What does it matter as long as you are Happy?

I know how the other half live.

I used to be one of them, you see.

I used to belong to the other half.

But then the money vanished, evaporated in to thin air, and what I have now, a 2 bedroom flat filled with love, laughter, the smell of excitement only a toddler can create and sticky toffee pudding everyday.

Well I wouldn’t change any of it.

Not for the world.

Yes we struggle

But it is in the struggle, that we find our strength of character as a family.

Other than being depressed, suicidal and a little bit psychotic on occasion, I actually really like my life.

Mostly.

We were sitting on the bonnet of our car at the airfield.

It was a free day out, and we were loving it.

It isn’t my car.

It is our car.

It is like a skip on wheels.

We were happily munching on MacDonald’s nuggets and shouting, pointing and giggling in to the sky as the by planes and the numerous ‘ticker ticker’s’ circled above us.

‘It’s not a plane mummy, it’s a shopping basket with wings…’ he pointed as a micro lite took off in front of us, and I laughed.

I have taught my son well.

I am proud of his vocabulary and his sense of humour, I am proud of his ability to remember everything I say (‘Daddy is a lazy git’ not withstanding) and repeat it at opportune moments.

‘Daddy you are such a lazy git’

Cringe.

I love our time together, playing plasticine (picking it out of my hair) singing stupid songs (chick chick chick chick chicken lay a little egg for meeee) at 4am but mostly I love that we are who we are.

Sometimes I am a crap mum.

I burn the dinner, I feed him MacDonald’s, I don’t bath him for a week, I run out of butter and pretend it is hiding under the jam, I make up my own words to nursery rhymes and so far? I have managed to save precisely nothing for his college fund.

We are skint. (I don’t know what is wrong with me, I have an illness. I just spent my last £40 on a handbag. If I weren’t already in therapy I would ask for therapy I mean it. When I say my last £40 I mean from my secret account, the Irish one still has money so I can just spend that, and there is always the joint account – it will be fine!)

But right now?

We are best friends my boy and me, and having missed out on two years of this, having had 657 days of this stolen from me by post natal depression… well, I live for these moments

But they were laughing at us.

I didn’t hear it at first, as we were too busy enjoying the brief relief of shade the Porsche Cayenne that just pulled up beside us was casting.

It took a while but eventually I realised the back of my head was on fire.

I turned to see a gaggle of platinum blonde women huddled on a wooden pub bench in the beer garden, directly behind where we had parked and were enjoying our special day together, all glaring at me.

We packed away and decided to go on the slide, already the glitter of my treasured moment in the process of being wiped off,  but trying to admonish myself with thoughts of paranoia and how they probably weren’t laughing at me, I was just imagining it.

I was trying not to listen to the voices in my head telling me they were right to hate us.

As we approached the play area, we noticed that on the swings, clad entirely in Ralph Lauren blue and white outfits sat two children, ice blonde and blued eyed and sitting completely still, also glaring at us.

They looked like the Children of the Corn.

Even Addison wasn’t sure, and clung on to my hand for dear life.

‘Wanker!’

‘Pardon?’ I asked, my mouth hanging open as I waited for Addison to come down the slide a little while later, having avoided eye contact with the freaky kids up until this point, in case I burst in to flames or something.

The little boy grinned at me, and I swear he looked inside my soul and he knew my biggest fear.

Scary looking thing.

‘OY!’

I turned around to find I was being summoned by the mother hen and her cluckery of feathery plonkers, all preening and flicking their hair and adjusting their jewelry, not taking their eyes off me, in my dungarees and doc martins (I am not a lesbian just to clarify here, I just have dodgy dress sense) for a second.

‘Can I help?’ I responded a little taken aback by her tone.

‘What did your son just shout?’ the skinny and sucked in turkey asked me from between thin lips, standing up and pointing her edgy elbows towards me haughtily.

‘My son didn’t say a word’ I responded trying to stay calm.

I was outnumbered.

I felt like a worm in a hen house.

‘It was actually your child that shouted the W word. Not mine.’

