Dory.

The Irish one has decided to start growing potatoes, on our kitchen windowsill.

I paused there so that the full horror of what I am telling you can sink in.

The man has ultimately thought about it long and hard, and has evidently come to the conclusion that growing potatoes, in an already crammed two bedroom flat in the middle of industrial Hell Manchester, is a sensible and normal thing to do.

And it’s not only potatoes.

It’s tomatoes too.

I, once again, am idealizing suicide.

Although the two events seemed to kick-start around the same time, I am almost sure they are not related.

Almost.

‘What in the hell is this on the windowsill?’

The windowsill, by the way, was the only surface in this godforsaken flat of Doom* that hadn’t already been taken up by some form of clutter.

(*If you are a potential buyer then I don’t mean any of this stuff I am saying by the way, it really is an upcoming area with great potential, filled with lovely people who only carry bricks because it looks cool,  and only look menacing because they are tired. Also this Apartment is genuinely in an ideal location for a single and semi blind person about town, who doesn’t mind the odd bit of Cancer, from the tiny industrial estate which really is further away than it smells, and also a small family who don’t tend to use their windowsills to START A FARM!)

My windowsill was glorious.

Half a meter of shiny white, varnished wood that on the one sunny day of the year would shine and glint, occasionally reminding me of sunsets in the Caribbean when I worked on the ships, of a life spent growing up in Spain free of the doldrums of this existence and occasionally in my darker moments, it would remind me of wood worm.

And then I would want to smash it to smithereens.

Because, seriously how can the very thought of a worm that eats wood just not freak you out?

It cannot be natural.

Does the worm go hard?

And if not?

HOW COME?

It is EATING WOOD!

“It’s Potatoes! Addy and I are starting a mini allotment! Isn’t it a great idea!’

I had been at work 4 hours.

This is how long it took  for an indoor allotment to be created in my kitchen.

Can you imagine what would happen if I left them to their own devices for longer than this?

Doodle would be sharing his bed with chickens, that is what would happen.

We are only one step away from chickens!

And I have a phobia of EGGS!

Anyway.

Are you bored with listening to me go on about my illness yet?

Blah blah blah, I want to hang myself, or suffocate myself, or maybe tie bricks to my feet and go for a swim in the Quays, blah blah blah… change the record.

I am bored of talking about it, but even more tired of feeling this way, of shuffling my dusty feet around and around in circles seemingly making absolutely no progress further than the occasional bout of euphoria, usually only caused by accidentally taking too much medication or perhaps spotting that Selfridges stock a new Marc Jacobs handbag.

I am sinking here, again.

I am so bored of sinking.

Of being.

So What the hell is he thinking?

Potatoes?

Is he trying to push me over the edge?

Our flat is tiny and already has four heartbeats crammed in to it.

8 if you count the Guppy fish we inherited from the neighbor who randomly moved to china in the middle of the night.

(*Seriously, LOVELY area.)

Do fish even have heartbeats?

Wouldn’t a heartbeat in something so tiny put them off their stroke?

Annoy them?

I am not going to be as predictable as to regale you with how I feel I can relate to those fish if I stare at them long enough, endlessly swimming around their prison, stuck, being able to see what life is like on the other side of the glass but never being able to reach it, with no hope, completely reliant on a small pair of bum smelling, 2 year old hands to provide their happiness, their sustenance.

But I will be honest.

Sometimes I think they may be communicating with me.

Boc Boc Boc Bo BOC BOC, basically means; ‘Kill us now you miserable bitch, or at the very least shave your damn legs and get off the Sofa.

(Boc Boc Boc is how fish talk. I am also aware chickens talk like this. DO you see a pattern emerging  here? BECAUSE I DO!)

But I can’t.

I have no energy left.

And the energy I do have I am certainly not going to waste on getting up off the sofa and shaving.

And now?

The Irish one is growing potatoes on the windowsill.

And most of my time is spent trying not to take an overdose.

Although the two may not be related, they definitely kicked off around the same time.

Oh.

And also, rather significantly, he recently told me he would never even consider moving to Spain.

And that,

May just be a Game changer.

Because if I don’t even have a hope of ever going home?

Never getting out of this fish tank?

Then really,

What is the point?

All I wanted was a tiny particle of hope.

The thought of one day going home, of heading back to everything i know? Well, as unrealistic as it may have been, it kept me going when things got very dark.

It was hope.

But now he is happily growing potatoes on the Windowsill,

And I don’t feel so lucky that I have something so precious to me, that he makes saying goodbye feel so much harder, than being forced to stay.

Even if his hands do smell of Bum.

So for now,

I will Just Keep Swimming and pray I don’t come home to poultry.

Boc Boc.

Kiss the Rain. (Hello? Can you hear me?)

I see all these amazing mums, doing all these amazing things, like baking cakes, making chickens out of paper cups using only snot and lipstick, getting their kids to eat vegetables without an epic discussion or fight before every mouthful and I always stop and think… WOW! I should get them to do some stuff for me.

My best friend throws her head back and laughs heartily.

‘You are an amazing mum Lex, look what a happy boy he is! Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘I don’t bake though Jules. We once made Peppa Pig ready-bake cakes and I managed to smash a pan lid to smithereens. He cut his feet, I sliced my hand, and they came out burnt and stinking of death.’

‘Yeah but…’

‘And we weren’t even using a pan!’ I interrupt her passionately ‘We were using a baking tray! I’m ridiculous. Also, I’m scared of eggs. What kind of mother is scared of eggs? It’s ridiculous!’

‘You don’t have to be able to bake you know, and so what if you are scared of eggs, I am scared of beans, as long as they feel loved, that’s what kids remember…’ she falls in to silence as she notices I have become instantly distracted.

‘Did you hear that?’ I ask her, my eyes wide, my head up like a deranged Meer cat as I peer through the Cafe crowds at soft play.

I am both hunted and hunting, ‘someone called my name.’

‘No,’ she picks up another chip, and continues to remind me of why although we are both not perfect, we are good enough… but I am lost.

I am haunted.

Someone is calling my name.

An hour before this conversation took place I was in a jam packed, bursting to the rafters H&M trying to purchase my toddler some new jeans.

The Creature that God Sent to Test Me, as I have now taken to calling him (we are potty training) was following me around moaning about wanting to go on the ‘tunnel slide’ and leaving behind him a trail of ice cream and muck so distinct, Hansel and Gretel would have been proud to call it their own.

I was too hot, harassed and tired and I needed a wee. My bag felt like a dead weight on my back and we had been there, traipsing around for far, far, far too long. (6 minutes.)

Nevertheless, there was a light at the end of the tunnel, if I could only find the boy a much needed pair of jeans (ones that grow with him ideally and are made of durable denim, or perhaps tear resistant steel) we could leave and head happily off to the soft play Centre (of doom.)

So on I continued with my courageous battle through the tightly packed rails of H&M children’s wear, trying to gallantly locate a pair of trousers for him that weren’t either 8 inches too long in the leg or had a girth that would fit a midget father Christmas.

I may write a letter to all children clothes shops, actually.

