A proposal, and a Bucket full of Hamsters. (Yeah.)

‘Who the hell do you think you are Lexy? What kind of person are you? Tell me!’

I catch my annoying therapist’s eye very deliberately for a very brief, uncomfortable moment in the silence immediately following this onslaught; but instead of answering him, I lean down very slowly and purposely, to unlace my big brown boots with their big brown laces.

I wasn’t expecting James and his bucket full of dead hamster questions to be so direct today.

(I call them his ‘dead hamster questions’ because nobody likes a dead hamster do they? And It also kind of reminds me of the ‘Harry and his bucket full of dinosaurs’ song, so I often whistle it on my way in to therapy, and it cheers me up, but yeah, I’m weird I know this. But you get me right?)

I glance up at him once more, a little less confidently, it has to be said, as I pull my legs up underneath me and prepare to respond by reaching for and wrapping my arms around, one of the very many purple cushions with the gold tassels and Latin writing (Classy,) which share the sofa of doom with me.

I push it in to my chest, using it as a sort of shield to protect myself.

Now.

Now that I am all folded in on myself I may continue.

When I am ready.

I intend to make him wait at least half an hour before responding but then I remember this therapy is actually is costing me a fortune and he would probably love to sit there and have a snooze, so actually the sensible thing to do would be to get on with it. (DAMN IT!)

‘I am a manager. A tired one who bullies herself daily…’ I fire out like a machine gun in to the thick silence.

‘Not in your day job Lexy, I mean…’

‘I am not talking about my day job James;’ I interrupt boldly.  ‘I am talking about my life. I feel like a bloody manager all of the time, in that, I feel responsible for everybody and their happiness, all of the time. I feel pressured by every relationship I have in my life. I live in constant fear that I will let somebody down or upset him or her and then he or she will end up hating me for it. But then at the same time, I almost want them to hate me for it because then I no longer have those expectations and I can happily push them away and live in peace. Does that make sense?’

He doesn’t answer, so I begin to finger the cushion, (not in a porno way just to be clear here,) and continue to ignore his gaze burning holes in to my face, before I carry on.

‘I live in constant fear of letting people down, of not being enough, my insecurities are out of control, and I am exhausted.’

‘And if you let them down, that will mean they don’t like you, or that you are actually worthless?’

(Whahiiiiiii… –that’s the sound of a dead hamster being tossed through the air towards me, by the way.)

‘It will mean I am not perfect.’

(PHALUT. That’s me batting the hamster away with a table tennis bat.)

‘Do you think you are perfect?’

(WHAhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii… he bats the hamster back. Poor little dead creature.)

‘No. I personally think I am a dog poo. I just don’t want everybody else to see that. I want them to think I am a cool you know? So I end up putting everyone before myself and then when I do let them down, because eventually I cant live up to my own expectations I set for myself, I can push them away, cut them off, even if I don’t want to because I like them, and it is a relief. ’ (PHALUTTTTTTT. That ones brains exploded.)

‘This makes no sense.’

‘Welcome to my brain James, right now as we talk I am picturing dead hamsters flying through the air between us!’

His words catch in his mouth and he looks at me quizzically for a split second, before he raises his hand, refusing to take me up on a change of conversation, even a conversation about dead hamsters (everyone knows conversations about dead hamsters are intriguing!) And instead decides to plough on with the therapy. (Boring bastard.)

‘You have to keep people happy? That in its self is impossible. What if you aren’t successful, what if you don’t keep them happy? (Whahiiiiiii…)

‘Then I feel selfish and naughty.’ (Phalut.)

‘Naughty?’ (Whahiiiiiii…)

‘Naughty.’ (PHALUT.)

‘And what do these friends have to do for you?’ (Whahiiiiii…)

‘Nothing.’ (PHALUT.)

‘That doesn’t seem very fair.’ He responds.

I shrug, like a miffed teen.

None of this conversation makes sense to me anymore, how could he expect me to be following this with all these dead animals flying everywhere?

‘How would you feel about being naughty this week?’

‘Whahiiiiiiiiii…. Sorry what?’ I stop doing dead hamster sound effects and concentrate.

‘I want you to have a week off, shirk the responsibility be ‘selfish’, be ‘Naughty.’

As I positively bounced out of his big therapy house twenty minutes later, my big boots crunching over the gravel, I smiled a little smile to myself.

I will take you up on your challenge James; I need a week off from my brain! I need a week off to just be, to just be, without the guilt or the worry of upsetting people constantly, I want to just be! Without the constant insecurity that having an opinion or doing what I want to do will result in me being unloved. 

I am going to do what I want to do, be who I want to be.

OOOO what fun!