And I smiled.

Because I wanted them to leave me alone.

I wanted them to see that I had been suffering with depression and didn’t have it in me to be intimidated. I wanted them to see I was vulnerable and just wanted to enjoy a day with my little boy. I wanted them to go away. I wanted to not feel like I was back at school again being bullied. I wanted to leave the pain outside, just for today.

Like most Disney Villains though,  Madame. Turkey face wasn’t one for letting it go. She was like a bulldog chewing a wasp.

She stayed stock-still and very slowly swiveled her head towards her son, who quivered under her gaze, and to be honest I couldn’t blame the kid.

‘Theo, come here!’ and with that, she sat down.

No apology, no smile, no nothing.

I let it go.

We continued to play.

A teenage boy appeared around the corner and headed, trembling with exhilaration, that much was obvious, towards their table.

His cheeks were pink and his eyes wide.

‘It was brilliant!’ He exploded.

They barely looked at him while they nodded, routing in their purses to send him to the bar for more drinks.

‘I flew it all by myself!!!’

They ignored him.

‘I flew all the way back from Southport by myself!!’

‘Well done darling, can you go get us another bottle from the bar?’

He slumped past us.

I couldn’t help myself.

‘Excuse me,’ I asked a little in awe at the teenager.  ‘Did you just fly a plane?’

I could feel the mothers turning my way but carried on regardless. I wanted to know.

‘I did!’ He puffed his chest out. ‘It was amazing. I am learning to be a pilot.’

Oh how the other half live.

‘Wow! Addy’ I said getting on my knees to face my sticky faced monster who smelt of bbq sauce ‘this big boy just flew a plane!’

Addy gave him a shy smile, and ran off with him arms outstretched…. ‘Big boy flew a plane!’

‘You going to fly me to America one day on a jumbo?’ I winked and he laughed before agreeing that one day he probably would.

It was as I ran after Addison that I heard her.

‘Chav cow.’

My heart was pounding but I wasn’t going to leave it.

‘Pardon?’ I asked bravely, standing up to her.

‘Nothing.’ Elbows responded and picked up her champagne glass.

‘Sorry,’ I pretended to back down ‘I thought you called me a chav?’

They all smirked behind their designer glasses but said nothing.

I turned back around, blinking back the tears and shakily ran after Addison.

I wanted to go home.

I don’t belong to you.

My soul is not yours to crush.

I am not strong enough right now.

As we were leaving, I waved goodbye to the pilot teenager who had just returned from the bar.

He smiled and waved back, happy for some attention, I thought.

‘Oh just get lost already!’

They glared at me.

I snapped.

I walked back to the table and I said the only thing I knew they would hear.

‘What are you going to do if all the money runs out?’

And with that I turned around and began to walk away.

They were laughing, loud, confused and shocked.

Maybe they were expecting me to start shouting and screaming, maybe they expected me to live up to a label they had given me, without knowing anything about me.

But shouting and screaming?

That isn’t my style.

(The Irish one is gagging to disagree here, but just ignore him.)

My face was glowing red, I felt like an idiot, but I know they will remember it.

I would have.

‘In the moment’ they were laughing at me.

But tonight, lying in their beds, they will think about us.

About me, in my dungarees, with my hair tied up, covered in muck, and Addy – laughing.

They will think about how happy we looked.

And then it will hit them.

What if the money does run out?

How will they pay for their children’s therapy?

Will the memories of their flash cars keep them warm at night?

What is important here?

Or.

Maybe they won’t.

Maybe they will never cast their minds on to me and my best friend again.

Maybe the money will never run out.

But either way we got the last word.

‘Wanker!!!’ he shouted extremely loud and extremely clear just as we got back to the car.

And this time it was Addison.

And they heard him.

And it was my turn to laugh.

Well done Son.

Marbles. Scattered. Everywhere…

My therapist behaved like a goat today.

I am not sure I can be much clearer than that to be honest.

It isn’t a metaphor.

