked sausages, and the yellow file marked ‘stuff you will remember you have forgotten, but only when you get to the car park outside your location, and your son vomits all over you. Stuff like wipes, money for petrol, your passport and your ability to function without tearing your hair out…’

They surely are an addictive bunch reaching their arms out in focused and determined desperation towards me, from in between the hopeful and happy days, intent on getting a handful, and when they do,  pulling and stretching me until I tear.

I am a self-harmer.

They visit me in the dead of night, waking me up and covering me in sweat, screaming to be heard even when I have my face pressed in to my pillow begging for them to go away and let me sleep.

Let me look to the future.

And when I cant silence them?

When I can take no more?

I creep barefoot like a child on Christmas eve, full of excitement and anticipation to find out whether father Christmas has been yet, to the kitchen draw, to unwrap my present of silence, or sometimes, if I don’t feel I deserve the honeyed relief of blood, I tip toe to the hair straighteners, where I will patiently await the double beep, heart pounding.

And then I will burn. And burn. And burn.

You bastard.

This is the only love you deserve.

This is love.

Feel this pain.

Feel the momentary relief.

And I relish it.

I am a self-harmer.

It has been 4 months since I last self harmed.

My longest abstinence yet, since the tender age of 14,  and onwards, without indulging, I trudge.

I am writing instead.

I am fighting.

It isn’t a walk in the park.

I am a self-harmer.

My scars tell my story.

And there she is, swinging her dangling legs, off my mantelpiece.

‘At that particular time love encouraged me to leave, at that particular moment, I knew that staying with you meant deserting me, that particular month was harder than you would believe, but I still left, at that particular time.’ – Alanis Morissette.

It is an Illness, and I am not ashamed. 

Is this the light? (Hope.)

I am in shock.

It is 2012 and I am 32 years old.

I have lost time, where have I been for the last 17 years?

I just woke up.

2001 was 11 years ago,

I am in shock.

1999 was 13 years ago.

I am sad.

Where have I been?

I have been lost, without even realising.

How could I have not realised I was missing?

How could I have not realised that despising yourself and your life, wasn’t normal?

How have I lived for 17 years without noticing life wasn’t how it should be?

Ashamed. Always ashamed.

I am grieving today, as my medication is once again tweaked and my last therapy session rings in my ears, echo’s in my soul.

I am grieving today, even though I feel almost, almost… bubbly.

I am grieving for my lost years.

I can feel the acute sadness deeply, sloshing about in my heart.

I am looking at photos, and staring at my eyes.

The pretence.

My broken eyes.

How could I have not noticed, not everybody was broken?

I want to look after myself, and I want to apologise… to me.

I remember my first meeting with James.

‘You are severely depressed’

‘No I am not.’ I had indignantly replied ‘Everyone is like me.’

I remember the slap in the face.

‘Are they?’

I remember the anger, and the shock… and the shock… aren’t they?

Where has the time gone?

How am I 32?

Why did I resist help for so long?

How could I be so comfortable feeling so undeserving?

Why did I resist medication for so long?

How could I not see I was suffering with an illness that needed treatment?

I am grieving for the 17 year old me.

But I am also,

I am also welcoming back the 17 year old me.

Ooo and she has a twinkle in her eye.

I like her.

We have some catching up to do.

It feels exciting.

And today, as well as grieving, I am full of hope.

It may disappear tonight, but right now? I have clarity, and it feels amazing.

I like the ‘right now.’

Do they still sell Diamond White?

It’s the 17 year old me’s favourite drink.

We are off to see Alanis Morissette on tuesday, me and her.

Do I get a second chance?

I am only 32.

I hope so.

Stop being a Dick and grow the Hell up!!!

Yesterday in a moment of overwhelming panic, my trembling and fat little nibbled fingers positively shot out a text at the speed of light (if the speed of light travelled at say, the same speed over a keyboard, as overcooked sausages playing an Elton John tune on a pretend piano) to my best friend.

It was all coming back to me.

Slowly, as most things do come back to me since I started this new medication, but, coming back to me nonetheless.

I had really upset her.

I had god damn insulted her in her hour of need.

What kind of person does that? How could I behave like that?

Oh my god what kind of horrible person was I?

Addison’s head was pressed firmly up against mine, he was desperate to get my attention, as I finished typing out the message and hesitantly placed my phone on the sofa next to me, never taking my eyes off it for a second, waiting anxiously for a reply.

When head butting me didn’t have the desired effect, my son then started to insert rolled up pieces of ham up my left nostril.

But not even the smell of pig and two year old nail dirt could distract me from the gut wrenching panic I was experiencing.

I was sitting perfectly still, with a nose full of sliced pig brushing sensuously against my top lip, the whole time trying to jump-start my mind.

What was it I had said!! If only I could remember!

As the cogs started turning and Addison gave up on me and went to annoy Doodle I began desperately searching through my memory banks like a mad woman late for work, searching for a top she needed to wear and coming up empty handed. I was angrily wrenching memories out one by one in frustrated silence. I was holding a tangled and creased recollection up to the light and glancing at it for a couple of seconds, before with a frustrated tut, realising once again it wasn’t the one I was looking for and angrily discarding it on to the pile behind me.

What the hell was wrong with me?

It was no use, I couldn’t find it, I know the memory was god damn in there, but I just couldn’t find it.

I had upset her. I was a total cow, and I couldn’t even remember how. (Rhyming totally accidental, I rhyme only when nervous.)

