(Hovering, not hoovering. Just to be clear, if Doodle’s pink and puckered bum hole was hoovering close to my face, that would be an entirely different situation all together. I would almost definitely move away at a faster pace in the hope of avoiding being sucked up. Ain’t nobody got time for that. Anyway shall we move on? I am very tired.)

I am not exaggerating either.

Right now, as I type this, I actually have a dog’s (pink and puckered bum hole – have I already mentioned it was pink and puckered? I am so very tired I cannot think straight) moving closer and closer towards my left eye ball.

Right eyeball.

Wait, what? Did I say Left?

Anyway.

I once had a friend who, when pregnant, avoided cats Faces like the plague.

On her first Dr’s visit while pregnant you see, he told her that Cats Faeces were terrible for unborn babies and could kill them, and she misheard him.

I am telling you this, just so that you know, that no matter how tired and utterly stupid you get as a side effect of said exhaustion, (because of that child of yours, working, washing, ironing, putting petrol in the car, school dinners, having to sex up your other half while meal planning for the next fortnight, (wait… what?) and all the other life stuff, you always know, you are not alone.

And hey! At least you never ran screaming from a cat’s face.

There is an army of us.

United in our exhaustion based stupidity.

All knackered, all wondering where it all went wrong, all leaving the house with our shirts on inside out, all trying to avoid fast food, and all, at the back of our minds, contemplating suing Durex for millions of pounds (because seriously how would they EVER know? And the money could be really well spent on a NIGHT NANNY.)

I can only assume, as he gyrates, spins, whimpers and shakes in front of me and on top of me (Doodle, not the Irish one), that he too has spotted the dock off great big and hairy, 8 legged house guest currently known as; OH MY GOD LOOK AT THE SIZE OF THAT SPIDER which is currently tap-tap-a- tapping its way slowly across the laminate floor towards the kitchen (probably to make itself a sandwich and grab a beer because lets face it, it has no kids and it won’t matter if it is a hung-over spider in the morning.)

Wait… what?

The fact that instead of pushing him off me (Doodle I mean, not the Irish one, because no matter HOW tired I am, I ALWAYS have the energy to NOT have sex) and I am instead just leaning around him, is pretty standard behaviour for me these days.

I self preserve where I can.

I can’t blame Doodle for his behaviour either; the spider is huge, but mostly? I have nothing left to give.

I literally have no energy left.

And I blame Addison. (And the inventors of Candy crush) because My three year old (and my Ipad mini) have sucked the life out of me. (Can anyone get past level 50? That Jelly is impossible!)

This isn’t what I was going to write about today either to be honest, but as I am right now having to peer around my dogs monkey bum hole to see the screen, I really feel like the post I was going to write, (a deep and meaningful about how making a mistake makes you human) seems a bit moot, so instead I have decided to give in to the delirium and write a competency based interview on the joys of motherhood.

Because, well, why not?

1) Can you give me an example of a time you have sneezed and either thought you were about to follow through or actually did? (But you saw this as more of an inconvenience than an embarrassment?)

2) Can you give me an example of when somebody you may have known (or in fact not known at all) inappropriately grabbed your stomach and uterus during pregnancy and behaved as if caressing you in public was something completely normal and appropriate?

3) Can you give me an example of a time you have sat through half an hour of Cbeebies even when the child was asleep because you couldn’t be arsed reaching for the remote?

4) Can you give me an example of a time you have had to spellcheck Cbebbeeies because it has the most ridiculous spelling ever?

5) Have you ever experienced complete memory loss? Like when, you are half way through telling a really brilliant story involving your other half or even your best friend and all of a sudden you can’t remember their name? (But incidentally can in fact name the entire cast of 300 trains from Thomas the tank engine.) And then have to laugh off the fact your work colleague had to remind you what your husband was called?

6) Have you ever wanted to punch someone just because you are tired and they are not?

7) Have you ever cried in to your pillow because you love your child so much, But if they get up One!

More!

Time!

You will be forced to trap your own head in between the door and the doorframe and SLAM over and over again in a bid to stay sane?

8) Can you give me an example of a time you tried to have a conversation with a friend, but kept getting distracted and then forgetting the end of what you were supposed to be….

Oh bloody hell, hang on, the child just woke up, I’ll be back in a minute…

Wait… What?

What was I doing again?

We. Are. Not. Alone.

…. Right?

She is on her own, rocking back and forth, cross-legged, with her head in her hands.

She is drunk.

A sad, drunken and rather pathetic little island, sat on a crinkled and filthy bedspread surrounded by years gone by.

Photographs, birthday cards, certificates, letters and trinkets are piled everywhere, they enclose her in her misery, weaving in and out of her psyche causing tidal waves of pain, one after the other.

Why is she doing this to herself?

I hate watching this.

She needs to get a grip, she is better than this, this isn’t what I wanted.

Her world is caving in around her, and she is letting it.

There is nothing I can do to change it either.

My sister, as well as being quirky in a way I don’t quite understand, likes to live in the past, but who can blame her?

I want to scream and shake her but what would be the point?

The Damn Goo Goo Dolls.

‘They painted up your secret with the lies they told to you, and the least they ever gave you was the most you ever knew…’

I don’t know why I am even a tiny bit surprised.

Her all time favourite band, the songs and lyrics I was forced to listen to booming through my wall many, many, many times over the years.

‘…And I wonder where these dreams go when the world gets in your way, what’s the point in all this screaming, no one is listening anyway…’

I wonder if she remembers the time I kind of lost the plot after hearing Acoustic number 3 for the fiftieth time in a row.

I laugh out loud, I can’t help it.

What I wouldn’t give to remind her of that now over a pint.

‘Your voice is small and fading and your hiding here unknown…’

It was late and mum was away.

I knew arguing with her to turn it off, or down even, would be pointless, and I was in a foul mood as my car has been broken in to.

I mean wouldn’t you be?

She was miserable about another boy who had let her down and god that song was driving me insane!!

So I did what any big brother would do.

I burst through her door with a hand gun and fired a round off in to the ceiling.

‘And your mother loves your father cos she’s got nowhere to go…’

Well, that certainly got her attention.

In fairness though, I didn’t realise she wouldn’t have heard or seen me come in.