(Erm… I may have got a little carried away…) 

‘Have you packed for our weekend away?’ The Irish one asked me excitedly as I walked through the front door two hours later, all excited as he was taking me away for my birthday.

‘Nope.’ I responded happily launching my bag on to the bed with flamboyant disregard  ‘You booked it. You pack.’

And with that I lay on the floor and let my little boy climb all over me while the Irish one stood in front of me with a boc boc fish mouth, stumped and surprised.

‘Have you put petrol in the car?’ He asked me as we pulled out of the drive a few hours later, after I had watched him wandering around aimlessly trying to remember how to do stuff for himself, with an evil grin on my face.

‘Nope.’ I answered, flicking the indicator. ‘You think we will need some? Do you have money? You booked it.’

He didn’t fly off the handle as I suspected he might if I wasn’t my usual people pleasing self; he merely smiled between gritted teeth and advised me we would need to stop for some.

A little later on, once I had eaten cake for dinner because that’s all I wanted, once I had drank far too much red wine because that’s what I wanted to do and once I had refused to do anything remotely romantic because I didn’t feel like it, I gave him a hug, told him I thought I loved him (drunk me is even less self assured than sober me) and fell asleep with a fart. (The fart was for effect.)

The next morning he seemed a little disappointed when I refused to walk up a dobbing great big hill in the park, because ‘I didn’t feel like it.’

‘Do you think I am the hill walker type Irish one?’ I asked petulantly ‘I mean, do I look like I am the kind of girl that looks comfortable in wellies? DO you not know me at all?’

(For the record, I told him earlier in our relationship that I loved hill walks. But that was when I was trying to snatch him in my lare, and I thought HE loved hill walks, if you know what I mean. So yeah, I lied about a tiny part of me, the anti hill walking part, so that we had more stuff in common. We’ve all done it!!! Right?)

‘Why are you being such a grumpy bitch?’ he mumbled kicking a stone towards the stream where Addison was currently trying to hand pick a fish, unfortunately downstream from where Doodle was helpfully having a poo.

‘I am not being grumpy Irish one. I am no longer managing you, or anyone else, for that matter. I am being like everyone else and not worrying about if you hate me when I say stuff I want and don’t like. And yeah I may be taking it a bit far, but that is my god given right as a WOMAN! I AM A WOMAN AND I DON’T LIKE HILL WALKING! I HAVE SPENT YEARS HILL WALKING WHEN I DON’T LIKE HILL WALKING DO YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN IRISH ONE? WELL DO YOU?’

‘Not really no.’ he responded before being distracted by the troublesome twosome and jumping in to action  ‘Addison NO! THAT’S NOT A FISH, THAT’S NOT A FISHHHH! PUT IT DOWN! PUT IT DOWN!’

He then turned back to me and smiled sadly before searching in his bag for bleach and a butt plug. (Antiseptic wipes really.)

‘Do you hate me?’ I asked him feeling a little guilty after my outburst and desperately wanting a hug, but not knowing how to ask for one, especially seen as he was now busy trying to save Buxton’s famous streams from being ruined in history forever by Poodle Squit.

‘No. I hate James. Come on lets go home. ADDISON PUT THE DOG DOWN!’

And off home we went, me in a guilty mood, him in a disappointed mood, Addison piss wet through and Doodle covered in shit with 3 tadpoles in his belly.

Ahhh good times…

*It didn’t end there … (HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW HE WAS PLANNING TO PROPOSE????) But anyway…  I have to go now… because I want to go home and see my son… I’m sorry to cut off the story half way through… it really is a good ending too…. Do you hate me?

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!!!!!!!!!

Just Say Yes… (Exceptions.)

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

Can you keep a secret?

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

Now.

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

Addison thanks them for that.

I thank them for that. No longer begrudgingly.

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

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

Anyway, back to topic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, I made a list.

My list is handily called;

Exceptions to the rule. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like I say. Exceptions need to be made.

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

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

I’m thinking of starting a petition.

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

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

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

Hickory Dickory STOP!!

I had an argument with my mother last week.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don’t believe me?

Check these out!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HEAD BANG ADDY HEAD BANG!

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

Your Moose or Mine?

Apparently if you give a Swedish moose an apple it gets drunk.

I have never given a Swedish moose an apple firsthand, but I believe this to be true because a Swedish person told me it was true, so it must be.

According to this Swedish person, who isn’t called Inga, this happens because the apple ferments in the moose’s stomach, and if you happen to be in Sweden near an apple tree and a moose, at the right time and you look out of your window (presuming you also have a window,) you can watch in sheer awe (I would be in awe anyway) as hammered moose’s (moosei?) drunkenly bounce off trees, knock over lampposts and generally behave like you would expect Swedish drunk mooses to behave.