I was sitting on his plushy three seater purple sofa, my legs curled up underneath me, my phone on silent beside me, the summer rain angrily pounding the window behind me, and absentmindedly ploughing through my troubles, all inside of me.

The past few weeks there have been issues.

I feel as if on occasion, I have been forced to eat and chew through, and swallow and stomach a lot of different people’s dinner, and because I have been filling up and feeling nauseous and bloated from eating all of their food, there has been no room for mine, and no inclination for me, to eat my own.

When I have sat down to eat mine, while listening to some music, putting a wash on, playing Thomas the Tank engine and trying to decipher the council tax bill, I have felt so full and sick I have just ignored it.

Left it on the side to go moldy and sweaty. (God I hate sweaty food, don’t you?)

I have been ignoring the smell, ignoring the flies, the warning signs, and continuing to finish the dinner of others.

That is a metaphor. Obviously.

You see, I am currently trying to lose weight, so of course all I can think of is food.

But do you understand what I mean?

‘I understand, Lexy.’ James my therapist responds for the first time as a human and not as a farmyard animal.

I paused for a second at the sound of him speaking but when my phone flashed on the table beside me; I glanced guiltily towards it, trying to scope who had text me without it being obvious, when out of the silence, I heard it properly again.

He was baaing at me.

Like a goat.

Again.

He is quite sexy my therapist. He is what I would describe in this setting as a sexy, caring, cute, kind hearted, warm eyed and precious… goat. He sits, each time I see him, unraveled in front of me in his armchair, waiting and selflessly willing to help me ‘eat my dinner.’

Seriously. Cant. Stop. Thinking. Of. Food.

I am not sure what the point he was making was, although at some point I am sure I asked, I cant actually remember, but everyone has their own stuff don’t they? I didn’t want to press it, in case he got upset.

Maybe he was grieving for a long lost dead goat or something, I don’t know.

Like I say, I can’t remember.

I don’t remember much at the moment.

It worries me.

It’s like stuff is falling out of my head.

I don’t mean long ago memories and the likes either.

No.

I am not actually forgetting the stuff I would LOVE to forget.

Remember falling off a table headfirst in to the crotch of your best friend’s dad when you were drunk, and shouldn’t have been, on your 16^th birthday? Check.

Remember what letter comes after K in the alphabet? Um….

I’m losing the mundane stuff and none of the stuff that still makes me go red!!! (Sorry Mr. Torrebadella.)

I now, am unable to spell ‘house’ without spell check (haus) and on Friday last week I was interviewing someone for my ‘aunty Janice’ (she needs an assistant for her new business) and forgot their name at least 34 times during the half an hour slot.

I was already mortified but when he went to leave I was quietly confident I finally had it nailed and merrily shouted ‘goodbye Steve!’ as he left.

And do you know what I heard him mutter under his breath?

‘Its Fucking Dave, you moron!’

Oh the shame.

I am a moron.

I do remember however, that when I was sectioned ‘they’ mentioned memory loss as all being part of depression, but to be honest, I struggle with that.

I don’t like to think depression could rob me of anymore than it already has.

The word depression is really starting to scare me.

In a big way.

I guess I am only now beginning to fully understand the consequences and the potential physical harm of constantly fighting and living with this illness myself.

It is frightening me.

It is just so foreboding and intimidating.

Anyway… So when I remembered this, I did what I always do with stuff that scares me (phone bills, the gas man, eggs….) I locked it in the cupboard marked ‘THINK ABOUT IT SOME TIME NEXT NEVER’ and instead decided to take matters in to my own hands, and diagnose myself, by of course typing Memory Loss in to Google.

The sensible thing to do.

I thought if I could prove it wasn’t depression, I would have nothing to be scared of.

Turns out that instead of depression, I potentially now have either, Aids, south American worms living in my inner ear, Dementia, Alzheimer’s or the EBOLA VIRUS!

It was at this point and with a huge sigh of relief that I unlocked the ‘THINK ABOUT IT SOME TIME NEXT NEVER’ cupboard (letting out the gas man too- poor bloke was starving) and felt slightly relieved that I probably wasn’t going to shit out my gall bladder any time soon and that it probably was depression causing my memory loss.

Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.

‘What makes you believe you are forgetting things Lexy?’

(Therapist rule number one – NEVER ASK WHY, ALWAYS; WHAT WHO OR WHERE. WHY IS UNANSWERABLE!!!)

I shift in my seat, secretly pleased he has stopped behaving like a goat and beginning to wonder if I had imagined the whole thing. I then begin to panic about what else I may have imagined,  and after pondering whether the Irish one actually did do the washing up this morning or if I just imagined it,  I then come to and realise, shit! He has asked me something!!!

‘What?’ I whisper.

‘What? Are you Joking?’ He doesn’t look amused.

‘What?’ By now I am alarmed.

He sighs. ‘You have an irritating way of making a point, I asked what is it that is making you think you are forgetting things!’

It was at this point I started to cry.

It was as if a damn had burst.

I was gutted, and sad, and lost and mostly scared.

‘Probably because I have the Ebola Virus or Aids, or lots of tiny worms living in my ….’ I burst out between sobs. ‘Or maybe, maybe I am losing my memory because this depression is actually sending me mad.  I am scared James, I am so scared. This illness terrifies me James. I feel like it has the power to steal me from myself. Sometimes all I hear in my head are monsters. The noise is so loud. Louder and louder. Everybody’s voices, everybody’s troubles, my own voices, my own self hatred, my mother, my father, I even hear Doodle barking!’

I pause and reach for a tissue. My hand shaking. The worst was still to come.

‘Yesterday I made Addy dinner and forgot to feed it him. He must have been starving! I only realised when I had put him to bed. He had his desert, and his bottle and I was praising him for eating all his dinner, but he didn’t eat it! It was sat by the sink!’

I shake with guilt and fear.

He waits until I have finished.

And.

Then.

The bastard… BAA’S AT ME AGAIN!!!!

Snot flies down my noes as I explode with laughter, all over his rug. (Sorry again Mr. Torrebadella.)

‘You have to slow down. I am putting you back on one thing at a time. You have to be able to eat your own dinner. Try to politely refuse everybody else’s issues. When it gets too much, apologise and walk away…’

‘But then I feel badly for doing so! It is a never ending cycle!’ I interrupt, frustrated ‘then my brain tells me I don’t care, or I am not a nice person, or that they hate me!’

‘Homework.’ He responds. ‘In the moment.’

‘This week you are not allowed to multi-task at all. AT ALL. If you are playing with Addison, put your phone down. If you are washing up, wash up. Dance, please try to enjoy the feeling of doing one thing at a time.

I want you to slow down. Your brain my speed up at first, but eventually it will slow down. Do you hear me? ONE THING AT A TIME. Slow down.’

‘Ok’ I sniffled, and after spending at least 20 minutes looking for the car, I finally set off home.

The problem is, I don’t know how to do one thing at a time anymore.

I am a mother.

But I think it may be important to at least try.

Which is why I am going to stop typing while I eat this cake.

MMMM cake.

Anyway, what was I saying?

Oh that’s right!

My therapist baa’s like a goat at me, and I can’t remember why!

Maybe he has the Ebola virus.*

*Or tiny mexican worms in his ears.

Oh my god!!! I can’t believe I just ate CAKE!!! I am on a diet!!!!!!!!!

Medically Recognised Moose.

‘Some people won’t be happy until they have pushed you to the ground. What you have to do is have the courage to stand your ground and not give them the time of day. Hold on to your power and never give it away….’ – Donna Schoenrock.

I have to be honest.

I don’t have it in me to write at the moment.

I am wading through mud.

Every. Single. Second.

I am lacking in the vitality, shall we say, required to even make eye contact with society.

I just want to sleep.

And sleep and sleep and sleep, and maybe moan a bit, and then maybe sleep some more.

(When I say ‘moan,’ I mean like ‘moan,’ like complain, not moan like ‘orgasm’- just to be clear here. Lord knows I don’t have the energy for that right now. Well, I may do, if I didn’t have to make the necessary conversation afterwards… Why is Ann summers so damn expensive??)