My intention was to be a bit James Bond like and make her laugh.

I assumed she would have seen me first.

‘And she wonders where these dreams go, cos the world got in her way, what’s the point in ever trying, nothing is changing anyway…’

But she was lying on her bed writing in her diary, with her back to the damn door.

She shit herself.

I mean she actually shit herself.

Thought someone was shooting at her.

It should have been funny.

How was I to know she was going to pass out and actually shit herself?

‘And they tried so hard to reach you but your falling anyway…’

We both laughed about it in the weeks following.

Not so much at the time though.

But that was us.

Mental.

I bought her a pink Ipod for her birthday last year as a kind of an apology, got her some pretty decent headphones too, not that she ever used them, oh no, she went out and got herself a bloody big docking station.

Way louder than that shitty CD player with the cock eyed ariel that would crackle out the top 40, and scratch every CD you put in it. It actually used to be mine that, before she wrecked it with all those Smash hits stickers.

My bloody little sister.

‘And you know I see right through you cos the world gets in your way, what the point in all this screaming you’re not listening anyway…’

That wasn’t the last present I bought her though, the last present I ever bought her was a Scorpion pickled in Vodka.

She would have found it funny I know she would have, she would have just got it.

Someone else ended up passing it on to her in the end though.

‘This was the Christmas present he bought for you.’

I didn’t get to see her reaction.

I miss us.

She used to be so girly, I wonder when she stopped caring and did this to her space, to herself.

Painted everything black.

I lean against her desk and watch as she swigs from a bottle of white wine, flicking through letter after letter, photo after photo.

I just watch.

What else can I do?

And then I remember.

I reach up and touch the light bulb with the tip of my finger, just as I was told it would, the light flickers.

Her head shoots up.

She stares right at me, like a rabbit in headlights, her face red and wet, her eyes swollen and clouded by black make up and booze.

I smile.

‘And I don’t want the world to see me cos I don’t think they’d understand, when everything is made to be broken I just want you to know who I am… ‘

I struggle to stay calm.

Our eyes meet.

I want to talk about it, I want to laugh, joke, shout, drink, explain, be…

‘I know you are here’ she slurs in to the half-light of the empty room.

I listen for more.

She shakes her head.

I sit on the floor with my back resting against the edge of her bed, my back to her and I know that is all I am getting tonight.

I will stay as long as I am needed.

I will just be here.

Downstairs the streetlights just beyond the tiny back garden have come on.

Brian is walking his dog down the alley, lost in thought.  The train platform was hot and crushed tonight and it freaked him out. He is tired of this now, he needs to quit this awful job.

Kevin is still sitting at his desk, counting down the minutes until his shift ends and he can get home to his Xbox. He has a new game and tonight he intends to reach the last level and beyond. He knows he should go out, but he can’t be bothered, no one likes him anyway.

Susan is in the kitchen; her two year old playing in the living room, she is wondering as she takes the fish out of the oven, whether tonight will be the night she gets pregnant again. She is hopeful.

Life goes on around us as we sit there together, alone, consumed by our pain.

At some point, I notice she has quietened down and is drifting off to sleep.

No more Goo Goo Dolls tonight.

It is time for me to go.

I get up and press shuffle on the Ipod.

Walking in Memphis.

Real music.

‘Put on my blue suede shoes and I boarded the plane…’

‘Thanks Jake,’ she mumbles incoherently, and as I turn to leave she laughs and shakes her head. ‘Dickhead.’

And I smile.

Because that’s us.

I have been waking up in the mornings, crawling out of bed, glimpsing in the mirror, admiring my tash, making a mental note to shave it in between all the other pointless mind numbing tasks I have to do, and then ultimately forgetting all about it before turning the kettle on and listening to the Wheels on the Bus Megamix on Channel Addy.

I do not often use pictures in blog posts but as I am unable to pull anything interesting or creative from my dead heart on this occasion, it will be a lot easier and less time consuming for me to just show you what I look like.

This is me.

Is the Tash very obvious?

I worry that the mustache is beginning to take over my face.

I went to Asda like this yesterday, thinking I looked half decent before I realised I only had mascara on one eye, I had four boob syndrome and a roll of muffin top that would make a muffin blush with jealousy.

How do these other ‘bouncy’ mothers do it?

Prancing around Asda in their skinny jeans and their spaghetti stained free tops, Range rover Evoque’s parked outside ready to herd the kids away and pert breasts not only producing 17 pints of milk per child, but also standing mighty fine and all ready for their husbands to caress.

What am I missing?

Other than sleep?

My jeans are only ‘skinny’ because my thighs still rub together in the middle and actually all jeans look ‘skinny’ on me right now and what excuse do I have for my body to have all but given up? I only have one child, age 3.

HE still hasn’t slept through either.

AT WHAT POINT DO THEY START TO DO THAT?

(And is Piriton ok as a long term solution?)

And as for my car, it could double as a skip and if the Irish one even thinks of approaching in a caressing mood I will quite happily take a baseball bat to his testicles.

Yesterday, while Addison was busy screaming in the next room because I cruelly refused to consider dragging the next door neighbours six foot trampoline in to his bedroom, I sat down to take a deep breath and 2 minutes of normality, and noticed a friend of mine posted a status on facebook which made me want to go round her house and smash her windows in.

‘Anybody who describes themselves as a full time mummy needs shooting. Being a mummy is not a job!’

After the steam had stopped shooting from my ears, after I had stomped on a few pieces of lego while muttering all kinds of madness, phoned another friend and screamed ‘smug bitch!!’ a few hundred times, stopped Addison from kicking and screaming at me mid tantrum, by kicking and screaming myself, I removed her from my friend list and decided to wash my hands of her ‘perfect motherness’ crap.

Because once I start to compare myself, it is a downward spiral to the freezer.

And we all know where that ends.

(On that subject, have you tried Ben and Jerry’s caramel core yet??)

I have a job, I have a kid, I have an Irish one with a mild case of the annoying horn and I have a poodle with a loose bowel.

Then I have voices in my head, the self doubt, the medication I keep forgetting to take, a wedding  I am failing at organising, a husband to be I am failing at ‘servicing’ and a DOG THAT WON’T STOP CRAPPING ON THE RUG!