I must have been drunk, or on medication at the time.

It is the only explanation for my loss of memory.

These meds are horrific.

Only last week, The Irish one had informed me that approximately 45 minutes after I took my anti-psychotic tablet and informed him I was going to sleep, he had found me in the bedroom, after hearing me making some funny noises, trying to pull up the carpet, as I was convinced (apparently) that there was a squirrel trapped underneath it. (I was making Squirrel noises!!!)

I have no recollection of this and blame Doodle entirely, that poodle is taunting me pretending to be a squirrel I just know it. It’s his dastardly plan and one-day ill catch him at it. You just wait. With nuts!

I put my head in my hands to concentrate again on memory tracing, and noticed my legs were ever so slightly trembling as Addison, now bored of Doodle, mounted my back and demanded I get on to the floor so he could ride me like a pony.

Damn it, if only I could remember what I had done.

‘Addison,’ I said distractedly, doing as I was told and sinking to my hands and knees, singing clipity clop and neighing in my best horsey accent ‘hold on properly to mummy’s hair. My hanging back fat is not a handle’ ‘

After five minutes of trotting (imagine if you will an elephant trotting) on my hands and knees being extremely careful to navigate in between the cast and crew of Thomas the tank engine who had been discarded earlier on to the laminate floor when Misty island blew up (totally not my fault) I checked my phone again and farted (It was the nerves!)

No response.

I ran in to the kitchen, plugged Addison in to an ice pop, turned on the telly and frantically began re-checking what I had sent.

Oh my god why hadn’t she replied?

‘Oh my god babes, I’m so so so so so so sorry if I upset you. I really am. I am so sorry, it’s these meds… its no excuse though, I’m so sorry.’

Was that nice enough?

What the hell did I do?

It must have been really bad.

She had every right to be extraordinarily angry and cross with me, she had always been there for me, and I had obviously let her down big time.

I checked my phone every 12 seconds for a reply while explaining to Addison why he wasn’t allowed to watch Football. (FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!)

When 15 minutes of watching football with my 2 year old (pick your battles) had elapsed with no response I could wait no longer and text her again, breaking out in to a cold sweat

‘I am so sorry if I have upset you. I am trying to remember but it’s so vague. It is honestly the meds this is not an excuse. It wasn’t my intention to be a dick, but I know you are mad, I am so sorry!’

By the time the Irish one got home from work half an hour later, I still had had no reply and I was manic.

‘Irish One!’ I pounced on him as he walked through the door, ‘ we need to move back to Spain. I have upset Gertrude* She is so mad at me! We need to move because if she is angry with me I won’t be able to cope and certainly won’t be able to live in the same country as her! I’ll never be able to face her again, ever! I feel terrible! I want to dig a big hole and bury myself in it forever!’

He detangled my hands from his face and tried to look around me for his son.

‘Why what has happened?’

‘I don’t know!’ I shrieked ‘I can’t remember!’

He put his bag down on the sofa, located his son and greeted Addison with a funny look.

‘Why is my son covered in feathers?’

He didn’t seem to be grasping the severity of my situation.

‘He is fine! He was playing in a pillow with Doodle. What am I going to do about Gertrude??’

‘I’m sure it’ll be fine, what do you mean playing in a pillow? How do you know she is even mad at you if you can’t remember what you have done? Is that ham up your nose?’ He looked a bit lost for words. (Never stops talking though.)

I was about to tell him the whole sordid tale when my phone beeped signaling a highly awaited for response.

I jumped on it like a cat on a bag of catnip, all four legs landing on it at the same time. (Imagine my hands are legs and my back was arched and I was hissing and my hair was flying out behind me.)

‘OH MY GOD LEXY! NOT EVERYTHING IS ABOUT YOU!!! It wasn’t about you you idiot!!’ It read. ‘Just some girl I work with. She’s is doing my head in with her pettiness! Why would you even think it was about you? I would never say that to you, you utter moron.’

‘THANK GOD!”’ I sent back “love you,’

And with that I pulled the ham out of my nose, popped it in my mouth and normal service resumed.

There is nothing I hate more, than a Passive Aggressive Generalised Facebook status.

*My best friends name isn’t Gertrude. It’s Maurice.

*‘Anna, I know we haven’t spoken to each other in 12 years but do you think I am the ‘fucking cretin’ who stole your car? Cos just in case that status was aimed at me, honestly it wasn’t. I already have a car. Honest. Much love. Hope you find your car soon. Hugs x Lexy xxx’ 

The Voices in My Head.

A year ago today, and I am certain of this because I remember the upcoming Father’s day being a giant pain in the arse inconvenience to my plan, I found myself, sitting isolated in my little cloud of doom, in a room filled with happiness and laughter, family and loved ones.

In the background, behind the obvious and flamboyant sounds of Thomas the tank engine coming from the telly, Addison trying to squeeze out a hard poo and the voice of the Irish one singing loudly while he cooked sausages for our breakfast, from behind the sound of my own deceitful laughter and forced enjoyment at what really should have felt like a genuinely happy scene playing out around me, however, was a malicious and spiteful undertone.

Only I knew this of course, but I wasn’t aware of it.

An undertone in the form of a significantly ‘heard’ voice, that came from deep down inside of me, extensively and intricately trained to remind me at my most fragile of points, that I was irresponsible, disgusting and a pitiful excuse for a woman.