Anyway, my depression has never manifested like this before.

Usually, when I am experiencing an episode (as I have taken to calling it) my illness propels me, like a woman out of a comedy circus rocket. I speed in to the universe with my hair and my all in one silver shiny clad arse, bulging, wobbling and shaking about from the G-force, behind me, like a lardy superwoman on crack cocaine.

I don’t even have a cape to hide my rump. They don’t make them in my size.

Honestly, I can be found in my darkest of moments, zipping around the place like a shocked monkey that has been inadvertently strapped to a Formula 1 car on a humid day.

Sweating and with massively uncontrollable hair.

‘Lexy are you ok?’ People will gasp as I jog past them in a flash of twenty-two inch heels, carrying 9 files, an oven and my car, a massive grin plastered on my face.

I don’t hear them of course, as quite clearly, by the time they get to the bit with the question mark, I am already in Azerbaijan, offering to do somebody’s washing up.

That’s how fast I normally am when I’m depressed.

The Mo dance is actually an M for Mammywoo.

Seriously.

But, the last few months have been weird and different and unsettling, the last few months I have fought to stay awake.

I have fought to wake up, to operate.

I have fought not to drive from my bed to the bathroom, and cursed that my hallway isn’t big enough to squeeze a VW polo in to it.

My illness has grown, my illness seems to have evolved, it is smart.

It is 3 o’clock on any normal day, and in Northern Crazy town where I currently live (I used to live in Central West crazy town but was forced to move when the Jackson family emigrated here) a major shit storm has been circling for a few weeks showing absolutely no signs of letting up.

The shit storm is what is making me tired.

The shit storm is what is making me want to lie down.

The shit storm has a name.

For the purposes of today I shall name the Shit Storm… ummmm…. Slag Wagon.

Yes. Slag Wagon.

Like I said, I live in Crazy town.

We have crazy names for shit out here.

You should come visit, ill let you know when I’ve got rid of Slag Wagon and we can share an apple.

Because Slag wagon is ferocious, she can paralyze you with a simple flick of her thin hair.

Because Slag Wagon is unrelenting, she can point out your darkest corners and illuminate your weaknesses to those who shouldn’t see them, with a raise of her over plucked eyebrow.

Because Slag Wagon is ignorant, but manipulative, she ensures you believe her ignorance is because you aren’t worth it.

And I wouldn’t want you to have to meet her.

Slag Wagon is sneaky.

She can be loud and purposeful in her tirade.

But.

She can also be silent and manipulative, turning you inside out, without even speaking.

Slag wagon? She is a Troll Whore.

A Troll Whore in ugly clothes, smiling, a precious smile.

Today is 3 o’clock in Crazy town.

And Slag Wagon is doing what she does best.

Wiping me of all my confidence and sucking the life out of me through my eyeballs.

Making me think everybody hates me, that I am useless and that the world may end any second and I will never see my son again.

Does Slag Wagon sound familiar to you?

I am distracted as my phone rings and I am shaken by Slag Wagon like a dildo in a plate of jelly when I realise who is calling.

‘Hello?’  I answer my phone, avoiding Slag Wagon’s gaze and immediately, and without really noticing myself until afterwards, shifting from the curled form of a battered kitten, bruised, tired of the fight and yet still struggling to breathe in to a majestic and powerful lioness sensing the impending danger of something attacking her terrain.

Slag Wagon hasn’t noticed.

She has moved on to her next victim.

Damn it I wish she would notice I am capable maybe then she would leave me alone.

I watch her retreating flabby arse with relief and feel my confidence seep back in to the space between my bones.

Just breathe, everything will be ok.

‘Hi Lexy, it’s Gary, where are you?’

Gary is my next-door neighbor (the one Doodle released his colon and his anal glands all over last summer. It was a messy affair. That sounds like a film title but it isn’t. God imagine a film about that. Anyway… )

SHIT!

WHY IS GARY ON THE PHONE?