Oh and I still have a mustache.

How do these women do it?

TELL ME HOW THEY DO IT!!

I do enjoy it occasionally though.

Especially the Addy classics.

‘Mammy you are so beautiful, just like a mermaid’ he strokes my hair tenderly, ‘but a lot fatter.’

‘Mammy I am gutted that it’s pissing rain.’  (Blame the Irish one.)

In the middle of starbucks, to the man in front of us in the queue;

‘Do you want to see my testicles?’

*facepalm.

*And before I get anybody telling me I should be grateful I am a mother and they are bored of hearing mothers moan I will say this. I realise my problems may seem shallow and not like problems at all to some people and actually there are occasions I love being a mother (like when he is asleep) but just because i am a mother does not mean i am NOT ALLOWED TO MOAN ABOUT IT SOMETIMES!!!

Anyone fancy a night out?

Or better still, a week away?

Would somebody please come and shave my Tash?

My rage alert monitor just tripped over in to red.

There are bells and sirens and whistles piercing the air.

Doodle runs for cover and takes the 70 thousand ants that recently moved in, with him.

Addison is at nursery so there is no stopping us now.

We can finally let rip and tear strips out of one another.

If I were to give in to my rage right now, I would gain such a large amount of satisfaction from punching him hard over and over again in the chest, perhaps delivering a swift kick to the groinal area, maybe pulling his hair and biting him before slapping him and then stepping over him, in killer heels, (obviously I  would change out of my slippers first) with nothing more than a hair toss and a haughty laugh.

But I don’t give in to the rage, there would be no going back, and even though it illuminates me, I remain, although barely, in control.

‘Miserable bitch?’ I spit out at him.

How could he?

In my mind I am circled in smoke, red lights flash behind me, I am a warrior, Zena if you will, but with better thighs and the potential moves of Jackie Chan.

He declines to answer as if he knows it would be the final knife in the coffin.

He turns towards the door, ignoring me and I picture myself spinning like an elegant and long legged Charlie’s angel and high kicking him in the back of the head, so he head butts the fridge.

That would teach him a lesson.

But, alas, I don’t.

Instead I stand there staring at his back, motionless, in my grotty pajama bottoms and my stained top, my hair tied back with yesterdays pants, my stomach heavy and bloated from a much regretted meat diet, and a bowl of Weetabix moments away from going in the microwave, shaking in my hands

I wish in moments like this I was less grotty mother, it was less me and him, and more…. Like things used to be.

I wish I was still a mystery to him, you know?

I wish everything was still new, and he had never witnessed me crapping out an elephant poop on a birthing table pre Addison, OR heard me screaming blue murder the first time I had to have a poo post bum stitching, post Addison, OR ‘enjoyed’ me in the later stages of psychosis talking to someone who wasn’t there, tears and snot covering my cheekbones.

Cheekbones that he used to trace with his finger, oh so tenderly, right before I took an overdose and he had to save my life, while I puked in his lap.

I wish he still fancied me, that I was still interesting to him, that although we had a shared history, that we could erase some of it and enjoy some discovery.

He thinks I am a miserable bitch.

I think he is an ungrateful control freak who uses all of the above against me.

And you know what?

Sometimes we are both right.

‘LOVE, LOVE, LOVE…  love, love love… There is nothing you can do that can’t be done, nothing you can sing that can’t be sung…. All you need is love, all you need is love…’

The radio sitting next to the butter stained toaster is providing the saddest of background soundtracks to what could potentially be the demise of our relationship.

I love him.

Maybe I should just let it go…

But hang on!

I bought him pork yesterday!

Screw him!

I am a ninja!

He is lucky to have me!

I am so right right now, and this has nothing to do with me being miserable or crapping on a birthing table and has everything to do with him being ungrateful!!

I slam down the Weetabix and chase him in to the hallway where he is picking up his work coat, getting ready to leave for the day.

All couples have fights, all couples go through rocky patches but do all couples momentarily lose control the way we do and lay in to one another?

He’s standing by the door about to leave, and in this moment, I hate him.

I actually hate him.

Is this my illness or is this standard?

That my emotions can flip so easily from love to hate, from hate to love?

I don’t even know how this all started, but I will be damned if I am letting him have the last word.

I am too far gone.

‘I do plenty for you!’ I scream at him, yanking up my jammy bottoms and shaking with barely suppressed rage. ‘I bought you pork from the supermarket yesterday!’

He looks at me like he doesn’t understand.

He steps forward, shoving his arms in to his coat.

‘You bought me PORK?’

‘Yes I bloody did! I bought you pork and POTATOES! I do plenty for you! I spent ages choosing that bloody pork! It was meant to be romantic! But you are just so UNGRATEFUL AND SELFISH AND HORRIBLE that you didn’t even think to say thank you!’

‘FOR BUYING ME PORK?’ he is shouting but his eyebrows are knotted in angry confusion. ‘You didn’t cook it for me you know! YOU JUST BOUGHT IT!’

‘YES I did! And I spent ages choosing it! It was meant to be romantic!’

He takes a deep breath. ‘Romantic PORK?’ he screams, losing emphasis and trying not to smile.

Ah, now when he puts it like that…

I take a deep breath.

I am confused.

What was the point I was trying to make?

‘If I had cooked it,’ I continue, finding my point ‘you and I both know you would have undoubtedly been struck down by food poisoning and besides I respect pigs too much to cook them, you know this about me! I was trying to do something nice, I thought is would have been nice to have a romantic night in! But oh no you just go ahead and eat it and then…’

I stop.

He is just staring at me.

‘What?’

‘How was I supposed to know that it was romantic pork?’ he is sniggering.

He just bloody was.

I am not being unreasonable here.

Romance isn’t all flowers and nights in Paris when you have a child is it?

He saw me dribbling charcoal, I have seen him with the noro-virus, there are no secrets anymore, no mystery… how could it be any other way?

I just want it to be a little bit the other way though,… oomphy, every now and again.. you know?

‘You proposed to me while I was cleaning up dog poo Irish One! IT WAS ROMANTIC PORK! DON’T MOCK THE PORK!’

He heaves a big sigh, smiles at me a little to test the water, I don’t smile back, even though I want to, I don’t know why I don’t,  and eventually he leaves for work, the door closing firmly behind him.