Dear (Stupid, stupid unhelpful) People who Make Kids Clothes,

Just because my son has long legs does not mean he is as fat as a pregnant Umpalumpa. Tall kids are generally not fat waisted, and short kids are generally not super skinny OR fat waisted. Please sort your heads out. Kids come in all different sizes and shapes.

Please consider making some trousers with skinny waists and long legs. OR at the very least offer us a plethora of belts.

Also, Have you any idea how annoying it is that you don’t all use a generic sizing chart when making your clothes?

Asda George, you seem to think a 3 year old is the size of a small widowed Spanish grandma and your Newborn sized Onesie’s could potentially fit the Irish one! You do realise we aren’t a nation of giants, right? How big do you think a birth canal is??

Where as H&M! You seem to think 3 year olds don’t even exist?? You size your clothes age 2-4. THAT IS A BIG YEAR TO MISS OUT UNDER THE MISGUIDED ASSUMPTION THEY STAY THE SAME SIZE!! Think about it H&M, nobody ever mistakes a 2 year old for a four year old do they??? SORT IT OUT!

Yours truly,

Lexy Ellis.

Anyway.

Eventually, after he had lost patience and started playing up in protest, I had asked him to stand still 26 times, dangled him by his limp arm in an attempt to keep him upright and he, insisting it was time to lie down, had spun from my upheld hand like a Christmas tree decoration, after I had chased him out of the shop and back in 11 times, apologised to a man who had been inadvertently head butted in the scrotum (not by me, by the toddler) in the ensuing kafuffle, he finally gave up, and so did I.

He wanted to lie down on the floor and sing The Wheels on the Bus and I needed to buy jeans, so in the end I decided we should both just do what we needed to do, to get the job done.

So we did.

‘THE WHEELS ON THE BUS GO BANG! BANG, BANG BANG BANG POO!’

Eventually I almost euphorically, located some jeans I thought might fit and decided it was probably high time I put a stop to the Wheels on the Bus Remix which was emanating from below the Skinny leggings and Sock shelf.

It was at this exact moment, while turning to wrestle Addison off the ground, with three prim and proper good mothers staring at me with barely hidden judgment from behind their pristine prams, one 16 year old sales assistant tutting about my apparent lack of parenting skills, and the man whose balls were clearly still stinging, singing a high-pitched solo in the corner, it happened.

“Lexy? OH MY GOD!”

I whipped my head around to see whom it was, and rather frighteningly was met, by nobody.

Have you ever met a person who freely admits to hearing voices?

Like real voices in their head?

Not thought voices.

Not the ones I assume we all experience, those that whisper to us from inside our mind, sometimes telling us we are useless, or maybe sometimes amazing, or perhaps we will win but maybe we won’t. The thought voices, reminding us of things, that sometimes we speak out loud. (Right? we all hear those right? RIGHT?)

Not those voices.

They are just our thoughts aren’t they?

I mean actual voices.

You probably don’t think you have ever met anyone who is that shit on the bed mental crazy before.

I am not sure we are supposed to talk about it.

Us bat shit poorly crazy ones.

I think we are meant to be ashamed, embarrassed, too frightened to share.

But I want to.

I am not weird. (Well, I may be a bit bonkers, but according to the Mad Hatter, all the best people are.)

I am normal, I laugh, I joke, I cry, I am a mum, I change nappies, I eat, I watch telly, I let the dog out, I eat cake, I do a weekly shop, I get on with my life, I am planning a wedding, I am looking forward to this year.

I hear voices.

Maybe if I talk about them, the voices, maybe if I explain them, explain what it is like to hear them, I will feel less alone, less frightened.

‘Radio Chorley!! Coming in your ears.’

That is what it is like.

They are in my ears, not in my head.

SO real.

Just. THERE.

‘Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!’

His shouting wakes me with a shot of electricity straight to my heart.

I jump out of bed, stub my toe and sprint, hop and curse to his bedroom, where I expect to find him in the throes of a terrible nightmare.

The house is in darkness, nobody has stirred, not even the dog.

As I lean over his little body, physically shaking from the shock of the noise, the urgency in his voice, poised and ready to pick him up, hug him to me and soothe him from his bad dreams, I pause.

His breathing is long and measured.

He is fast asleep.

I have a great sense of unease as I crawl back in to bed and try and get my toe in my mouth to suck it better. (Don’t tell me you never considered trying to suck your toe when you’ve stubbed it, even the mere thought of sucking it eases the pain, right? RIGHT?)

‘What’s up with you?’ The Irish one turns over and dumps his arm over me, in an attempt at sleepy Irish tenderness, that instead nearly knocks me out cold.

‘I heard Addison shouting.’

I am bent over, clinging to my toe, rocking back and forth.

(So don’t look mental at all.)

‘I didn’t hear a thing.’ He snuffles and falls back in to a comfortable and cosy sleep.

I lie there staring at the ceiling terrified to my core, for a long time before I succumb again to peace.

I am in that beautiful place between awake and sleep.

I am floating peacefully about to drop off,  I am a literary genius, I have just thought of an amazing blog post I can write (which I blatantly won’t remember tomorrow) and I am as light as a feather, I am almost asleep.

‘LEXY IT’S GONE, IT’S GONE!’ the shriek is right next to my head, down deep in to my ear canal.

I physically jump four feet in the air.

I switch the light on and start to shake.

‘Huh? What is gone?’

I am frightened.

It’s hard enough being a half decent mother who plays trains but doesn’t cook, reads books but doesn’t sing lullabies, eats dinner with him but not vegetables, stares miserably at an empty potty while changing another nappy, soothes her baby’s tears and fixes bumps and bruises but doesn’t know how to make cupcakes, without the added worry of hearing voices.

They have started laughing too.

Sometimes I just hear laughter.

They are happy.

I smile with them sometimes before I remember nobody is in the house except me and nothing is funny.

It’s coming in my ears.

I hear someone calling my name a lot, but no one is there.

I am perfecting the deranged Meer cat look. Someone must have called my name! Who said that?

I hear dogs barking, right next to me, in the office. (I do not work in a veterinary surgery either, just to be clear.)

It isn’t a conversation.

It’s not like I can blame them for making me eat cake.

They don’t tell me to eat cake.

Lord knows I don’t need to hear voices to do that.

I hear words.

I hear made up conversations.

And it isn’t all of the time.

It’s enough though.

I don’t answer them.

Then I would be crazy, right?

I need to focus on what is real.

On the voices that aren’t part of my mental illness.

My illness that started innocently enough, by just having a baby.

‘You are an amazing mummy.’

My best friends voice is the one I am trying to hold on to now.

I am doing my best.

The jeans I bought him don’t fit.

But I love him so much it hurts.

Is it ok to tie your son’s jeans around his waist with rope?

Please don’t make fun of me.

Or treat me any different.

I am frightened, and I am trying to break the stigma.

But I am normal.

Did you just hear that?

Of course you didn’t.

Nobody is there.

In Hindsight… (Woo.)

As the wheels of my car crunched over the gravel drive I paused for a split second, frozen by the magnitude of what was about to happen.

I stumbled erratically to locate the right gear, switching from third and back down to first and eventually manically settling on neutral, my logical thought process completely stolen by the bleakness of the morning.