An accomplished and incredibly proficient opinion of myself that reminded me relentlessly with every task I attempted, I was thoughtless, and weak and could never succeed. I was over sensitive and rash, dumb, and I hurt people without even realising. I was spoilt and a nightmare to be around, and everybody knew it so I may as well accept it. I should be ashamed of needing comfort for I didn’t deserve it, I should feel embarrassed of not being happy when I had so much to be happy about and I should feel incredibly guilty too, because so many people had problems worse than my own.  So many people had real illnesses, and real problems and mine were no more than vain and self-indulgent dramatics. It barked at me that I was lazy and ungrateful and hated. I was a failure as a mother and I was ugly and fat and a let down. I was ugly inside. Everything about me was ugly.

It was so loud, and proud, and so convincing and had gone on for so long, that the truth is, I didn’t even hear it anymore, or realise it was even talking. It had just become part of me, hence not being aware of it.

I had started therapy and I needed to get better. I owed it to everybody. The pressure to succeed at ‘getting better’ was immense. If I couldn’t ‘get better’ I deserved to be dead. ‘Better’ from what though, I would ask myself with ferocious disdain? THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH YOU.

The voice constantly reminded me of the need to be absolutely perfect all of the time, so failing? Even if it was only the voice in my head advising me I was failing? That meant I was. It was a fact.

Trying to come to terms with being a terrible mother? Even when the Irish one would assure me I was in fact the opposite, and that I was loved and beautiful, I knew he would never understand the truth. Nothing I did would ever match up to the expectations, I set for myself, and my inner voice was only too happy to remind of that. I was a failure. It was a fact.

Trying to hide my disappointment at who I should be but was unable to be, behind laughter? Was exhausting. Especially when my inner voice was laughing too. At me, all the while calling me pathetic and evil, and obnoxious and worthless. All facts.

Addison tried a banana for the first time that morning, as the sun shone through the double windows and we made plans to go to the park. The Irish one collapsed in to giggles at his 1 year old expression upon tasting it, as did I, as his mouth curled and he expressed his disgust like only a 1 year old could.

It had been a year of hospital visits, and allergies and arguments and for me? A year of failing my son and failing at life.

A banana was a big deal, and I should have felt elated.

But I was too selfish. Also a fact.

The three of us laughing, normal and happy, well, it was a family photograph of a memory, like so many others that have been taken since, but the difference on that day, was the ever present and intensely secretive threat of murder which had been lurking just behind my watery grin for a while, was now about to come to fruition.

It was making plans.

As we got dressed and the happy family park day played out, as I pushed Addison down a slide grinning from ear to ear, as I skipped off to buy ice cream, as the Irish one hugged me and told me he loved me and I kissed him back, as I shrieked and clapped and loafed about putting on the best show I could, the last show of my life, the finale, I was silently plotting, I was wordlessly preparing and I was busy considering, what the best time to take an overdose, so as to not be saved, and so as to cause as little commotion to those left behind as possible, would be.

I was going to commit murder.

It wasn’t a cry for help. I wanted me dead.

I wanted to die as I put my baby to bed. What kind of mother thinks that? My inner voice screamed. You should be filled with love, you selfish useless cunt.

I wanted to die as I broke open the packet and hesitated, my inner voice whispering sinisterly, that I was a cowardly insect. Grime.

It was relentless.

I was stuck in a cube of cement with an inner voice that was certainly not guiding me with love. And I didn’t even realise or believe that I was broken. Not really.

I had refused medication, for I didn’t trust it.

Medication for what? This isn’t an illness, I would cry, I am just selfish.

I ignored help, because how could anybody help me, there was nothing wrong with me, other than being pathetic.

Even when I was taken in to hospital, I still didn’t see it.

I am just a drama queen. I am not ill. I am too pathetic to even kill myself properly and look how many people I have hurt now.

Only a year ago, it feels like a lifetime.

‘‘You wont be able to silence it immediately,’ My therapist carefully and quietly whispered to me this afternoon from his side of the room, after I had I spoken of how disappointed in myself I was, as that voice, that overpowering voice was once again, becoming louder.

‘You can’t expect yourself to be able to just turn it off, that voice is old and wise and strong. It has been around a lot longer than the knowledge that you can inject a new voice. But you can learn to turn it down.’ He went on. ‘This new voice telling you that you are ok, and a good mum, and deserve care, well it is young. It isn’t strong yet, it is new, the important thing to remember is that it is there, and that you are trying.’

‘Whatever.’ I mumbled petulantly back in response,  like a teenager refusing to take on that I wasn’t pathetic and a failure. It felt oddly comfortable to be insulting myself again.

‘Falling back in to old patterns is what we do when we find ourselves vulnerable and fragile. This doesn’t mean we have ‘relapsed.’ Only that we are learning to recognise the difference between then and now.’

‘Alright.’ I carried on. ‘What time is it? Can I go yet?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’ I asked trying not to stamp my foot.

‘You have ten minutes left. Have you moved on in the last year do you think?’ He asks silencing me with a question he knew I would have to think about.

Have I moved on?

As I pick up the building blocks and listen to my son trying to get to sleep singing a song about ‘big trumps and boobs’ this evening and find myself genuinely laughing, I know that I have, but I also know, I still have a long way to go.

There are two voices now, that’s true, but it is still one hell of a battle.