And then it hits me.

Did we just argue about pork?

Did he really propose to me while I was cleaning up dog poo?

Is this really my life?

I don’t know whether to cry because this is what it has come to, or laugh because I love someone enough to argue with him about Pork, and often happily imagine roundhousing him in the back of the head.

‘I love you.’ I text him immediately, because, as much as I sometimes absolutely hate and am bored shitless by my life, the monotony of it all, sometimes when I think about it properly, if I look at it from an abstract, I do love it. Right?

I love him.

‘I love you too’ the reply is almost instantaneous, ‘I am sorry about the PORK.’

I do not reply.

This is getting ridiculous,

He is sorry about the pork.

Maybe pork wasn’t the answer.

My phone beeps again.

‘Shall we have a Chinese tonight? Wink wink nudge nudge?’

I can’t help but laugh.

I do love a good argument.

But…

But…

Should it be like this?

Can you get the oomph back?

I can feel the sweat starting to form on the back of my neck as I wait for the lady in front of me to pay for her shopping.

We, my son and I, are appropriately dressed for the North Pole (or April in Manchester).

Hats, boots, scarves, body warmers and thick jeans hang off our every appendage, outside we were smugly toasty, laughing the baltic weather in the face, but it has to be said, now we are inside, I am starting to regret dressing us both in thermal undies.

Addison is heavy at the best of times, but having him hanging around my neck, his nearly three year old chunky limbs, which used to be so tiny, covered in thick wool and toggles, his lead snow boots kicking me in the thighs, well, I feel as if I may pass out.

And now, while he relaxes in my arms and I lose half my body weight in sweat and fluster, he has kindly struck up a conversation with the old bid behind us.

I turn to shoot a smile and roll my eyes at the old lady queueing behind us, the old lady, I notice immediately, that is only buying a loan loaf, a lonely bottle of milk and a single and sad looking bag of skittles, and instead I instantly admonish myself for calling her a bid, and thinking she wouldn’t be interested in him.

The smile on her face is wide.

She is beholding him as if he were a long lost relative.

I can tell he has managed it again.

Now i will roll my eyes and smile.

She is around his little finger, just like that.

This boy is such a player.

I am going to have to beat it out of him. (He will be still living with me when he is 40. He is never allowed to leave me. EVER.)

I smile, but even though his face is RIGHT next to mine, she barely notices me.

‘Is it really?’ she says bringing her gnarly, bent finger up to his soft, silk cheek and resting it lightly on the side of his face, absolute uncensored love and memories of her own, pouring from her smile.

Honestly, her memories are so vivid in her eyes, I feel as I stand in front of her, I can almost feel how her life has played out.

I can almost watch, touch and feel her experiences, as if she is playing a black and white movie to me in a heartbeat.

I see how maybe she used to be like me, she used to have a three year old adoring her, maybe more children, hanging off her neck, kissing her, driving her barmy, how she adored every minute and now; well now…

She has one bag of skittles.

Where is her three year old?

‘And how old will you be little one?’

She pulls her hand away and her eyes meet mine for a split second.

In that moment I confirm as only a mother can that she is ok to continue and I don’t mind in the slightest.

There is a part of me that wants to reach out and hug her, invite her to babysit maybe… (kidding.)

Usually I hate when people just randomly touch my son without asking.

It is one of my pet hates.

He is not a dog.

Stop petting him.

I think it stems from a family holiday we took to Morocco when I was eight.

Basically wherever we walked as a family, locals would wander up to me and begin touching and rubbing my hair.

I was like a magic lamp.

Honestly.

This actually happened!

I have since heard it is quite typical in Morocco, as I suppose they don’t, or they didn’t in the 80’s anyway, tend to see too many blonde, blue eyed, children.

I have to say at first I loved it.

It spoke to the eight-year-old diva in me, who even at that young and impressionable age was desperate for fame, fortune and a pop star status. (With possibly a few diamonds, a massive My Little Pony house and definitely a trampoline, thrown in for good measure…. And an eye patch. I always wanted an eye patch.)

My parents also seemed to be enjoying the hilarity and attention connected to market stall holders, waitresses, passing business people, randoms, men, women, and other mothers and fathers stopping in their tracks at the sight of their daughter.

I think if my mum could have, she would have happily yanked my hair off my head with her bare hands and worn it as a blonde wig herself. That is how much attention I seemed to be getting.

It was wonderful, for a while.

‘How many camels for your daughter? How many camels for your daughter??’

Yeah.

And then it wasn’t.

‘I give you three and a half camels!’

And while my dad pretended to barter for me, and people continued to yank at me, and my brother pissed himself laughing and my dad pretended to agree to two camels, and I didn’t realise he was joking, (and to be fair I don’t think the Moroccon man did at first either) everything kind of changed.

I have never been able to look at a camel since without questioning my worth.

But anyway, back to the old woman.

‘Three!’ he cracks her a wide smile.

I turn back to the queue, moving forward as the woman in front leaves, and as I always do, heaving Addison over on to the till and sitting him in the end, the silver tray bit with the bags, so I can bag, and he can help me – this always raises a smile out of the cash person, as if they cant quite believe I am doing it.

I am already miles away as I bag.

I am absentmindedly throwing cans of beans in on top of the bread, apple juice in with fresh chicken and tucking the Tena lady in behind the Pampers while I think of what we have to do next to be sure we are ready for tomorrow, when the old lady leans over the till and most unexpectedly presses a pound in to Addison’s hand.

Now even without suffering from a side effect of depression, aptly named ‘You will scrawk anytime something nice happens’ I am touched by this lovely and most random act of kindness.

Addy’s mouth is hanging open as he looks down at the coin resting in his sweaty palm.

‘Addy!’ I say, after thanking the lady profusely, feeling a little embarrassed, not quite knowing the social etiquette for something like this, so insisting quite brusquely she really didn’t need to, but thanking her anyway.

‘Addy! What do you say to the nice lady? She gave you a pound! Isn’t she a nice lady! What do you say?’

He looks at the coin in his hand, and I see it going through his mind before I hear it.

He thinks she is playing shop, like he does with mummy at home.

It is too late though.