With my heart pounding out of my chest, the only reminder I was still alive, my little black family mobile, with the backseat holding little more than an empty, crisp spattered car seat and a small bag of my clothes, rolled pathetically in to large space and eventually came to a stop.

I don’t know how long I sat there staring at the big Daddy oak tree, I suppose it doesn’t really matter, I was as numb to the ticking of the clock as I was to my son’s kisses.

When I did eventually manage to climb out in to the cold air of the morning, I spotted a friend across the car park. She smiled kindly in my direction and that smile, changed everything.

The numbness I had so carefully cultivated over the months to protect me from the searing pain, was wiped out and destroyed by a tsunami of icy panic, which engulfed me from the tip of my heart to the bottom of my toes.

‘I don’t think I can do this’ I cried to her, my knees threatening to give way, my bottom lip actually shaking and wobbling as I spoke, the pain and the fear becoming unbearable ‘I just don’t think I can.’

She helped me carry my bags and with her arm around my shoulder we crunched over the pebbles towards reception.

We both knew I had no choice.

It was the unspoken elephant between us.

I was to be admitted in to hospital or I would be dead soon.

I was told I was brave by other patients.

You guys on here, supporting me in droves as I made jokes about packing my dildo and avoided the truth about my illness, told me I would be ok.

I will never forget all the kind words, but most interestingly, that first day, one of the most poignant things I remember being told was;

‘Do not make any drastic decisions or major changes to your life while you are undergoing any kind of therapy. You shouldn’t make any decisions until the dust settles.’

I remember thinking at the time, as I was being sectioned, that that was an odd thing to advise.

1 Blog, 3 tattoos, 1 Job change, 1 fiancée, 1 house on the market and 4 vivid hair changes later, I am starting to think they may have been on to something.

‘I probably should have waited for the dust to settle a little’ I laughed to my Laser Tattoo removal… removalist? (What is the official name for someone who removes your ill advised inking’s?)

‘You think?’ he asks sardonically, glancing up at me while turning the machine up to Cow Branding heat, as he is about to cross over the second O of the word WOO. ‘Do you know that Woo where I am from, means clunge?’

‘Clunge?’ I politely ask, my innocence about to be taken.

‘Yeah.’ He grunts ‘Clunge, like Vagina.’

I feel my eyes get incredibly wide and I stare at him.

If he wasn’t in the throws of death gripping my wrist I would yank my hand away and sink my head in to it.

‘Are you freaking serious?’  I gasp, completely and utterly panicked. The sweat already forming on the back of my neck, the clamminess gripping my heart.

‘Yeah.’

‘Oh god.’ My gaze lands on a tasteful painting of a tattooed Buddha woman with twelve arms, but I don’t actually see it, it really is just the background noise accompanying my internal screaming.

‘What’s the big deal?’ He mumbles, his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth as he concentrates on removing the first 28 layers of skin from my sad little veins ‘I am removing the WOO now.’

I look up at him but stay silent for a long while, digesting this horrific news.

‘I called my blog mammy FREAKING woo!’ I exclaim.

He stops what he is doing and slowly lifts his eyes to meet mine.

‘So your blog, that everyone kinda likes and reads, the thing you are really proud of… wait, wait, the blog you won awards for…  is called…’ he tries to stop smiling but fails miserably and in the end gives up, finishing with a big grin ‘MAMMY VAGINA?’

As I sat frozen in time once more, I watched as he threw his head back in laughter, and in an extremely loud voice, told the rest of the tattoo parlor that my blog name was Mummy CLUNGE.

‘Is it a porn Blog?’ A bearded man who’s face I couldn’t see through all the body art asked, it has to be said, a little too keenly.

I can’t remember if I responded.

The part of my mind that blocks out all unwanted memories (the part that also houses that memory of that boy fingering me and that teacher catching us) grabbed hold of it and I … what was I talking about?

Anyway.

All I could think of on the way home was the day I drove in to the hospital and seemingly lost my ability to make sound decisions or listen to good advice.

I know in my heart that nothing will ever feel as mind-numbingly horrific as that moment when the orderly forcefully removed my car keys from my possession and took away my ability to escape.

How I missed my baby for weeks on end.

How I howled in to the dark, my heart torn and ragged, with nobody but a faceless nurse checking I wasn’t dead every 15 minutes.

How I wanted to cease to exist.

Nothing will ever be as truly awful as those dark, lonely and misunderstood days, but if I am being honest?

It was you guys that got me through it, supported me, listened to me and never, ever left me for even one moment to think I wasn’t worth life.

It was you guys who told me it would all work out, that everything would be ok, and I should soldier on, so for that?

I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Now if you don’t mind, I need you to do it all again.

Mammy VAGINA???

Mammy VAGINA!!!

Oh my god.

This does not bode well.

From now on can this PLEASE just be the unspoken elephant between us?

Bat Shit Crazy.

I must live in the moment.

I don’t want to go back in hospital.

I just can’t.

I must live in the moment.

I must take deep breaths.

Think rational thoughts.

I must not freak out.

What can I hear if I close my eyes and take deep breaths?

Yes everything is ok.

I can hear the sound of Doodle licking his bollocks romantically in his bed next to me.

Over my ragged breath, I can also hear the clinky clanky tinkering of the Irish one fixing his bike in the kitchen (as you do) while muttering expletives under his breath and faintly, if I focus, I can hear my Barmy and adored, sweet smelling boy snoring, mouth wide open, in his bed.

All is as it should be.

Deep breaths.

Do not freak out.

It will not happen.

Don’t freak out don’t freak out don’t freak out.

I do not want to end up back in hospital.

It reared its violent head again on New Years Eve.

I went for a lie down at 8pm ‘to rest my eyes for five minutes’ after loving every moment of snuggling with Addison,  after telling stories of tractors who could talk and dogs who could fly.

I lay down peacefully, promising to rest for only five minutes.

What must have been hours later I found myself sitting bolt upright in bed, my heart hammering and dripping with hot tears and sweat.

I could hear gunshots.

‘Irish one!’ I screamed in to the darkness after reaching out to grab him and with a huge sense of dread realising he wasn’t there. ‘Oh my god, Irish one! Where are you?’

He burst through the bedroom door like a shocked and pajamad warrior.

‘Whats the matter?’ He shouted racing towards the bed in what I thought was panic and worry for me. (Turns out I was screaming like I was being stabbed and he was worried the neighbors may think he was bludgeoning me.) ‘Stop screaming!’

‘Are we at war?’  I whispered clutching his shoulder and grabbing the PlayStation remote from him in case I needed to brandish it as a weapon later on.

‘No you medicated idiot,’ he laughed, enveloping me in a hug and rocking me back and forth like you may do a child ‘it is midnight. It is fireworks you can hear. Happy New Year. Go back to sleep.’

As my heart began to slow , I kissed him, handed him back his remote and rolled over.

I was intending to go back to sleep grumbling about how If the fireworks woke the kid up, i’d go mad.

But I couldn’t sleep.

I knew it was back.

I felt as if I had invited it back.

Immediately I was disappointed in myself and anxious.

Don’t freak out.