(I believe it is only British moose’s that ask for kebabs, make drunken phone calls to their ex moose’s (moosei?) and hang their high heels off their antlers on the cold walk home, but this may not be a fact so you may want to check it with the British Moose tourist board before telling anyone else. Or not. You know. Your choice. Whatever.)

This all happens because the moose ate an apple.

They must know, (the moose) from trial and error I imagine, what the outcome of eating an apple will be, and yet, they still eat them.

Maybe they continue to eat them because basically, they want to and they actually know what they like? And who’s business is it but theirs really anyway?

(Unless it is always different moose’s eating the apples? But how many moose can there actually be in Sweden? I didn’t get in to this with the Swedish person but I am assuming here, that a moose, lets call him Tony for the purpose of this example, will go out, sink twenty apples, get steaming drunk, knock over a tree, manage to get home somehow, although he has no recollection of it, and wake up the next morning moosificantly hung-over, swear he is never eating an apple again, but then when all his moose friends invite him out again, he eventually goes back to the apple farm and starts the cycle all over again. I mean, I’m no David Attenborough but come on! How different from humans can they actually be? The moose is called Tony!)

Anyway, last week I bought new boots. Sensible thick soled boots. Boots I wouldn’t usually be caught dead in but I bought them anyway because in all honesty I was getting a bit sick of people telling me to be careful I didn’t fall when they saw me carrying Addison in my normal 7 inch stilettos.

Cause and effect at its most simplest, people.

Someone tells me not to fall, so I think I need flat shoes. Because they must be right! I DON’T HAVE MY OWN MIND!!! I shouldn’t be wearing high shoes, mothers don’t wear high shoes, I’m a bad mother… yada yada yoda…Anyway…

Yesterday, while wearing these new boots, carrying Addison out of the doctors office, texting my other half to tell him Addison was fine, feeding Addison an apple and generally multi-tasking like only a mother can, I fell absolutely antler over tit and ended up sliding about a mile down a gravel hill, using my face as a break pad to slow us both down to a grinding halt.

My phone screen is smashed, my shoulder may or may not be sticking out of my spinal chord at a jaunty angle, my wrist is refusing to cooperate with the rest of my body and my face looks like something the dog actually dragged in, across sandpaper.

Addison has a small bump on his head but testament to my thrill seeking two year old, the moment we slid to a bumpy stop and I had spat out a mouthful of stones and dust, twisted around to see how he had come off, half expecting the passersby’s observing to be holding up score cards, such was the magnitude of my Olympic dive, he gave me a toothy grin, burst out laughing and shouted, and I quote ‘again again! Mama, again! Funny mama!’

Meanwhile I lay on the floor in the middle of the road, like a hung-over moose, groaning and moaning and swearing to never wear flat shoes again.

I like wearing high shoes. I am aware of the potential risks, why can’t I trust myself to make my own decisions?

I’m not sure what the full point of this post was. I did, but it’s gone.

Basically, I guess, some things are inevitable? Like learning lessons the hard way?

Maybe I should trust my own judgment not the opinions of others?

My son is mental?

Sweden sounds like a cool place?

I need more sleep?

My medication is too strong?

You decide. I can’t make up my mind.

But I do want a pet moose.

And an apple tree.

I know that much.

Postnatal Depression. (The Boomerang Effect.)

It has been 2 years to the day.

Years which have flown by like an airborne crisp packet sailing turbulently past the maternity hospital window.

‘Look! Prawn cocktail!’ I pointed from the delivery bed, ankles up around my ears, unable to grasp the severity of what was about to happen, as drugged up as a dancing tramp, calling The Irish One by my ex boyfriends name, thinking this was the funniest thing I had ever done, and genuinely confused by his lack of mirth. ‘No I won’t push! Get me some crisps. Look!’

2 years to the day since my son landed blue, and extremely annoyed and more than likely freezing and certainly confused, on to my empty bump in the cold, clinical delivery suite and grabbed hold of my finger in fear.

Look after me, he asked as I looked down at him in shock, the tears streaming down my face.

Protect me.

2 years to the day.

2 years of watching my son grow from a smooshy headed donut in to an inquisitive little creature that has no qualms about eating a spider.

And oh how I love him, with his head full of dreams and his belly full of hoops.

Sometimes I feel my heart could tear open and weep out the love.

Sometimes I wish love was a cure. 

2 beautiful years, the memories of which should ensure nothing but breath catching happiness, which are instead filled with silent tears and venom filled thoughts, with heartbreak and hate, with stolen kisses and watery smiles and eventually with love and quiet.

It is the quiet that I long for the most.