I cannot stop what is about to happen.

‘Thank you lady.’ He says very nicely. ‘But have you got a fiver?’

I almost died.

***

*Dear Addison,

Today you turned 3 years old.

Happy birthday my incredible boy.

The love I feel for you is more powerful than any emotion I have ever felt in my entire life.

You astound me and surprise me everyday and the moments I share with you right now during these weeks; singing ‘we stick together like glue,’ from the back of the car, you touching my face as I read you bedtime stories and we lie together cuddled in your tiny bed. Our mammy and Addy day’s spent whittling away the hours just being us, the times you mortify me in public places by grabbing my boob, asking for money or shouting ‘Mummy that man is a Muppet!’ well, they are without a doubt, the very best days of my life, days I will cherish and never ever forget.

You cry when I cry, my sensitive little boy, you have taught me what love is, which is why, once again, I thank you for saving me, when no one else could.

I will always want a Million more minutes with you.

(Which, incidentally, is why you aren’t moving out until you are 40.)

X

Mammy.

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.

I had my tattoo touched up.

I got tricked in to taking part in some sort of unorganized and ghastly impromptu nature trail by the kid.

But most horrifically, during the moments I wasn’t fully focused on the decorative agony emanating from my bruised, poked and horrifically damaged (but soon to be very pretty) wrist, or peering closely at, and pretending to be enthralled by a Worm split disgustingly in two, or a leaf that looked like a bit of mud, or gasping ‘Ooo look Addy, it’s a big dog poo! This is nature at it’s very best’ my mind was effortlessly wandering, as if it had a mind of it’s own (see what I did there?) on to thoughts, of the big D.

Death.

Yesterday I found a lump.

An actual real life, wobbly mass of tenderness, of indefinite size and shape, commonly painful, sometimes painless; Also commonly referred to in the medical profession as an abnormal mass or swelling that usually will cause irritation.

Mostly referred to in this household as ‘The Irish one.’

Joking.

I do not refer to that lump.

I am referring to an actual medical lump.

After the first fleeting and heart crippling thoughts of;

‘OH MY GOD I HAVE A LUMP, I AM PANICKING LIKE A MOFO, SOMEONE GET ME A DOCTOR AND SOME GAS AND AIR, STAT!’

had petered off and moved on to thoughts of;

‘WELL IF THERE IS A POSSIBILITY I AM GOING TO DIE, I MAY AS WELL EAT THESE SEVEN EASTER EGGS FIRST’

And I had poked and prodded and marched randomly up and down the hallway, in a blind panic, stress eating chocolate without really focusing on what I was doing, I found another one.

‘Irish one!’

‘What?’

‘They say I’m really sexy.’

‘What?’

‘The boys they wanna sex me.

They always standing next to me,

Always dancing next to me,

Tryin’ a feel my Lump, Lump.

Lookin’ at my lump, lump.

You can look but you can’t touch it,

If you touch it I’m a start some drama,

You don’t want no drama,

No, no drama, no, no, no, no drama

So don’t pull on my hand boy,

You ain’t my man, boy,

I’m just tryn’a dance boy,

And move my Lump.

My Lump, my Lump, my Lump, my Lump,

My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump.

My lovely lady lumps…

My lovely lady lumps’

‘She’d got me spinning, you got me spinning, what you gonna do with all that junk, all that junk inside that trunk, fillin out them jeans….’

None of that actually happened.

But it was a lot more interesting to write than what actually happened.

Which was him ignoring me in favour of the football, then absentmind-ingly telling me not to worry as they were probably flea bites, off, and I quote ‘the Mangy Dog.’  (He is NOT MANGY HE IS A PART OF THIS FAMILY! WARTS AND ALL! Pay me some attention!!!)

Infuriating.

Anyway.

After a sleepless night tossing and turning, continually prodding different parts of my body, running through scenario after scenario in my mind and repeatedly reminding the Irish one that me checking my groin for lumps was not in any way intended to be any sort of come on, morning finally arrived.

‘Hi Dr Phillips, us again!’

Addison bowled in to her office, shouted ‘I am a Nincompoop!’ at top volume and made straight for the drawer where she keeps her stickers.

She fended him off like a medical Kung Fu Panda, and with a sense of ease I will forever envy, got him sitting messing with her thermometer, in no time.

(It was only after the event I was like – hang on, don’t thermometers have some sort of dangerous mineral in them? Liquid dynamite, or something?)

‘What can I do for you Lexy?’ She swivels away from my two-year-old time bomb and faces me expectantly.

I showed her my lumps. (My lovely lady lumps.)

‘Are you worried?’ she asks as I inadvertently envelop her in a smell similar, but not identical to cowpat and she professionally struggles, not to wretch.

‘Yes. I am worried.’

‘What about?’

I imagine I look at her in the same way Doodle looks at me when I say something he doesn’t understand.

I tilt my head to the side and open my eyes really wide, (stick my tongue out, start panting and manically scratch my ear… Not really. Ok…. A little bit.)

‘Is it not obvious? Doesn’t everyone immediately jump to concerns about Cancer the moment a lump is mentioned?’

She nods, and urges me to go on.

‘I am not scared of dying though. How could I be?’

I pause and look away for a split second to calm the noise in my mind and check Captain Bonkers is not swallowing a needle or something.

He is.

He actually has his head in her yellow ‘contaminated waste’ metal medical bin.

‘ADDISON!’ we both screech in unison.

He jumps out and smiles guiltily, chucking a pump of somesort behind him in a jerk reaction, before asking for the ipad and smiling sweetly at the Dr, who seems to be shaking somewat.

As I rustle in my handbag looking for my iPhone to occupy him, I continue, without really focusing on what I am saying.

‘I have spent the last three years swinging violently between wanting to die and being euphorically happy about finding cake in the cupboard. It is not death that scares me, it is the thought of having to say goodbye to Addy Woo. No! You cannot have a donut, mummy hasn’t got any with her!! Hang on I am looking for it…’

I turn my bag upside down on the floor and manically spread out it’s contents, vaguely aware as I ramble on, that my iphone doesn’t seem to be there.