Don’t freak out.

Something had crept in to bed behind me, and was now spooning with me, breathing its hot breath on to my neck, making all of my hair stand on end.

Psychosis.

Go away.

Please go away.

A feeling of dread so worrying, I am now, a week later, still struggling to function.

Calm down.

You are ok.

The world didn’t end.

I am getting married this year.

Nothing is like what it was.

It isn’t back.

You are imagining it.

Doodle is slowly starting to realise 5 years after emerging from his doggy mothers womb that outside is where he must poo and the rocky start I had at motherhood myself, is just starting to feel lovely, like deep down in my bones, awe inspiring, heart rupturing lovely.

Everything is ok.

Deep breaths.

It is only a new year.

Don’t freak out.

But no, I know it is there waiting for me, seeping in at my edges, the darkness, the paranoia, I can feel it, no matter how much I argue with myself.

It is there.

Has the Irish one spiked my tea?

He repeatedly denies it, his brow furrowing with worry and of course, then I laugh.

Set his mind at rest.

Before surreptitiously creeping in to the kitchen and pouring it down the sink.

I will make a new cup of tea, and I will keep my eyes on it.

He may be trying to spike me.

You never know.

Ok.

I think we have a problem.

Do those girls hate me really? Will they follow me back to my car and throw bricks at me?  Are they plotting to follow me home? Do they call me fat and see evil in me?

Are they planning to steal my baby? I must tell them I made my baby up. I must pretend he doesn’t exist.

No harm can come to my baby.

Ok.

I think we may have a problem.

And then I am lost.

The deep breathing hasn’t helped.

I know with certainty right now it will happen.

The moment I dread.

The moment I am pulled roughly from the serene moment I am resting my lips peacefully on my son’s forehead, or inhaling his sweet playful childishness as he smacks his lips together in his sleep, and everything will just… disappear.

I will blink myself from this life and find myself in a stark white room 30 years from now stinking to high heaven of hospitals and bleach, tethered to a bed with an old man leaning over me, his teeth yellowing and his complexion pale, begging me to come home and get better.

I will recognise nobody.

I won’t know what happened.

I was putting my son to bed and I blinked.

The old man will be the Irish one but of course, I wont recognise him, having only seen him three minutes before when he was swearing in the kitchen and leaving greasy oil prints everywhere.

Now.

I mean… just then!

What happened?

I want to go back.

‘Lexy,’ he will tenderly whisper in my ear, his salty old coffee breath gushing over my senses, ‘I am your husband we have been married 30 years today, Addison is  here to see you,  can you remember him? Are you lucid?’

‘You don’t like coffee’ I will whisper confused, ‘you can’t be him’ my eyes wide with fear, my heart exploding with every beat from my chest.

‘Mike wazaouski’ he will whisper our private joke playfully in my ear, and I will instantly know it is him and I will turn to ice.

‘Mum.’ I will hear his voice before I see him and I will sense his tears, his heartbreak at how his mother went Bat shit crazy  ‘Mum, it’s me, Addison. Are you lucid?’

I will turn slowly, my head a dead weight filled with fear and disbelief and I will look at the grown up man stood at the end of my bed.

My heart will catch in my throat.

Don’t freak out.

I missed it all.

I missed him growing up.

I missed it all.

No.

‘No!’ I will want to scream long and hard.

‘Mum’ he will whisper, his little lopsided smile and cracked baby teeth, long gone, his baby blue eyes once filled with vulnerability now replaced by life experience I haven’t witnessed, a life with his mother trapped in another world. A life where his mother abandoned him.

And I will howl in desperation, where is my son, where has his smell gone, his little play doh and yoghurt stained pyjamas? Where are our moments?

The man at the end of the bed cannot be my son, he just can’t, my son is 2 years old.

And I will black out.

Ok. 

I think we may have a problem. 

Don’t freak out.

Everything is ok.

Addison is asleep in his bed.

Concentrate on the now.

But will now be the moment it happens?

That my years will be violently stolen?

I am still in bed.

I can hear Doodle farting.

Concentrate on the now.

It is all ok.

The Irish one has come in.

He is shouting at me to calm down.

He sounds worried.

I must be freaking out.

I am trapped in my imaginary world.

Heart racing, panicked, mouth dry, the room swinging in and out of focus.

I must live in the moment.

I must not forget to take my medication.

I must not freak out.

I must not get too upset and angry when I hear people off handedly label others, with mental health issues, funny names.

They simply do not understand that this is an illness.

I must live in the moment.

A panic attack will only ever be a panic attack.

I am going to go and hug my baby.

I am bat shit crazy.

But you know?

I will get through it.

Happy New Year!

The Circus Clown.

‘Have you been thinking about doing something silly?’ the GP asks me as I present in his office, at the end of my line, desperately needing some sort of support.

{Support. Definition = that which enables.}

The edges of my universe have once again become blurred by blunt uncontrollable, inexplainable misery.

Once again; I find I am having to restrain myself from escaping out of bed in the middle of the night and following in my brothers footsteps, leading right off a sixty foot motorway bridge.

‘Silly?’ I cross my legs and lean forward in my plastic NHS chair towards him, ‘Why, yes actually I have!!! It’s funny you should ask, because I have recently actually been having thoughts of perhaps dressing up as a clown and joining the circus, abandoning my beliefs and running off in to the sunset with the bearded lady and her pet monkey.’

He nods at me for a paused moment before hurriedly scribbling something down on his pad.

In the silence that follows, the door opens, and in trundles my old boss, drunk and disorderly, a man I once held in high regard, glancing at me. Without warning he then begins to repeatedly shout in my face. He tells me I am useless, and ‘High maintenance.’ He laughs about what a ‘nightmare’ I was to manage before eventually prodding me in the cheek and pulling at my hair viciously.

I close my eyes firmly and will the prick to back the fuck off, I tell him that his words are burning at my renewed courage, stripping out my remaining resources. I whisper that he is embarrassing me and making me feel ashamed. I beg him to stop.

He smiles in my face and shakes his head when he hears this, and with patronising eyes, sits down next to me.

‘Have you been having suicidal thoughts?’ The GP asks this time, pen impatiently poised in thin air to mark my response on some useless scale.

‘Oh, you don’t mean silly thoughts then?’ I respond angrily, worn out by my ex boss and the stigma of even the NHS never using real words to describe symptoms of what feels like a very real illness.

‘I meant suicidal.’ He nods curtly.

‘Is suicide silly to you then?’ I retort petulantly as the door squeaks open again and my Aunt rushes in, firmly placing her feet next to my old boss, and shaking out her hair.

I bristle and wait for the hurt to bombard me.

‘Oh don’t listen to her!’ she happily announces, embarrassed, before going on to tell him that he is not to listen to a thing I say, for I am a drama queen, and a liar, and quite selfish. She also explains to the ‘lovely Dr.’ that she herself would look after me  but she has had a glass of red wine so can’t be arsed, plus as I am only being attention seeking, why should she bother? There is nothing wrong with me really, you see, except the need for a few home truths.

Expect nothing, and always be grateful.

I place my head in my hands and signal her to stop talking, to go home.

