I was falling asleep last night, and as has happened many times before during the hazy twilight between where my two worlds (questionable reality and dreams) meet, I had this truly amazing, outstanding and simply ingenious idea.
I was going to throw caution to the proverbial (dog) wind and bite the proverbial (dog) biscuit.
(Doodle is poorly again. I have the smell of dog ingrained in my nostrils… It makes it hard to think of anything else.)
(Sometimes I feel that perhaps if I didn’t spend quite so much time cleaning up dog
diahhorrea diabhorrea shit, I would be a much more productive depressed person. It’s kind of hard to lie in bed and think dark thoughts when you are being serenaded by Poodle ‘bottom pops’ and squirts.)
(ACTUALLY, maybe all this dog doo is part of the reason I am depressed! Anyway…)
‘Depression isn’t a choice though is it James?’
I glare at my therapist mid session, daring him to disagree and eventually, during his long pensive silence, becoming fearful he is going to contradict me, and imploring him with big frightened eyes, not to.
‘Depression is not a choice Lexy’ he says slowly, sitting back in his chair ‘but it can be affected by the choices we make.’
My mouth hangs open in shock.
Is he saying this is my fault?
(Can you smell dog?)
I stare, livid with indignation, at the tree outside the window, blowing out of control it seems, in the calm summer sun.
‘You, for example, make great big steps towards recovery, and yet each time you reach the same place, the same conclusive point, the very start of the heart of the matter, you spiral backwards to almost flat on your back.’
I raise my eyebrow without looking at him and my stomach turns over.
I am unable to sit still.
‘I have watched you run away, avoid this difficult subject at all costs now, for almost two years, it is always the same, and I have to say, the longer you refuse to face it, the more frustrated you will become. It does not have to happen all in one session, but perhaps have a think about tackling it in bite size chunks, taking it slowly.’
I slowly turn to look at him; I need to feel less alone.
‘I am not saying this is a cure, it isn’t. But it may help to work through this great big Balthazar Demon.
Sometimes the fear of an event is actually worse than the event itself.
So there I was, falling asleep, searching in the forest of Fog for my brother, and trying to block out the dog breath smell, as I always do, when inspiration found me.
The voice in my head, the muse that had been missing, quashed by the illness, had returned.
I should write a blog post about my darkest fear, the issue I have struggled to face, but do it in a way that was so lighthearted, people would empathize and laugh, without taking note of the depth of the sentiment, the horror and distress behind it.
So I woke up, cleaned the house from top to bottom, ironed, hovered, baked (I never freaking bake – well when I say bake, I mean I made rice Krispy cakes) put Doodle in a nappy, and only when I could find nothing more to procrastinate with, I stared to write the poem, being careful to skirt around the very edges of the pain.
I tried to make it lighthearted.
It didn’t necessarily go according to plan.
Firstly, because I am absolutely shite, at poetry.
I paid no attention in my English literature class, mainly because the boy sat next to me was ‘totally hot’ and instead of focusing on Ambionic pentameter (or whatever) I was more focused on breathing in and sticking my chest out for an hour and a half while the rest of the class learnt stuff. (To no avail actually, as he ended up going out with Angelique, but anyway.)
And Secondly, because nothing rhymes with ‘Sometimes I think about how, if my son ever feels as unnecessary and redundant as I do, I will have to kill myself.’
And nothing rhymes with Pressure (to not let him down), except… maybe … Cheshire, and although it is a nice town, well, it bares no real…
You know what?
I am stalling.
When My Baby Grows up. (A work in progress)
When my baby grows up, what will he say about the mother in me?
Will he say his mammy was awesome?
Or will he need a ton of therapy?
When talking to his girlfriend at his 21st party,
Will he say ‘My childhood was stable, my mum rocked,
We didn’t have much money but the love bank was always stocked?’
Will he remember how, bleary eyed and exhausted, I was desperate to help with his dreadful colic?
Or is it burnt in his mind, the three-week period,
Frightened of failure, I behaved like an alcoholic.
Will he remember the hours, just him, and me
With shrieks of laughter we played hide and seek?
Or will he only recall mammy crying on the sofa,
Collapsed in a broken heap.
Will he say ‘She couldn’t bond, she didn’t know how to be a mother,
She could have been good I suppose but.
She was too busy grieving the loss of her brother.’
Will he look down and avoid Care,
With sad eyes filled with tears?
An overwhelming feeling of guilt, to be drowned out with a hefty dose of fear?
Or will he grow to be proud, knowing I am his number one fan,
A love from me that will last his whole life span.
Will he know that I loved him, deep down in his heart?
Or will he sometimes question our rocky start?
Will he call me with Joy,
From his life, when he is all grown up,
Or will I have made so many mistakes…
And I couldn’t go any further.
Because basically I am rubbish at rhyming.
And also? It is too difficult.
If I could, just like the boy I spent my whole life looking up to, the one who left before me, I would float with my hair spiraled out around me, like he did, on top of the freezing cold water until my blood ran cold.
I would stare up at the starry, dark sky, and I would know, with iron cast certainty that Addy Woo knew he was loved by me, before I closed my eyes for the last time.
But I can’t.
Because he needs me, and I need him.
He is the one teaching me how to be.
If I could start over again what would I desire?
If I was reborn and shivering, if I was spat out again for a new beginning, would I want anything to be different?
I am not ready to go any further.
That is enough for today.
I am getting married in 85 days, I am taking a huge life step, I am admitting and allowing for the possibility deep within my heart, that potentially I see ‘a rest of my life.’
One where I am letting myself be loved.
I am excited and yet anxious to hold a big Irish hand and a little Irish hand in my own, and know that in the end, only we matter.
My own mother has chosen not to attend my big day.
Can we learn from somebody else’s mistakes?
Or will I always blame myself for hers?
The Irish one is being as supportive as ever, he has, on the advice of a friend ‘began thinking outside of the box.’
I am lying in bed after putting Addison down for his nap, The Irish one has made me some food.
‘If you kill yourself Lexy, I will have you cremated and stick your ashes in a washing up bottle that will sit on the sink. That way I will never, ever forget to do the washing up again, and all because you will be there for all eternity to remind me.’
I turn over and gape at him.
‘Or, more likely, you will spend all of eternity, staring at my washing up that hasnt been done. Now, do you really want that?’
You have to admire his Irish Tenacity.
I smile and shake my head.
I really am grateful.