‘But the thought of Death?’ I continue ‘Well that is the dream that keeps me warm at night. Yes baby, mummy is looking for it… Sometimes, I can actually feel the relief you see, of what it would be like, ceasing to exist. Quite something to behold. Doesn’t it just sound wonderful? To have the world disappear? I imagine it to be like lying on a sandy beach when you are nineteen, the heat of sun on your face, your toes digging in to the sand, your emotions deep and even, blissful. Where the hell is my phone?’

The doctor hands me my phone.

I don’t acknowledge how she has it. (I didn’t even realise she did have it until I was just writing this, how the hell did she have my iphone?? See? NINJA DOCTOR.)

‘Some days, it is all I can think about. Dying.’

Slowly the truth is loading. I am on a roll, getting faster and faster…

‘No longer feeling weighted down by love, no longer strung out by the white noise in my mind, the pain. And seeing my brother, feeling his protection again, but even if he isn’t there and it is just blackness, just … nothing. Not romantic at all, I still think it must be lush, better than this ignorance, this pain, this world where dogs kill children, and precious mummy’s have their babies stolen from them, where people hate just for hating sake. Imagine it! Just… nothing.’ I sigh, blowing it all out.

I then hand Addison my phone and begin putting my bag back together.

‘Give me half a chance to experience ‘the end’ without the blame I would most definitely get if I did it to myself, and I would take it. Cancer is acceptable, suicide, although it should be, is not seen as acceptable. When I talk about suicide, about how it has affected my life, my family, I see people recoil in discomfort. I don’t want to cause that for anyone.’

I glance up at her to check she is listening.

She is.

Intently.

This urges me to continue on as honestly as I can, without losing my courage.

‘Some days I am bursting with unshed tears and excruciating half remembered shadows and demons, that torment my every second moment.  Who I am, where I am, the continual voices, the continual annoyingly jovial people who try to jivvy me out of being miserable, when miserable and bleak is the only emotion I can feel without having to try, and that in itself is exhausting. And then I have the days where I can’t stop the happiness, it floods me and floors me, I am euphoric, and then bereft when it leaves. All I want to do when these mentally stable people smile kindly at me, is cry and scream and scrape at their faces with my nails, because I am so angry. I am so angry. I want to shout about how it is not fair that I will never be normal, I will never get to just be, so no, death doesn’t scare me. Death feels like heaven.’

The office is thick with honesty.

It is suffocating us both.

The silence is seeping under my skin, wrapping itself around my head and my heart.

I cough.

I know she is gawping at me.

‘So then why are you worried about these lumps?’

I snap my head up to look at her in the eye.

‘Should I be worried about these lumps?’

‘No Lexy, I am pretty sure these are viral lumps, swollen lymph nodes, but if they haven’t gone down in three weeks come back ok?’

I nod.

I am relieved.

After all this I am relieved.

I know Cancer doesn’t mean death, I know it is far from a death sentence these days.

But…

‘Saying goodbye to Addison. That is my daily fear, on top of all the others. Fear I am going mad, fear I am not going mad, fear I have cancer, fear my dad will die, fear the dog will go missing, fear I will never be happy, never feel light, I cannot live, die, exist, not exist, whatever – without him. The thought of leaving him is like…’

As I say this, searching for a painful analogy of what my life would be like without Addison, he looks up at me with his baby blue eyes and smiles.

This is it.

The overpowering love all the baby books spoke of.

‘Mummy?’

‘Yes baby?’ I ask him this while tracing my finger around his chin gently, looking down at his precious little face, my eyes begin filling up at the thought of missing out on his life, his tenderness, his beauty.

‘I am doing a big wee wee.’

I fly out of my seat like I have a rocket up my arse.

‘GOD DAMN!’

I nearly headbutt her desk in my haste to reach for my bag.

The Dr jumps up too ‘What, what, what is the matter?’

‘HE ISNT WEARING A NAPPY!’

I think I may have screamed in her face.

The appointment came to an abrupt end after that.

But not before she whispered the words every mental patient dreads hearing.

‘Have you ever wondered, ever considered, ever put any thought in to, or researched the possibility, that you may be Bipolar?’

No I haven’t.

And I won’t.

My son has sodden pants, lets just focus on that for now.

A lot later, as in, about ten minutes ago – as I lay in bed poking at my lumps which are still very definitely there, and wondering if I should, under her instruction, perhaps consider another, different medication I have not tried yet for my mental health problems, whatever the label they fall under, the Irish one trundles in.

I feel almost romantic.

Maybe I will allow him some sex this evening.

‘Addy has shit the bed. Do you know where the wipes are?’

It is these tiny moments of bliss that make life worth living.

Even with all the pain.

Together, we will clean up the poo.

And I will feel less alone.

I had turned my back for two minutes.

And now this.

Sometimes I do wonder if there has been some sort of mistake with the gods of fate, like maybe my ‘Life Menu’ and Jennifer Anniston’s ‘Life Menu’ got mixed up, and actually maybe it is her that should be cleaning runny toddler poo out of the dog’s bed, and it is I that should have been off having glamorous and rampant sex with Brad Pitt.

(And yes, I know it has been a while since they broke up…  ok. I will re-phrase that, I know it has been more than a while since they broke up, but I will just never get over it ok? I just NEVER WILL! THEY WERE PERFECT TOGETHER! What was he thinking?)

Sometimes, ESPECIALLY on days like today, I occasionally catch myself looking up to the heavens beseechingly, as if to ask the universe if it is enjoying watching me get no sleep, trip up, drop a pint of milk, nearly run my car in to a parking meter and finally, scoop poo out of Doodle’s cushioned fortress.

And then usually, ESPECIALLY, on days like today, it gives me it’s answer.

‘Mammy Mammy, wake up! It is light outside; it is time to get up! Mammy Mammy, I did a wee in my bed!’

Jennifer Anniston eat your heart out.

I prize my eyes open and stare at my bright eyed and bushy tailed son. He is holding his distinctly moist and clammy hand out and positioning it under my nose with a big grin on his face.

How? How? HOW?

How is it possible that after waking me up literally every twenty minutes in the night, to ask for all manner of crap, including but not limited to –

1am – He wanted a cheese and onion cement mixer.

2am – He could hear a mallard. (Not a duck, a ‘mallard!’)

3am – He needed to speak to me about, and I quote ‘borrowing a fiver.’