She shuts up, acting injured, but goes nowhere, preferring to stay and chat with my ex boss.

They both stare at me every now and again, between whispers.

The Dr is speaking but I cannot hear him, as someone else has bowled through the door to join the party.

‘Depression is like giving up smoking;’ she says waving her newly thin hand in the air ‘you can choose to stop feeling miserable. It is your choice to be like this Lexy. How very annoying you are.’

My aunt and my ex boss nod their agreement.

I look down.

I will not let a bully see she has got to me, no matter how many games she plays.

The three of them stare at me for a while, and then start giggling.

‘Miss Ellis? Are you suicidal?’

‘Yes.’ I whisper, the waves of insecurity rattling around my ribcage.

‘How long have you been feeling like this?’

‘Suicidal?’ I respond distracted, as I catch sight of my brother waving at me from outside, through the window. He has a disappointed look on his face, as he slowly vanishes, taking the baby I never got to meet, the little girl I will not allow myself to talk about, or feel anything for, because the loss would kill me, with him.

I clutch my heart and take a deep breath as my soul vanishes and I am finally, fully depleted.

A conquered army.

‘A while.’ I whisper, as my son appears out of nowhere and grabs hold of my face begging me not to die, to not leave him like I did last time, that he needs me.

My aunt, the bully and my old boss shake their heads at me in disgust, as a debt collector, the teacher who called me a bad egg, the popular girls at school who told me I was fat, the boy who said I looked like a whale and then continually abused me, the ex boyfriend who cheated on me, my first therapist and a teenage version of myself walk through the door and fill the room to bursting, around us.

‘Are you on medication?’

I can barely hear him now over the chorus of bile being spewed in my general direction.

All of the insults I have ever received are burned in to my being; they are all I can hear.

All of the faces flashing behind my eyes, the guilt, the evil, the misery, the hurtful words, the insecurity, the shame.

It is all being piled on, I am stuck in some sort of hideous loop.

‘Yes.’ I stutter, losing my voice again, ‘Is that not on the system?’

I raise my head up to meet his eyes.

I am high maintenance.

I am lonely.

I am annoying.

I am ashamed.

I am bombarded.

I am struggling.

I am a failure.

But come on!

I am here, and I am asking for help.

‘Oh, yes.’ he says glancing at the screen, ‘you are already on medication, of course.’

I sigh.

‘You were already hospitilised!’ He bursts out, his head snapping around at me in alarm.

‘Yes.’ I say nodding, twitching in confused disbelief.

Does he think I don’t know I was Hospitalised?

‘And you self harm!’

He is looking at me intently again.

I raise my hands in question to him.

‘I am aware of all of this Doc, it is my record.’

‘It started after you gave birth!’

I roll my eyes.

If I wasn’t losing the will to live before the cast and chorus line of ‘Lexy’s worst hits’ arrived in to the Dr’s office with me, I was now.

‘Yes.’ I sigh again.

He looks at me for a while, considering something, no idea what.

He shifts in his seat and coughs.

He looks scared for a split second.

Scared.

‘Well in that case,’ he pauses ‘the only thing I can recommend for you to do at this stage is go home and relax.’

I am open mouthed.

‘I have a two year old.’

I am enraged.

‘Well go home and keep busy. Do the washing. Do you face your problems Lexy?’

I don’t answer.

He mistakes this for acceptance of the crap he is spouting.

He puts his hand on mine.

‘I know it is hard. You, go home and keep busy, maybe then have a nice long bath. You will be ok.’

‘Doc,’ I pause ‘Can you increase my medication please?’

‘No. I wouldn’t want to do that just yet, It’ll speed up your heartbeat, lets think about you getting some rest first.’

‘But, But’ I stutter, I am trying not to cry as we stand up. ‘I am desperate.’

“If you feel desperate, have a think about visiting A&E, or talking to someone.’

He smiles abruptly and rests his hand on my shoulder as he ushers us all out of his office with a wave and half heartedly spouts some advice to call back if I still feel the same way in a few weeks.

I am open mouthed, the demons are victorious.

I wonder if he would say the same to somebody else who was potentially showing signs and experiencing symptoms of a terminal illness?

[Stigma. Definition; That which disables.]

I better go put a wash on.

Or join the circus, maybe.

Maybe the bearded lady will know what to do…

Concrete Stairs. (WARNING – May Trigger.)

I have this lump in my throat.

Excited voices, whispering in awe, climbing up a helter skelter, feet pounding on the concrete stairs stained with all those that have gone before, out of breathe together we climb, exhilarated, laughing, anticipating the rush all the way up, all the way up…

On the precipice of the future breathing deeply an eager smile caught in the winds of time, sailing above the world, we are here together; I am here, all the way up here, with you…

But alone.

And now here we go.

Here I go, with you watching me.

I reach out but you are gone.

Plummeting down hands no longer in the air in joy, just up, going through the motions.

I want to scream.

I am livid with my anguished illusions, bitter disappointment and hopelessness, every downward spiral a new and different crucifixion to try to conquer, control, overcome.

What now?

If life had a pause button I could just wait it out.

I wouldn’t hesitate.

I could just sit and breathe.

I would weep silently in a public place to feel less alone.

I would wait for the Black Dog to pass, without guilt, with no stolen moments.

I would look around at people’s faces slowly, drinking it all in, every wrinkle a story, learning, asking for help.

Notice the trucks thundering by, without wanting to throw myself under them, the dirty splash caught in time, the rain hitting the pavement, the children splashing in muddy puddles, the babies crying, the mothers on their knees, the teenagers laughing, their proud pink headphones neon against the dark grey sky, the hands of my clock ticking by slowly, the tears caught in my hand.

I just can’t figure it out.

I don’t know how to go on.

Bombs being dropped, innocent children dying, lifeless bodies that moments before were giggling and climbing, excitedly climbing together, now being pulled from the rubble, mothers screaming dying alive, after having their hearts ripped from them, to the heaven’s, loved one’s lost forever.

I have this lump in my throat.

I just want to shout.

There is magic everywhere in this world you just need to be able to see it.

Kissing my baby’s head as I tuck him in to his warm safe bed.

Watching his joy, gifting him his awe.

Two blackbirds sat on my car having a morning conference.

Feeling eternally grateful.

I can see the magic.

Lies?

Fear.

If life had a stop button I would press it right now.

I would only hesitate for a moment, to see his face.

I would stop the world from turning and lie down.

I would spread my hair out around me and ask for peace.

Dead is forever.

It is not much of a life you are living.

No guilt.

If life had a fast forward button I would press it right now, I would fast forward so I could see my baby grow up, to ensure he would climb that helter skelter and his dreams would come true.

I would only let him go when he wanted me to, and still I would be there silently behind him.

I would do anything for my baby.

If life had a rewind button I would press it.

I would hesitate and feel the fear, but I would do it.

I would rewind to his birth and I would re-live it the way I should have done.

No stolen moments, no anger, no fear, only magic.

I am so tired.

I want to eject.

I would do anything for my baby, but still, I want to eject.

Cease to exist.