Immediately my brain is on high alert and my hair starts to swell, my face taking on a monkey expression.

Slag Wagon, of course, jumps on for the ride of her life.

Why is Gary calling me?

What could he want?

Maybe he wants a cigarette?

But I’m not in.

He knows I’m not in.

Surely he doesn’t expect me to drive home from work and give him a cigarette?

No that can’t be it.

Oh. My. God.

Something terrible must have happened.

Has the chemical plant blown up?

No it couldn’t have.

He would be dead and he wouldn’t be able to call me.

UNLESS HE HAS TURNED IN TO A ZOMBIE!

Oh my god I have a zombie on the phone!

He doesn’t sound like a zombie though.

OH.MY. GOD.

Has someone been run over?

But why would he call me?

Maybe he thinks I ran them over and scarpered.

But I would never do that!

Oh. My. God.

Is my house burning down?

Why is he calling me and not 999?

For the love of god man, call 999!!!!

Oh my god Doodle will go up like a cotton ball on a bonfire!

He is highly flammable!

OH. MY. GOD.

WHY THE HELL HAS THIS BURNING ZOMBIE CALLED ME?

Or did I just leave the washer on?

Does he just want a cigarette?

‘Gary?’ I respond, my octave so high, dogs in the nearby offices (yes dogs in offices, this is CRAZY town) start howling. ’ Is everything ok? Oh my god. I’m at work? Is the house burning down? ARE YOU A ZOMBIE?’

‘No no its ok… wait, what?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Okkkk, Well I thought I’d call as I am sat in the garden. Where is the Irish one?’

‘Oh my god is THE IRISH ONE on fire?’

Pictures of the Irish one running round the garden shouting Irish obscenities like BEEEJEEZZUS! With his bearded chin alight and smoking, filter quickly through my mind.

‘No, no I was just…. wait, what?’

‘Gary I don’t know. I think he is in bed? I don’t know! Gary what is going on?’

My lioness is slowly joining the frenzied orangutan, Slag Wagon and Michael Schumacher.

‘I think Doodle has got out. He’s ok but he is out in the garden on his own. No drama. ‘

I finish the phone call, start another immediately, ball the Irish one a little bit for not being on fire but asleep in such a Doodle related emergency and then I breathe.

And as I take a deep breath.

I realise.

I am not a battered kitten, so why am I behaving like one?

Why am I giving Slag Wagon this power?

I know what she is.

She is an illness.

She does not own my mind.

I am a 32 year old woman with a good heart.

I am capable, and loving and totally sane.

Why do I give her my power so freely?

Why do I crumble in to a million pieces at the thoughts she places in my head?

Worst case scenario thoughts, that if they happened, I would be able to deal with.

One way or another, but probably won’t happen!

Why do I curl up in protection and take on board her opinions of me even when I know they are wrong?

Why do I let this illness attack me so ferociously with her manipulative, ignorant bullshit?

She tells me I am weak and evil and selfish with the flick of her hair.

She tells me Addison will die and places will blow up.

She tells me everyone hates me.

She tells me I am worthless.

When actually it is her.

Will I ever get the strength to fight her?

Ignore the intimidating takeover of my senses?

Slag wagon is a full on Slag Wagon.

Am I strong enough to fight back?

I don’t even know where to start.

I feel the panic coming on and I immediately think I am going to die.

My breath is raspy and panicked.

I need control.

I need to breathe.

Maybe this is a starting point.

Labelling Slag Wagon and recognising her as weaker than my resolve?

I don’t know.

I need to label my fight back maybe?

Outsmart the cowbag?

I think for the purposes of Crazy Town I shall label this fight – Start to take deep breaths and remember you are in control, and aren’t alone and also get out of bed.

Back off bitch, or you will regret it, if i wanted to be I could totally be a ZOMBIE!

Me, my support and my Meds are coming to get you.

Slag Wagon, is of course, normally called – Anxiety*.

*But Slag Wagon is a medically recognized term originating from a Wagon full of Slags that were always worried. It happened years ago. In the Stone Age maybe, or at some point anyway.