4am – He needed to ask me if I remembered a specific episode of Ben and Holly where Nanny Plum lost her magic license and they all…. who cares?

5am- I could hear him singing Lady Gaga ‘telephone.’

That he is now this bright eyed and bushy tailed?

The stench of baby wee is overpowering.

I need coffee.

I am a bad mummy.

I get him changed but I do not brush his teeth.

I need proper coffee.

I put his shoes on but I do not brush my hair or his.

I fling on my coat over my pyjamas and grab my sunglasses.

If I am to get through today I need a Starbucks a hell of a lot more than I need a shower.

I am a bad mummy.

I don’t feed him before we go.

‘We will just quickly dash through the drive through’ I mumble as I haul him in to his car seat and he happily tells me about his favourite yellow digger ‘then we will come home and start the day’ I interrupt him.

He sings all the way there, in between asking me every random question known to man.

What is that birdie doing up there?

Where are the clouds?

Is there a man in that van?

Does he like diggers?

Where is that ambulance going?

I spend the journey answering his onslaught as best as I can, given that I am operating on limited battery life.

I don’t know.

No idea.

Maybe.

Possibly.

Somewhere far away…

The end is in sight.

But of course, the universe knows I haven’t brushed his teeth, that I am still in my pyjamas, and that I do not clearly deserve a break, and the bitch is going to make me pay.

DRIVE THRU* CLOSED.

‘Come on baby’ I smile through gritted teeth pulling the car in to the disabled space, looking up to the heavens and grimacing, refusing to be beaten ‘GAME ON universe!

‘We will run in and out, it is too early, no one else is here, no one will see us, quick, quick, quick!’

I lean my full weight on the heavy glass door and push it open, half carrying half dragging the toddler behind me, and oh the release! Oh the heavenly smell of Starbucks!

The intense and entirely intoxicating aroma of coffee immediately envelope’s me in a big fat hug and I am at one. I can feel my heartbeat returning to normal, it doesn’t matter that my morning breath could strip paint, it doesn’t matter that one side of my hair is stuck to my head and the other is kinked and greasy. It doesn’t matter that I have mascara smudged under my eyes, and that I have had no sleep.

I am relaxing. Soon I shall have coffee, the world is just how it should be.

‘Everything will be ok now.’ I smile at Addy like a druggy high on glue and cake ‘They have caffeine in this place. Mummy will be ok now.’

As he looks back up at me, he senses his moment and asks me for the ridiculously overpriced pancakes that I would usually say no to, but at that moment, lost in the saviour scent of my Mecca,  I just nod and smile and think ‘baby you can have whatever you want now we are here.’

Oh and how the universe laughed.

Because of course, who then trundled in behind us?

My ex-boyfriend.

Of course! 

But not only my ex boyfriend, oh no.

That wouldn’t have been awful enough.

NO, in walked MY ex boyfriend and the girl he cheated on me with, his now wife. 

And they were both immaculately dressed and ready for work, smiling secret smiles and laughing between themselves.

They saw me.

I saw them.

And then of course, we all had to make small talk.

AWWWKWAAAARRRD.

And as if that wasn’t bad enough, because quite clearly, the universe by this point wanted to finish me off completely, Addison decided at that very moment to start straining.

Did I mention we are trying to get him out of nappies, but he hasn’t quite got the hang of it yet?

‘Mammy! I am pooing!’

(And of course I had nothing with me. So he had to travel home with a naked bum. But it was ok, because my red face kept him warm.)

And that was my morning.

So now, if you don’t mind, while Addison is crashed out in bed, I am going to go and dig a very deep hole, and bury myself in it with what remains of my self-esteem.

Jennifer Anniston? I want my life back.

*I am aware Thru is not the correct spelling of Through. Just so you are aware.

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.

If they ever do decide to make a musical fairytale however, about a self harming, suicidal, manic depressive and slightly paranoid flabby woman, with a penchant for tattoos and wearing fake eye lashes, who gets sectioned but fights hard to get better, finds a man, hates him, loves him, hates him, loves him and eventually agrees to marry him and walk off in to the sunset with him, joined by a crazy 2 year old and a dog with an explosive rectum– then I would be totally perfect for the part.

Until then though, I will keep trying to fit my square peg fantasy in to the Disney round hole.

I am all in a dither.

I guess I should mention that I no longer smoke (2 weeks without nicotine and the Irish one is lucky he still has both of his eyebrows, he is doing my head in!! But on the plus side – I can breathe and food never tasted so good, honestly! Chocolate tastes insane!) So, anyway- where as usually I would be puffing away right now, stressed as I am, I have instead inadvertently ended up stress eating mini jammy dodgers.

It’s ok though, these little coins of Jammy Gold won’t affect my wedding diet (the anti thigh rub diet, as it has come to be known) as everybody knows if no one sees you eating them the calories don’t count, and also I have my eyes closed in the hope my hips just won’t notice.

The thing is you see, (she says shoving another 4 in for good measure…) In precisely one hour my telephone is going to ring and I am going to have to pick it up and speak to a jolly American.

Now usually this wouldn’t be a bad thing, given that I love the American’s as much as I do… Actually, did I ever tell you the story about what happens whenever I get drunk?

Basically it goes like this- whenever I get drunk, I fake an American accent and tell everyone in hearing distance I am not from Eccles Manchester, but actually from Utah.

I have no idea why I pick Utah, I just always do, it seems to just roll easily of my drunken tongue, plus it sounds cool. I can picture myself being a cheerleader in Utah, or a rocker or something. Utttaaaahhhhh…. It’s just easy to ‘drawwwwl’ in an American accent.

Do you know what isn’t easy to say in an American accent? (while we are on the subject?)

‘Sugar puffs.’ Don’t ever try and say ‘Sugar puffs’ in an American accent, as you will blow your cover. Even Americans can’t say sugar puffs in an American accent.

Try it if you don’t believe me.

See? You sound like you need help don’t you?

But anyway, back to the point, usually a chat with a real life genuine American would ensure I would be counting down the moments until the shrieking and ‘Howdy and grits!’ and ‘y’all have a nice day’ began.

I LOVE THE AMERICANS.

I should have been American in my opinion.