Bombs being dropped, children being lost, illness and terror, mickey mouse dancing just for him, Walt Disney world, pounding up the stairs, out of breath, excited screams of awe, Christmas day, Family, the magic of a miracle, of making a wish on a shooting star.

There is magic everywhere.

I don’t know how to feel.

I would do anything for my baby.

Every day he saves my life.

The reason I hold on.

Around and around and around we go.

And now I press Play.

I have this lump in my throat. 

*I was having a great month, living and feeling strong, winning, and then out of nowhere, catching me completely off guard, there appeared a trigger.
A trigger that sent me spiralling, like a bullet from a gun.
Yes, I was taking my medication. Yes, I have so much to look forward to, and no, I can’t pull myself together.
My trigger this time? Walking up some concrete stairs. Something and nothing. Just some regular boring concrete stairs. 

I am broken right now.

And everything above is what can pass through my head a million times in a ten minute period. Emotions out of control.
This isnt a cry for help.

I am sharing this as I am hoping to educate on triggers but also to reach out to those who also experience triggers to let you know you aren’t going mad and you arent alone. Also because right now, as i sit crying in Starbucks,  my hood pulled up hiding my eyes,  I want to feel less alone. 

Today I am broken, but it will pass.

It has to.

Nobody chooses this illness. You don’t have to understand depression to be able to offer support. It is sneaky and uncatchable. And triggers? They suck arse. 

What goes Up, Must come Down. (Woof.)

‘How can you be so flamboyant with your rejection? How can you be so cold? So utterly devoid of emotion?’

It has been a long and soul-crushing six weeks.

Weeks made up not of days, but of moments where my breath has repeatedly been violently ripped from my harmless and on occasion quite hopeful chest, brutally and without warning, only to be immediately replaced with an unexpected and therefore shocking amount of icy cold fear, clinging gut wrenching hurt and steely eyed determination, to not be beaten.

I feel like a loving and dedicated sheepdog who has spent years doting, teaching and caring for her flock (is it a flock? Or is it a herd of sheep? And actually before you respond, maybe dogs have different names for these things so forget I asked, because remember I am the dog in this scenario – how do you know they don’t call it a TURD of sheep’s eh?) Having to watch all her sheep get shot in the face with a bazooka.

My emotional landscape, I would liken to a big pile of sheep entrails at the moment, all the fluff has been blown away but is still hanging in the air wondering where to settle and I have been splattered in blood and guts.

I am the wide-eyed and disbelieving dog, who just got up for work like on any other normal day, but instead found his life being blown to pieces.

I am that shaky and growling dog who now just wants to curl up with a doggy chew, perhaps stick a bit of Ceaser Milan on the telly and pretend none of it ever happened.

But with the lord as my shepherd and with the sheep as… only kidding.

Enough with the dog and sheep stuff already.

‘What the HELL do you mean you can’t sell me any?’ I am astounded.

‘Missis, we don’t have any left, we only sell them in autumn, we have moved on, it is Christmas now.’ And to give him credit, he looks sad for me.

I shake my head in utter disbelief and feel hot tears stinging my eyes ‘But It is only the 5^h of November.’ I am gutted, and forlorn, and am trying very hard to tame the unbridled anger swirling in my abdomen and threatening to fall out of my mouth.

‘Look, I get that you are upset and I am sorry, but it is Christmas Lexy. We even have the red cups to prove it now – look! I couldn’t just put an autumn coffee in a Christmas cup, it would be weird!’

Adam is my favourite Starbucks Barista in the world, he knows how to make a cappuccino dry and never over foams me, but at that moment, all I could think about were the opening credits from the movie SCREAM.

I wanted to hang him from a tree by his intestines.

My anger is quite uncontrollable and sudden I guess, really.

I am pretty sure I didn’t say this but he did immediately back off.

It must have been my crazy eyes.

‘You know what Lex’ he replied, noticeably taking a couple of large steps backwards ‘If you absolutely promise not to turn up at my house and bludgeon me to death while I am sleeping, I will go and check if we have any, just for you…’

I did not make eye contact with him as he handed over my red cup filled with autumn coffee, but I was grateful, even though I had given up my dignity, I was grateful.

A pumpkin latte is worth giving up your dignity for in my opinion.

‘How did it go?’ The Irish one asked me as I arrive home, clutching my coffee and kicking off my new interview boots.

‘It was ok, I went and got a coffee after…’ I pause at the kitchen door and note with intense concern, he seems to be waist deep in the boiler cupboard.

‘Please don’t mess with the boiler’ I snap as I place my coffee down, Kiss a poorly Addison and head in to the bedroom to change out of my smart clothes.

‘I wasn’t messing with it’ he sighs stroppily, ‘I was just bleeding the radiators, and I’m done now. How did it go really?’

‘It was ok’ I reply again, pulling on my Jammy bottoms ‘I was the oldest person there by about 10 years which made me sad and annoyed but…’

And then I stop.

And close my eyes very tight and try to pretend I am not hearing it.

The unmistakable sound of my hard earned Venti extra shot, skinny pumpkin Latte hitting the deck with a thump, followed by a loud sloshing sound as it gushes all over the laminate floor.

‘Oh O!!!’ my son hollers laughing ‘accident’s happen! Socks all wet! Doodle all wet!’

And a little later, when he finds me bent over the mop bucket sobbing uncontrollably;

‘Don’t cry mummy, don’t cry!’

‘Hmmm…’ James eyes me sadly, two days later, from where he is sat on his big purple therapy throne opposite me; his feet curled up underneath him ‘what were you actually grieving the loss of though?’

Immediately and without thinking I lean over and grapple in my bag looking for something to throw at him.

‘I was grieving for my coffee! Have you ever had one? Have you ever smelled it?’

The sun was shining directly in to my eyes when I was told I was being made redundant, I stopped trying to see and just shut them, 9 years, countless memories, so many friends… an era, I packed up my desk and left the same day, I didn’t even say goodbye, not properly, I just walked away.

Cavalier.

I will not be broken again.

I screamed out in pain when she first told me she wasn’t prepared to come to my wedding, I fell apart very briefly before taking out a box of matches and concentrating only on the silence, as I methodically and slowly burnt the hurt in to submission, extinguishing each anguished memory on my forearm.

I will not experience this again.

‘I just don’t know if I want to marry him…’

I admitted this to my best friend on Tuesday, while spinning around in a big white meringue.

The owner of the wedding shop in which I was currently stood (drinking her champagne) gasped loudly.

I ignored her and looked at my best friend in the mirror behind me sadly.

‘You do.’ She shrugged ‘You are just overwhelmed, it is normal.’

I spun around and ate up her words greedily, relieved.

‘Really? Is it? Because I do love him, I am just panicking like hell! It is so overwhelming. It is forever. Oh my god, I think I may be sick.’

‘Lets get this dress off you,’ I heard from behind me, as the owner marched over swiftly, her eyes on fire, and roughly tugged and pulled at me until, within mere moments, I was de-robed and left staring at my nude saggy self in all my glory in the biggest feck off mirror you ever saw.

Harrowing.

My timing was probably a bit off to make such a huge statement, looking back, so I guess that was her revenge.