When things get difficult and I feel like I can’t cope and am to blame (like getting suspended from work for making a terrible mistake) she shouts loud and clear about how pathetic and evil I am for long periods of time, and sometimes I hear her, and I listen and I struggle for a while, I get paranoid that everyone hates me again and I spiral.

And at other times when I drop a bollock, (like letting Addison eat Play Doh… it is ok to let them eat it, isn’t it? I don’t mean as a main meal, I just mean, if he swallowed some when I had my back turned that doesn’t make me a bad mum does it?) I find the strength from god knows where, with the help of medication, because I deserve to be helped, to tell her that not everybody hates me and actually I’m not as bad she thinks I am. (So take that bitch!- I’ll work on my fighting talk as time goes on i suppose. Baby steps and all that.)

Right now I am fighting. (Cos I’m awesome. – cringe!!!)

I have learnt a lot off James this year. (Why am I so god damn mean to him??)

Including that it is ok to be a victim sometimes, and that those thoughts your inner voice tells you – well they aren’t fact.

They are just thoughts, and thoughts can be changed.

Thoughts aren’t facts.

‘What would you say to your best friend Lexy, if she felt weak and pathetic and was constantly beating herself up? What would you say to her? Think about how you would react to her, then do the same for yourself.’

‘It isn’t as easy as that James’ I bite back at him (for no reason whatsoever?!?! He is lovely to me and all I do is stomp around acting like he just told me my skirt was too short!) ‘But to quote pink, I’d probably say;

‘Change the voices in your head, make them like you instead! Cos your perfect, your fuckin perfect!’ and with him rolling his eyes and laughing, I stormed out.

(I really don’t know why.)

I wonder, how I will be, a year from now?

One of the voices in my head just answered very quietly.

It said;

I hope I win.

Just Say Yes… (Exceptions.)

So apparently, and I only found this out recently, so if anyone asks where you heard this from, you absolutely didn’t hear it from me ok? I will totally deny all knowledge of ever telling you this should it come up in court ok?

Can you keep a secret?

So apparently if you call an ambulance and you happen to say you are in a lot of pain, they give you gas and air.

Now.

You all know me well enough by now to know I would never waste ambulance time and jokingly make a farce of somebody else’s funding (Irish one’s funding excluded because his funding doesn’t count – I needed that dress) especially the funding of the NHS, as in the past they have saved my life… twice.

Addison thanks them for that.

I thank them for that. No longer begrudgingly.

And I’m pretty sure the Irish one thanked them for that (right before he looked at his bank statement and wondered whether he just shouldn’t have perverted the course of nature, and that way he could have claimed it all back on the life insurance.)

(I’m not saying he wished me dead, It’s just I probably should have warned him that I’d popped to Selfridges with his card, right before he dialed 999. And I would have done you know, if I had been conscious.)

Anyway, back to topic.

I would never hoax the ambulance service for gas and air, as, as well as the above, I’m also you know, not a druggie (wine doesn’t count) and I’m not an idiot (falling off tram stops sober doesn’t count) and I am absolutely not a time waster (21 pregnancy tests the day after my period doesn’t count) and I am not irresponsible (getting pregnant 7 months in to a relationship and having no money, not withstanding.)

So I hope you understand I am telling you this in deepest confidence (and you are not to tell anyone else) for you know, hypothetical reasons only.

On Wikipedia, Baby Centre and Scoredrugsnow.com (that last one may not be the best example) it clearly states that Gas and air or Entonox as it also commonly referred to, is to be used only in emergency treatment, labour and childbirth to alleviate the common and excruciating symptoms of ‘pain’.

Well I think the government need to add to that list, and so I came up with some exceptions to the rule where I think gas and air should be administered immediately, or at the very least be made available for when people aren’t necessarily in labour, or in pain. (Define – ‘Pain.’)

I think this would have a very positive impact on NHS funding and you know, loads of other political reasons that ill have a think about later. I may even speak to the queen.

A home supply for every mother, father, and clumsy human being, I think, would be ideal.

So, I made a list.

My list is handily called;

Exceptions to the rule. 

• I have run out of wine.  I deserve gas and air.

• My son just ate bird poo. Hand it over.

• A huge wasp just flew near my head.  I screamed and ran around the garden but the little bastard followed me. It was terrifying. (Also – while I’m on this point – how quickly must they be able to three point turn to reverse the sting in to you? Sting or not that shit is impressive.) Give me gas and air.

• Doodle just shat all over my neighbor, as he was sat on his knee, and it was runny. Now please, a mask would be good.

• The Irish one left the used toilet roll on the side again. RIGHT BY THE BIN! Three gulps should do it.

• I noticed my Iphone bobbing about, at the bottom of the toilet, as I stood up to flush!!!  AND I have the stomach flu. Thank you Addison. Hand mummy that canister.

• Addison’s new favourite song ‘BOOBIES, BOOBIES, POO POO AND BIG BOOBIES, MAMMY’S SMELLY BOTTOM BOOBIES’ was just sung at full volume in the queue at the post office. I need a spare bottle for the car. Hand it me. Now.

• Grandma is on her way around. Give me some. Just in case.

• The Word ‘mine.’ Just anytime that word comes out of my son’s mouth. Just to prepare me for the upcoming onslaught of drama when I try to explain that a cucumber will never play music and that I need it, to make dinner. Hand it over.

• Potty training. You better bring a few mouthpieces, as I think I may accidentally end up with the majority of them lodged in my lung. DON’T COCK YOUR LEG, ONLY DOODLE IS ALLOWED TO DO THAT!!! (In a crowded park… against a tree.) NOW ENTONOX NOW.