I was simply born to say things like ‘Freeedommmm!’ and ‘Hey y’all, watch out for those ERBS on the SIDEWALK!’

But oh no, not today, today I am suffering with the regular old British anxiety.

Michelle is the American ringing me today, you see.

And not only is she American, she is Disney American.

Which means I am doubly in awe (and doubly jealous of her heritage and job) and therefore am unable to act like a normal person.

Michelle is my sugar sweet wedding coordinator (the wedding comes with one, it’s like they knew that if they didn’t organise it and plan it for me – it would be a disaster) and due to my immense nerves, excitement and an underlying need to be accepted by her as cool, for some reason, whenever we speak I turn in to a robot.

A robot stuck on ‘demo mode English accents.’

It’s almost as if her sweetness is my kryptonite.

As soon as I hear her friendly, Disneyfied and incredibly well-trained voice saying just the right thing at the right time, I immediately turn in to one of the street urchins from Oliver Twist.

My English accent becomes so prominent I either sounds like I am sucking on a plum or it randomly and without warning violently swing’s in to cockney gangster and I start throwing in words like ‘apples and pears’ and ‘Guvnor.’

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME!

I need this woman to like me; I need this woman to get me!

She is organizing my wedding for me for goodness sake!

My nerves have ruined every conversation we have ever had so far, and I am pretty sure she is regretting the day she accepted me as a client!

I don’t think she understood why me telling her I was in a mental institute was so important but it was, in my head.

I was trying to bond.

And also I felt the need to explain why I have chosen ‘The Mad Hatter’ theme and why absolute mentalness on the day is essential, to make me feel at home.

‘Being crazy means a lot to me you see madam. I was sectioned once in a loony bin, a crazy house if you will! So I totally get the Mad Hatter and how misunderstood he is init.’

‘So what wedding colours are you going for?’ She asked me in the awkward silence following my admission.

‘Black, white and neon pink please darling.’ I said, adding the darling inadvertently, and ending up sounding like Edwina from Absolutely Fabulous. ‘I am not uptight or an idiot you know,’ I felt the need to clarify ‘I just speak like this when I get a bit squiffy.’

(SQUIFFY? I meant nervous!!!)

‘Huh?’ She smiled down the phone, in the way that only Disney employees can, smiling down the phone while signaling to her Disney colleague she has a weirdo on the line, no doubt.

‘Nothing alreeet ’I barked in a random Geordie accent while holding my head in my hands and despairing.

Utterly farcical.

Soon after this, we decided (I say we, but it was blatantly her who decided) it would probably best if she rang me back at a more ‘appropriate’ time to get down to the nitty gritty.

(I want some gas and air!)

It seems now is a more appropriate time.

In precisely one hour my wedding coordinator is ringing me for the nittiest of the gritty and I have no idea what I am going to say.

She is going to ask me my choice of song for walking down the aisle.

It is an important conversation!!

The Irish one has chosen his song.

He is walking down the aisle to, are you ready for this?

Eye of the Tiger.

He thinks this is hilariously original but when I told Michelle I am sure she groaned, but then tried to disguise it with a Disney like cough.

But he is adamant.

He says after all I have put him through, this is his victory dance.

He is limbering up for the rest of his life with me, like Rocky would.

The grandparents, kids and bridesmaids are coming down the aisle to Beauty and the beast, Tale as old as time.

That’s the romantic bit. (I really wish my bridesmaids would consider dressing up as the candlestick, the clock and the teapot – but alas, they won’t.)

And then it’s my turn, and here is my dilemma.

I want it to be a surprise, I want to enjoy the moment and I want to remember it forever!

But mostly I want it to be me.

A bit mad, a bit sad, a bit romantic, a bit idiotic but mostly, completely unexpected and random.

But so far my list just feels a bit crap!

None of my favourite songs seem to fit!

Hand on your heart (Kylie Minogue) – because it is brilliantly 80’s and I could do the headshake as the door opened and totally work it. And also it’s a great tune, you know it is. I could wear leggings under my dress!

I kissed a girl and I liked it (Katy Perry) Just cos I think it’ll be hilarious and also I always secretly dreamed of my own music video, and also it will be dramatic and unheard of. And lets face it, nobody would ever have expected it! And they will all be like ‘DID SHE? Did she kiss a girl???’

The sweetest thing (U2) – The lyrics are a bit depressing though, and this is the one-day I want no depression, not one ounce of it! Plus I am not a brown -eyed girl. I have blue eyes, and well… I just don’t know, is it not a bit cheesy? A bit plinky plonky?

Mama do the hump. You know the one! Mama do the hump, mama mama do the hump! Mama do the hump hump! My dad and I could totally jive, catwalk and prance down the long aisle – It’s inspired! We could do a few turns! It’s not very romantic though. Plus mama doesn’t do the hump anymore. Not really.

Resurrection. – Because I love Ian brown.

Please Don’t Leave Me – (Pink) Because I don’t want him to leave me, basically.

Sex on fire – it isn’t, but you know, it used to be, before we had the kid, and my body was ripped in two and the nights got shorter and we got SKY TV. The sex used to be on fire. SO maybe we could re-ignite the flame!! Saying that though I don’t fancy walking down the aisle next to my dad while the kings of Leon moan and groan and The Irish one looks at me like I’ve lost my mind…. again.

And then there is all the music we love and listen to together.

Walking in Memphis has a great opening, Arizona by kings of Leon I adore, but then what about ABC by the Jackson five? That is Addison’s favourite tune! Ignition by R kelly! On a ragga tip by SL2! or Paradise by Coldplay. Or the Romeo and Juliet fish tank song!

Or I know! I know! What about The Peppa Pig theme tune! It’s what we listen to the most!

I just don’t know!

I need to pick something more romantic don’t I?

The very thought of that makes me incredibly uncomfortable!!

I may just have to turn my phone off for a little while and get one of the bridesmaids to pretend to be me so she thinks I am normal. Let her pick.

I need to take my medication.

I need Michelle to like me.

I need a drink!

I need to pick a darn song y’all!

I need to be from UTAHHHHHHH.

Help!

Oo Oo!

Or what about ‘They tried to make me go to rehab but I said no, no, no…. ‘ (Or is that just too darn obvious?)