‘I guess I just wish she were different… and I guess it is just starting to hit me I have lost my job… I don’t have a job… well actually I do, because I just got offered one, but everything has changed and I just… and he broke the fucking boiler! We have no heat until next Monday!’

James raises his hand and shoots me a look, signaling me to stop.

‘You haven’t dealt with any of the last couple of months at all, you have tried to push it all away, so the way I see it, when that Pumpkin latte hit the deck…’

‘May it rest in peace, god bless its soul’ I interrupt him, and he once again gives me a stern silencing look.

‘It all caught up with you. You can run Lexy, but you can’t hide.’

Other than sounding a tad creepy, I suppose he is right.

It has.

I have tried not to feel anything, I have tried to convince myself I am happy, I tried to push away the hurt and the fear, because for a good while, prior to all this change, I was content, and I loved it, I didn’t want to give up that feeling just yet, I tried to shield myself, I tried to cling, but I am human, and I do feel hurt, and I do feel pain and I do feel overwhelmed every now and again, so I suppose trying to ignore it all, well that was just dumb.

I am trying not to feel overwhelmed, but I am.

I am trying to feel cared for, but I just don’t know how.

I am trying to come to terms with all the change, but it frightens me.

I am trying not to injure The Irish One in his sleep for leaving us without heat and water, but in the dead of night when I am cold… it is hard trying not to plunge my finger in to his eye socket.

I blame Starbucks entirely, for all of this.

All of it.

I need the Pumpkin Latte’s, they compliment my anti-phsycotic medication perfectly. 

Betrayal. (You want to know what it feels like?)

After all the stones have been hurled, after all the damage has been done, after she has uncontrollably smashed and broken and torn and scraped and fought and thrashed and punched the wall and grabbed and yanked at his heart like he has hers, after she has sworn and shouted and collapsed to her knees, after she has jumped back up in overwhelming fury to release what is left of the tornado and only after witnessing him truly suffering for his indiscretion, does she finally thunder through the front door, in a whirlwind of passionate distress, banging it firmly and with disgust behind her.

The hurt she has left behind, the pain she has caused, she can sense it in her rotten and decaying heart, it will be hanging thickly in the air between her little boy, sat rigid and silent holding a truck on the floor, frozen by fear, where until moments before he had been innocent to all this and happy, and HIM, the person with poisoned intentions, who purposely set out to break her, sitting with his head in his hands on the sofa behind him.

He may be sorry, she thought, as she paused on the street momentarily, her feet willing her to run, but sorry will never be enough.

Not now.

The hot tears stream down her face, she wants to turn back, she wants to creep back in over the broken scene and scoop her beautiful little boy up in her arms, she wants to undo what has been done, protect them both, she wants to unravel the memories and start over.

They need her, she needs to be there, but it is too late.

All that was, has been stamped on.

It is lost.

Nothing can ever be the same again.

The pathway is muddy and sodden from too many futile attempts.

Not this time.

There can be no turning back.

She is propelled by an overpowering hurt, and she flees to the car.

After she has slammed her car door shut and sat for a moment, completely still.

After it has hit her all over again and she has exhausted herself by punching and head butting the cold hard steering wheel, after she has slammed her shins against the lower dash hard enough to make her cry out in pain, after she has screamed her frustration out in to a million air particles around her, after she has tried to pull out her own hair and gauge out her own eyes with shame she slowly begins to bury it again.

And she stills.

Again.

She sits and she stares for a while, through her life.

Through her moments of happiness, through the successes, through the victories that now, in this moment, after all of this, mean nothing.

Through the memories of cherished laughter and love and confluence, that now, after what he has done, after how she has reacted, all mean nothing.

The car is put in to gear, but she cannot be sure it is her who does this.

How could he do this to her?

When will this all end?

What will she do now?

Does he no longer love her?

The lights at the crossing turn red and she waits, but she is not sure what for.

How could he put her through this, again?

The sky is dark grey and the rain starts to blur out the windscreen.

She feels it building once again.

‘Just change!’ she mutters under her breath, trying to avoid making eye contact with the empty car seat filled to the brim with guilt reflected in her mirror, is she talking about the light?

‘I can’t do this!’ she bites her bottom lip hard, forcefully swiping in self loathing frustration at the trash strewn in the mucky seat, beside her.

A seat filled with failure.

A seat filled with chocolate wrappers and cigarette papers, a seat filled with debilitating insecurity and crushing loss. A seat filled with egotistical selfishness and worthlessness and negativity and exhaustion.

The light’s glow green above her and she slams her foot on the accelerator in a rush to reach… somewhere.

In a rush to arrive nowhere, anywhere, wherever.

She is desperate to quieten her mind of his betrayal and get truly lost from herself.

What she want’s, is it important?

Has it ever been important?

She needs to drive the past week away, she wants to drive the past two years away, and re – live it without the pain.

What she wants.

It can never be.

She wants to go where nobody knows her, where she can get lost and perhaps die without causing pain.

She wants to scream out for help and have people ignore her.

She wants to be allowed to end it.

She wants to kill, quieten but also ignite the pain, the pain she has spent the last year learning to barely feel.

She wants to feel it.

She wants it to take her.

The pain that has been hiding, and waiting and plotting silently in the wings.

Life is worth living…life is worth living.

No, she can no longer kid herself.

Her face is hot as the resentment returns in waves, over and over again, followed by acute disappointment and guilt.

Why is he so unreasonable?

Why does has he purposely done this?

Does he hate me?

Why does he want to hurt me?

Why am I such an awful person?

He is so weak.

I am so weak. 

He will hurt me.

I hurt me. 

Her face is hot and dirty.

The mascara streaked down her cheeks mapping out her spiraling demise.

She considers running her car off the road.

She considers high tailing in to the bridge.

She considers jumping.

But he knows.

She winces as she recalls the things she screamed about him.

But he cares.

She shifts in discomfort as she remembers the innocent face of her son, frozen.

From somewhere within, the steely and gritty resolve is born once again.

Overpowering the guilt.

Stop this now.

For him.

She sits for hours.

Or maybe seconds.

And she knows.

She has to go back.

For him too.

They need her.

She doesn’t deserve them.

She doesn’t check her reflection as she carelessly heads back towards her front door; she knows all she will see is evil.

Tonight she will harm herself.

She will burn in what she deserves, because he only treats her with care.

She will gift herself with the immense pain she has caused him.

She will teach her no good self, a lesson.

She creeps back in to the house, exhausted and in shock.

And as always he is there to hug her.

As she knew he would be.

She doesn’t want his hug.

Oh, but she does.

She longs to allow herself to feel it.

But she doesn’t feel, she deserves it.

‘I am sorry I forgot the milk.’ He whispers in her ear as he pulls her tight, never wanting to let her go.

And she hangs her head in shame.

The most evil part of her darkness has returned.

The self humiliating, sinister and uncontrollable, overwhelming and frightening, overpowering and devastating, unexpected and uninvited, destructive and crushing self destroying, anger, fear, loss, hurt and shame.

I am not a ‘Drama Queen.’

Do not tell me I had a ‘mood swing’ and to ‘pull myself together.’

He forgot the milk, and I was tortured so cruelly by myself, that I felt dying would be the easier way out.