• Grey’s anatomy. Every. Single. Episode. Gas and air at mine y’all.

• I think I may be pregnant. Oh dear god. Yes I know I am still sat on the loo, and I may not be, but the very thought alone…  Hand it over.

• 6 AM Monday morning? ‘Mammy, I poo poo on pillow.’  All proud of himself. Happy new week. Puff puff. Oh god it’s in his ears.

• What’s that in your mouth honey? What are you chewing? OH MY GOD IT’S A DECAPITATED SPIDER. Mine. Canister. Now.

• Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. FOR THE LOVE OF … Entonox.

• I just stood on the cast and crew of Thomas the tank engine. I now have a Toby shaped hole in the sole of my foot. Gas and air thank you pleeeaase. Ow ow ow ow ow Mother FUCCCCC…

• Clean the garage Saturday yes? Clean the garage Saturday yes? Clean the garage Saturday yes? Clean the garage Saturday yes? Clean the garage Saturday yes? Clean the garage Saturday yes? Clean the garage Saturday yes? Clean the garage Saturday yes? Did he clean the BASTARD garage? NO! HE WATCHED FOOTBALL. I swear to god if you don’t pass me that bottle right now…

Like I say. Exceptions need to be made.

The humans need the gas and air. It is our god given right.

Please add more. Can you think of any more? I am sure you can!

I’m thinking of starting a petition.

*If gas and air makes you sick or you didn’t like it during labour, I have another option. It is called – morphine.

*It says on one of those websites that if you have psychological problems then you probably shouldn’t have gas and air but Pah! What do they know? And anyway… Define- ‘problems.’ I’m being made to listen to Chris De burgh for god sake! I NEED SOME.

*Gas and air is only to be shared with your spouse in extreme circumstances. Like at the arrival of the credit card statement, or when you want to hit him, really hard, but don’t want him to remember.

Hickory Dickory STOP!!

I had an argument with my mother last week.

This isn’t an oddity, as my mother and I, well, although we do get on famously well when discussing anything important like  ‘handbags, make up, perfume and when the Selfridges sale starts’, we don’t always seem to see eye to eye when it comes to the more miniscule of life’s details, like, oooo I don’t know, successful parenting?

She has her tried, tested and successful parenting techniques you see, parenting techniques that ‘did you no harm’ and ‘worked fine with you so I don’t know why it’s all changed now’, and I of course have my ‘new fangled, totally wrong but go ahead and try it, I look forward to saying I told you so’ techniques.

*DO not ever bring up Baby led weaning in our presence PLEASE. I’m serious. Just don’t. Baby led weaning is the root of all-evil! I have been reliably informed it was to blame for the bubonic plague and also that the Queen and Kate Winslet themselves think it is cruel, just cruel!!! It is obviously also the reason Addison doesn’t like vegetables now too, as I ruined his early childhood memories of eating. (Obviously.) So just don’t mention it ok? Please.

I love my mother, I love her lots, Addison adores her, she has done us countless favours and even though over the years we have had our differences (usually because she has been right and I don’t like to admit it)  I have to be honest, she has and is right most of the time when it comes to stuff like… handbags and make-up.

And ok, I relent. She has been right occasionally when it comes to Addison too. (Turns out ice pops aren’t full of goodness and aren’t one of the daily recommended 1 of 5! – Who knew?) ok, she is always right. Thanks mum. I love you.

Anyway, last week as I approached the drive to her house at a sensible 60 miles an hour with ‘that awful Rihanna’ blaring out and Addison ‘head banging in the back of the car’ (this is how she would describe it) we ended up having a little tete-a-tete about suitable childhood music, and I like a naughty teenager, was duly handed a CD of nursery rhymes for the drive home.

Much to my dismay, Addison seems to prefer it to Eminem (It was radio 1!!!! Its not my fault what they play is it? But ok whatever) so I have been forced to endure HOURS OF MINDLESS NUMPTYNESS over the past week instead of the usual array of musical greatness we usually head bang, I, erm, I mean, listen to and I have, in fact come to this conclusion.

NURSERY RHYMES, or EARLY LEARNING SONGS as they are called on this CD actually teach much crueler and much more careless lessons than Rihanna or black Sabbath ever could. (….I don’t actually listen to Black Sabbath, I’m more of a Chesney Hawkes kind of girl, but that’s totally beside the point….was I the only one who grieved when he got his mole removed? Anyway… )

Don’t believe me?

Check these out!!

5 little ducks went swimming one day, over the hills and far away, mummy duck shouted quack quack quack….  Ok, first off, who in their right mind lets their children swim over a hill and far away? Even if it’s a sunny day, that just bad parenting, I mean, and to let them keep going even though she seems to be losing one at a time?? DOES SHE NOT CARE? She is lucky to get any of them back I’m telling you, I’m seriously considering ringing duck protection services the next time I forget to take my meds!!

Hickory Dickory dock…. Ok there is too many things wrong with this song. Firstly why have they rhymed dock with clock and why use dickery? That’s just too funny and I intend to use it the next time The irish one and I are trying not to swear. ‘WHAT THE DICKERY ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?’ and then lets see if mum thinks it’s appropriate huh? And also, Have these people never heard of pest control? Mice are vermin for godsake!! If it’s run down the clock may I suggest a) setting a trap? And b) sealing the hole in the back of the clock? I mean what if it messes with the time? Then what!!!! You’d be dickery Docked!

12345 once I caught a fish alive, 678910, then I threw it back again…  Did you even stop to consider the impact this would have on the fish? It’s just inconsideration.

This old man (what old man?) he played… KNICK KNACK PADDY WHACK ON YOUR WHAT??? Who is this old man and why do I need to give a dog a bone? Is he rolling home from the pub? What kind of lesson is that? I am trying to teach Addison to respect women and not drink in pubs, sure he is only 2, but you can never start too early, and what if he asks me what knick knack paddy whack is huh? What do I say then? His daddy is a paddy!!! Is that not politically correct? WELL THEN NIETHER IS THE SONG! (Just go with me.)

Please pudding hot, please pudding cold? Please pudding in the pot nine days old…some like it hot, some like it cold, and some like it in the pot nine days old… SERIOUSLY? Yes, and some prefer not to get GASTROENTERITIS.

Pat a cake bakers man…– now I like that one. Apart from all the tossing and pricking that is. Just give me the damn cake and baby isn’t getting any. It’s mine.

Do your ears hang low, do they waggle to and fro, (?!?!?!) can you tie them in a knot? Can you tie them in a bow? Can you throw them over your shoulder like a regimental soldier? – Why? What if they did? WHAT IS THE POINT IN THIS SONG???? Is it ok if I can’t do it with my ears, but can with my boobs? DO I still count????

There was a farmer who had a dog and bingo was his name… STOP RIGHT THERE PLEASE DON’T SPELL IT… oh my god. You spelled it. 40 times. And now I need to go back to the mental hospital. But seriously, what was the name of that dog? I forgot.

Polly put the kettle on, Polly put the kettle on, (OK SHE HEARD YOU THE FIRST TIME!) Polly put the kettle on, we will all have tea. Suki take it off again, Suki take it off again, they’ve all gone away… I’m unsure as to whether they all left because you refused to stop singing at Polly or because this song is trying to teach children it is ok to mess with kettles. IT ISNT!! THIS SONG IS DANGEROUS!!!

I’m a little teapot… HERE IS MY SPOUT?  Really? I am re-naming willy to spout from now on. IRISH ONE! KEEP YOUR SPOUT AWAY FROM ME. That is an order, and I will throw my boobs over my shoulder like a regimental soldier to prove it.

Wind the bobbin up… What is a bobbin thank you please? To be honest, it seems to involve a little too much effort for my liking. Why am I pointing to the ceiling? Why am I pointing to the floor? And WHY do I need to put my hand on my knee? IM DRIVING!!! HAVE YOU NEVER HEARD THAT OPERATING A BOBBIN WHILE DRIVING IS DANGEROUS?  I should have this CD reported to the DVLA.

And don’t even get me started on the spider ones!

I like hey Diddle Diddle though. It was clearly written by somebody on day 2 of new medication while staying in a mental institute. I remember it well.

It was me who jumped over the moon, and the dish did run away with the spoon. I KNEW IT!!!!

ANYWAY, as of tomorrow we will be listening to Rihanna again*.

‘When the sun shine, we shine together, told you I’d be here forever, said I’d always be your friend, took a note and now I’m gonna stick it out till the end, now that its raining more than ever, know that we’ll still have each other, you can stand under my umbrella…EE EEE EEE EEE !!!’

Those lyrics say more to my son, inspire more hope in me, and ensure more smiles, than 5 little speckled frogs sitting on a speckled log eating poop (not original lyrics) ever could. (That’s my excuse and I am sticking to it.)

HEAD BANG ADDY HEAD BANG!

*I may change to nursery rhymes sometimes. If I have to. On a Wednesday. Between 10-11. If it’s raining… or if he tantrums… which is likely…  you know what? I’ll just buy ear plugs.

Jubilee Memory’s. (Who the hell is Edward?)

‘Why would a gorilla be on the boat with the queen?’

He plonks himself down on the sofa in front of where Addison and I are now attempting to re-create the leaning tower of pizza out of mega blocks, well I am, Addison has now grown bored and has taken to throwing them at Doodle instead, and stares at me with an odd look.

The television is blaring out the jubilee celebrations in the background, while Doodle tries to shimmy up my jumper in a desperate bid to get away from the plastic pellet attack currently taking place, and outside as ever the rain is pouring.

‘Pardon?’ I ask him confused from my crossed legged position in mini Italy. (Thinking about it now, I totally should have been building Buckingham Palace. Damn it. Nevermind…)

‘Eh?’ he responds tiredly rubbing his eyes ‘which bit? Are we going to the supermarket at some point?’

‘All of it.’ I yawn, ‘who said anything about a gorilla? And yes I suppose we are.’

‘You did. When?’

‘What? When? I don’t know, in a bit. I’m not even dressed.’

‘Just then!’ he half shouts growing irritated by the noise Doodle is now emitting as Addison pins him down and tries to shove a single red block where a single red block should never be shoved.

‘Addison Stop it!’ he yells, as Addison being Addison jumps up and tries to look innocent, this child has an unhealthy fascination with trying to shove things in Doodle’s behind ‘you JUST asked me why there is a gorilla on the boat with the queen.’

‘Camilla.’ I spell out slowly at the realisation of his dimwitted half heard error, but kind of wishing I had asked him that and imaging how random that would have been, before prizing the mega block from my sons hand and batting Doodle away from where he is now trying to reverse in to my mouth backwards to escape the torture. ‘I asked you if that was CAMILLA on the boat with the queen. Doodle get down!’ I admonish. ‘My mouth is not a place for you to hide!’