This is an illness.

Not a Joke.

And never a Choice.

I want, I want, I want… (A Tantruming therapy Meme.)

‘Why is he screaming so bloody loud?’

The Irish one is finally home from work and I feel like hurling myself on to the floor and licking his £12.99 Reebok specials in appreciation.

‘He wants me to jump out of the window like next door’s cat did,’ I howl over the tantrum taking place beneath me, dodging kicks, smacks and tiny claws trying to scratch the skin off my ankles.

‘And because I don’t want to, clearly I am being very unreasonable and selfish!’

The Irish one smiles at me indulgently.

And I feel like smacking him around the face.

I sigh and grab my crotch as a size 4 heel connects with my pelvic bone.

‘He has been making ridiculous requests all bloody day!! And when I won’t for example, let him throw potatoes at the dog, at full force!!!! He has been throwing an absolute wobbler!!’

He throws me an ‘Alright calm down he’s only a 2 year old’ look and gets down on to his knees to address the feral beast my child has evolved in to.

‘Addison mummy can’t jump out of the window baby; mummy needs her legs not to be broken today. Come on now, stop crying, I know it would be funny to see mummy plunge to her death from the window* but we don’t always get what we want, calm down now.’

‘But I asked nicely!’ Addison responds before pounding the floor and shaking his fists at the unfairness of the world again.

Much later, after I had jumped out of the window (willingly) and he was in bed, it got me thinking.

He did ask me to break both of my legs for his entertainment, very politely.

Hmmm…

2 year olds, or at least mine, see the world in black and white; they do not see anything wrong in asking for what they want.

They do not feel shame, or guilt, or fear of judgment, or anxiety over feeling silly for asking, they simply ask, and sometimes they get what they want and at other times they have a tantrum.

So simple right?

‘What do you want Lexy?’  A common question Jamie asks me in therapy.

A question I never answer truthfully.

Through the tears and the shame, I usually sniffle out that I don’t know.

And sometimes I don’t.

But sometimes, what I want, is so meticulously buried below a layered trifle of negative, self depreciating emotions, I wouldn’t be able to ask even if I did know.

So, with this in mind, I am going to try really hard to take a leaf out of Addison’s book.

I’m going to ask for what I want.

I am going to ignore the shame, push the guilt over being selfish away, snub the embarrassment over how petty I may be when others have real problems, blank the potential judgment that I may be shallow in asking for some stuff and mostly, stamp out the fear of asking.

I am going to damn well ask.

And if I don’t get the things I want?

Well then I may have a tantrum and I may punch the Irish one in the crotch (why not?) or I may just feel better for getting it off my chest.

SO here goes…

I want…

• A lie in without being woken up by feelings of guilt and anxiety that there aren’t enough hours in the day and that I should be up cleaning, playing, washing, working…

• A 22 inch waist with no stretch marks, just so I can wander around Selfridges in a crop top eating a huge piece of almond and chocolate cake while shooting superior looks to all the snotty sales girls who think that they are better than everyone just because they are tall and thin. (You are 19! Wait till you have kids!!!)

• I want to never have suffered with depression, no overwhelming sadness, no constant anxiety, no relentless intrusive thoughts, and i want for all depression sufferers in the world to be legally allowed to head butt non sufferers when they mistakenly offer friendly advice such as  ‘Just smile more.’

• My boobs to be bouncy and full of life again, instead of hanging from my chest like two used condoms off a coat hanger.

• Free Starbucks all of the time.

• A star trek transporter door thing, so I could say ‘Addy where do you want to go today?’ and I wouldn’t have worry about paying for petrol.

• More cuddles off my other half that don’t necessarily lead to erections. I just want a cuddle. For the love of god. Why does every cuddle end in him grabbing my boob, or my bum and shouting ‘Honk Honk!’? Do men actually think this is a turn on? Do you think it is appropriate? I am crying!!! Stop feeling me up!!! I just want a cuddle!

• Someone to buy my flat so we can live somewhere with more space and POSSIBLY think about having more children without having to worry about where we will all fit.

• To be able to have more children without having to have sex. (I just wanted a cuddle!!!!!)

• Consistent support from those around me and not to feel like a victim and hate it, when I need help.

• A week or two on Necker island with my boys, including Doodle the poodle, so we can experience luxury and create family memories.

• Calorie free square crisps.

• To fly first class somewhere on a Monday morning, just once, just to see what it is like. With champagne. And paparazzi chasing me, looking fabulous, instead of heading to work looking like something the dog just sicked up.

• My best friend to not live hours and hours and hours away, but to move in to my castle which also has a Starbucks in it and a heated pool and sexy lifeguard who only has eyes for me, but I am not interested.

• My little boy to eat properly and not be frightened of food. For my little boy never ever to get poorly again and have an amazing healthy life where all his dreams are fulfilled.

• For there to be no stigma attached to poor mental health.

• To go skiing, the way it used to be, just one more time.

• To be able to sing like an angel. To hit the high notes, and the low ones when I am feeling like a rock star in the car, instead of feeling like a rock star but sounding like someone is giving a cat a lobotomy.

• My big brother not to be dead. For it to have been a massive and unfunny practical joke. For him to walk back in to my life and apologise for such cruelty while I instantly forgive him and cry with relief, hug him and spend all night laughing and joking and most importantly living with him.

• To have endless patience to deal with my 2 year olds tantrums and to never forget that I love him more than myself, and that he has saved my life on more than one occasion and that his smile lights up my heart, my soul and my life, like a torch shining in a dark room.

• To tell my son I love him, every day.

• To never forget that thinking of myself doesn’t make me selfish, that occasionally lusting after material things doesn’t make me materialistic, that expressing an emotion doesn’t make me a drama queen and that no matter how many times a day I tell myself the opposite, that I am in fact worth something.

• To have the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to fight for the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

And that is it.

I do kind of feel better, and that was fun!!!

What about you? I am nosy, I want to know what you would tantrum for, or maybe just ask for?

What would you ask for if you could see life like a two year old and there were no limitations? No anxiety over coming across shallow? No consequences? No fear?

The floor is yours…

I tag @theboyandme who’s friendship I am incredibly thankful for, every time we speak, laugh and share a good moan! And who’s blog is precious. What do you want missis?

@ lotsofspermies who I want to cuddle, but who deserves the chance to get to ask for what she wants and get it, more than anyone I know. Get asking!

@the_moiderer who inspires me every day and who has helped me more than she will ever know. What would you want?

@_katie_bailey who makes me laugh, and who’s virtual hugs and endless support has kept me going on many occasion. Tell us woman! What do you want?

@eliza_do_lots who is utterly bonkers and quite possibly the funniest female i have ever had the pleasure of meeting. I know she will have me howling and will take part because if she doesn’t I will hunt her down and poke her with an aubergine.

and @mrsceeeceee because, I love your work too! What would one like?

and finally @AdamPlum my bran spanking new twitter budster who has shown me such kindness recently even in the midst of his own troubles. What do you want Adam? If you could have anything at all?

Anyone else want to have a go? Just please link me back in so I can see them… and tag others!

*He may not have actually said this…

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!!!!!!!!!