‘Ah. Yes I suppose it would have been, she is married to Edward now isn’t she? A gorilla would have been more interesting to watch though.’

‘True.’ I relent nodding. ‘So are we going to the supermarket? Wait, Edward? Who is Edward?’

‘TRAIN SHOP, TRAIN SHOP AND SAUSAGES?’ Addison climbs on my knee, shouts this in my face and bites my nose. While I am trying to detangle myself from his tiny teeth, The Irish one grabs the remote from beside me on the floor.

‘The queen’s son.’ He says pointing the remote at the telly and starting to flick through the channels ‘is there nothing else on apart from jubilee stuff?’

‘Edward isn’t the queen’s son.’ I respond trying to stand up, planning on going and getting dressed so we can go to the supermarket but being severely hindered by the two year old I seem to be wearing like a necklace.

‘Yes he is. He’s the one married to Camilla, you know, the one who used to be married to Diana but then ran off with Camilla after she died.’

I look at him confused and try to respond, even though I now have ten fingers in my mouth, none of which belong to me.

‘That’s Charles.’ I say, my voice muffled ‘And I’m not sure they ran off. She is on the boat with the queen isn’t she? Are you going to get dressed so we can go out? We need bread and sausages. We could walk?’

Doodle jumps at the sound of the word ‘walk’ directly on to The Irish One’s knee and begins licking his face. He spits, laughs, wipes his mouth and pushes him down ‘we don’t. I got some yesterday. No let’s drive. So who is the queen’s husband then? Is that Edward?’

I limp in to the hallway dragging Addison, who now, like a limpet, is clinging to my leg and singing ‘Incy wincy Spider’ at top volume and shout that the queens husband is ‘Phillip, I think. Do I have to drive? We only need juice!’

‘Is he the one with the bladder infection?’ He responds from behind me, also coming to get dressed. ‘We don’t need juice. I got some yesterday.’

‘I don’t know?!’ I laugh while tearing Addison off my leg and pulling my jeans on. ‘How would I know? How do you even know that?’

‘Doodle Get down!!’ we both shout in unison as Doodle jumps on the bed, and attempts to pin Addison down.

‘He text me.’ He responds smugly, shimmying off to the bathroom with a grin. ‘We are pretty close are Phil and I. We are best buds.’

‘Addison go brush your teeth’ I smile, sending him after his mad daddy.

‘Well maybe you should ask him who Edward is then!’ I laugh, running a brush through my hair, ‘and if that was Camilla on the boat!’

He sticks his head around the bedroom door and winks.

‘Why would there be a gorilla on the boat?’

I laugh and start the search for my boots.

‘TRAIN SHOP TRAIN SHOP TRAIN SHOP!’ Addison shouts, spitting tooth paste everywhere. ‘TRAIN SHOP WITH EDWARD AND A GORILLA!’

‘Addison, bathroom!’ We both command simultaneously as Doodle comes trotting in with his lead hanging  out of his mouth and trips Addison up. (Revenge. No doubt about it.)

‘So who is Edward?’ I think momentarily before starting the search for my car keys.

It was only when we got to the supermarket that we realised we didn’t actually need anything and we had left the telly on, and I still didn’t know who Edward was. By now, however, the conversation had moved on to crowns and trucks, vespa’s and pork pies. It was a very british conversation.

So what did we buy?

3 union Jack flags, some cake and a bottle of coke. (It was the only british food we all could agree on. Is coke even british? Anyway…)

We then returned to the flat, waved our flags, sat on the sofa, ate some cake,  drank our coke and watched… Toy story.

Proud to all be british, although I may need to brush up on my knowledge before Addison starts school and I need to know this stuff.

Having grown up in Spain, see, I was only taught about the spanish Monarchy. (That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it, but don’t ask me about the Spanish Monarchy because… erm… ill be too busy waving my british flag to answer!’)

Long live the queen! (Who was in fact talking to CAMILLA on the boat, I think. Well. I’m not sure they spoke, but I’m pretty sure she was there. Wasn’t Kate’s dress nice?)

Happy Jubilee.

What would your Jubilee memory be?

I Should Never have Gotten out of the Car. (Booo!)

“Is there any such thing as a healthy relationship?’

His curious and caring eyes are not robust enough to penetrate my armor today, no matter how much I hunger for them to be.

No matter how desperately I crave for them to be.

The setting of my therapy has changed.

I pull up on the gravel pathway nowadays, usually in the rain, open the car door, letting my feet fall on to the stones outside and I sit for a while, staring up at the old Victorian building that time has ravaged.

There is no doubt in my mind that this building used to be majestic, stunning and warm, but what time has left behind can only kindly be described as an ugly shit hole.

I wonder if time ever has to answer for all the hurt it causes?

It takes me a little longer to find the courage to enter therapy these days without the backdrop of the hospital guiding me in, and without the security of anyone knowing where I am.

It takes me a little longer to trust.

Sometimes, as I sit on the eccentric purple sofa in this new room, trying and failing to find a restful position, that gives both the impression I am supported yet uncomfortable, facing James, I vividly imagine releasing bucket after bucket of tears and pain, with slow methodical like actions on to the thick cream carpet, that swallows my feet, between us.

I imagine, almost dream like, not being able to stop as the gushing of the pain and the tears soaks the space between us and the carpet becomes so sodden that it can no longer hold anymore and like the giving of a dam, I then imagine that we each begin to float away from each other in the tide, him in his comfy one seater with his new converse on with the labels turned down, and me, barefoot on my lonely three seater.

And then once again I can be alone, and will be able to escape his annoying questions, questions that I do not want to answer just yet, thank you very much.

I imagine calling out ‘WILSONNNNNN!’ like Tom hanks does in Castaway, except it won’t be a baseball that is floating away sadly, it will be a bottle of wine that I have drawn a smiley face on. A smiley face that looks exactly like my therapist.

‘WILSONNNNN!!!!!!’ I daydream, wishing the hour was up but knowing it has just begun, ‘if only you were here!!!’

Because I honestly do think, my therapist and I would get on a hell of a lot better over a glass of wine, or maybe a bottle.

I would definitely be more honest that is for damn sure.

I rest my head on the hard sofa arm and toy with the idea of picking up my coat and throwing it over my head.

I do this sometimes when he makes me feel uncomfortable and it makes things easier to handle.

Sure, I must look like an idiot, but hey, I am paying him £40 an hour so if I want to act like a lunatic I bloody will.

One day I may even pretend to be a ghost just to see what he does.

‘Oooo James, BOOOOOOO!’

Not today though. Instead I look up at the gilded angels carved in to the horrifically decorated ‘dildo’ rail scaling the four corners of the old Victorian ceiling, and I sigh.

I want to be able to say no, that I don’t believe there is any such thing as a healthy or happy relationship but I am too frightened, because I don’t know if I believe that answer to be true deep down and I also know this will inevitably lead to more questions, that I really don’t want to answer.

‘Well?’ he asks again as I studiously try to ignore the little black box sat to the left of my head, recording every word I say probably for when he needs therapy to get over my therapy, and try not to think about wine.

I didn’t want to talk about relationships today.

I wanted to come in to this room and bury myself beneath the Latin scrolled cushions, curl up and have him tell me I would be ok.

I wanted him to tell me that it wasn’t me who was bad in relationships, but everyone else, and that telling the Irish one he was a Loser and a Bastard and deserved to die for forgetting the milk was understandable. That he was a bastard as milk is vital. I wanted him to confirm to me that nobody liked me, that people hurt me on purpose.

I wanted him to tell me that I was right, everybody left in the end, or died, or betrayed you, and I was right to trust nobody and pushing people away was the only sensible thing to do.

I wanted to be understood, but instead, I found myself irritated by a question, at the root of it, I was unable to answer.

Because at the root of it, I know it is I, who is unhealthy, who is unhappy and who is unable to forgive herself.

I wouldn’t choose to live in my brain if the choice were ever offered, I wouldn’t choose to have to drive over the 60 foot bridge that 7 years ago my brother collapsed off, twisting and hurtling in the dead of night, all alone, in to the icy waters below, so exhausted by living in his brain that this terrifying action seemed an easier thing to do than live, and I wouldn’t choose depression.

Every day I cross that bridge in my car and I hear his fear.

I am not normal, we are not normal, I am evil, we are evil.

I sense his pain.

I hear his core beliefs echoed in my own.

I touch the back of my head and I shiver as the water fills my ears and the ice stings my lungs.

Some days I cross with my foot down and I block it out with medication, with singing, with hopes and dreams of a life I one day hope to live.

A life where my core beliefs don’t tell me I deserve nothing.

Some days I feel free, I feel loved and supported.

Others,

Like today, I don’t realise I am sobbing until I feel my neck wet and my soul drain.

Another bucket of pain that wont seem to empty, no matter how hard I god damn try.

Some days I wish I could just drift away.

I can’t answer his question today, so instead I ignore it and do the only sensible thing left to do.

I pick a fight with him instead.

‘Four days respite I got on holiday. Four fucking days of being at peace. I wasn’t happy, although god knows how much I tried to be, I was at peace, only four days that’s it, out of Fourteen! Four days that the illness granted me a respite, a peace treaty. AND THIS ILLNESS IS SEEN AS A CHOICE? Is this how it is going to be for the rest of my fucking life? Fighting with myself? Blaming myself? Feeling selfish and not being able to explain why I am the way I am? Feeling the disappointment deep in my heart, the disappointment I see in etched in to my loved ones eyes when they see it is back? Not being able to pretend? Feeling hopeless?  Feeling like a god damn failure? When will therapy start to help? I hate therapy and I hate you.’

He smiles from beneath his slow shock.

‘There is no such thing as therapy Lexy.’ He states clearly. ‘What we have is a relationship, and I can hear you.’

When the feeling of wanting to strangle him passes and I am once again safely ensconced back in the car on the way home, it hits me what he has said.

He is always there for me.

I talk to him.

He listens.

I cry to him.

He cares.

I ask for help.

He helps.

I tell him how evil I feel.

He doesn’t judge.

He gets to the root of me.

He pisses me off.

He sets boundaries and he offers me advice.

I feel uncomfortable, but maybe there is such a thing as a healthy and happy relationship.

Maybe he is teaching me they do exist, maybe he is showing me I have more than one in my life, even if I do think I am evil and don’t deserve anyone.

I owe him a lot.

My THERAPIST who gives me THERAPY.

How in the hell can therapy not exist???

God he is so annoying.

‘WILLLSOOOOONNNNN!!!!!’ *Slurps wine.*