2 years, gone in a heartbeat, 2 years vanished like a deleted text, floating around in the ether.

It is the lost days that I crave to erase.

I yearn to rip them from the pages of my life story, to remove all evidence they ever happened, they ever existed.

The moments that I would beg to feel the love, let me feel anything, the times when the illness had eaten at my brain and I felt nothing.

A bottomless, airtight hole filled with… nothing positive.

Long spidery days splayed out in front of me like witch fingers, clutching me around the neck.

Hours filled with self hatred, wasted lost moments of self indulgent guilt and angry pointless self punishment while my son innocently played in front of me, his eyes questioning my emotionless warmth.

Numbness so acute, I could misplace a month without realisation.

An eternity in 12 hours, like a heavy suitcase filled with broken dreams being dragged behind me.

A sword through the heart that I am unable to fulfil my promise of protection, too exhausted from an invisible battle.

But I crossed the finish line, I raised my arms in the air and sailed through it, exhausted and out of breath but elated.

I made it.

I tentatively reached out

I grabbed hold of the light and I hugged it close to me unable to believe it was real.

I got cocky.

I was discharged.

I was proud.

I felt better.

I had conquered the demons.

I was living, really living, and loving.

I could play, finally I could play.

I could feel.

And then I woke up.

Now I am angry, and sad, and disappointed and panicked.

I didn’t win.

Once again I am broken.

Unable to connect.

I woke up happy, and sang Happy Birthday and from nowhere I was blind sided.

In an instant the light was extinguished.

My tears stinging like hot acid.

My fragile contentment, once again trampled on.

Doodle, my beautiful black dog, climbs on my knee and rests his head on my shattered heart.

He knows.

A car on the motorway, upside down, resting on the embankment

They know.

A dead bird, its beak smashed in, lying silently in front of a window.

It knows.

It is the quiet I long for.

I wish love was a cure.

Because the love I know is buried once again, could conquer all.

If I could just keep hold of it.

The fight goes on.

I’m like, totally Vulnerable. (Are you?)

My legs are hairy.

Like really hairy.

Like hairy where you aren’t sure if there is actually skin under there anymore of whether you are slowly morphing in to a gorilla woman from the caves of the Outer Hebredi jungle. (Which is somewhere near north wales, according to my Sat Nav.)

The Irish one hasn’t noticed, which basically tells me one of two things.

Either he secretly has a penchant for cave women with furry shins, or it has been far too long since he got up close and personal with my knees.

Probably a bit of both to be honest.

But anyway.

I am telling you this because apparently, according to my therapist, I have this affliction where apparently, I put myself down in front of people and then laugh it off, because apparently I have this fear they will do it, and so if I get in there first and then I do hear an interject, I think it will be easier for me to shrug off.

Are you following?

An interject, just in case you aren’t aware (I wasn’t) is when somebody will say something to you like;

‘Oooo you look like you’ve lost weight!’ and even if you know it not to be the case, you automatically believe it, as why in the hell would somebody say it if it wasn’t the case?

Which is great if people tell you are skinny all the time (and like me, you then allow yourself a big mac on the way home, cos its put you in such a great mood and you feel positively waif like) but not so great if someone says something like, oooo, I don’t know….

‘You are over sensitive.’

And you laugh it off, cos you know you’re not.

You know you aren’t.

But… and this is the bastard thing about interjects… while washing the pots an hour later….you catch yourself…

Am I? Am I? Am I over sensitive? Am I over sensitive?

…You even put the sponge down for a minute while you have a proper think…

‘I must be. I must be!! Otherwise, why would they have said it, if it weren’t the case? Oh my god I’m over sensitive! I am such a dick!’

You knew at the time you weren’t… but… the sneaky interject… it creeps up on you…

And by the time you have washed the knives and forks (that he ‘forgot’) you have ultimately and concretely decided nothing is ever allowed to upset you again, because that person was right!!!! And you just need to get a grip.

Once upon a time…3 days later…

You are in a great mood, but then, out of no where, while you are busy thinking about how you may shave your legs tonight and maybe if he is very very lucky, the Irish one may get some, Tom the office plank walks over and…

‘What’s up with you today misery guts?’

… ‘Hey planky Tom!’ you respond, averting your eyes ‘No, I’m not miserable! I’m having a great day thanks!’ you sing as you walk away, muttering ‘dickhead!’ under your breath for good measure…

And fighting the sneaky interject…

You know you aren’t miserable; you even have lipstick on today!!!

But…an hour later, after one other person, who you actually like, has said something similar…

You put down your pen and..

‘Do I? Do I look miserable? DO I? Do I look miserable? AM I miserable?’

…You even go to the toilets to get a look at yourself in the mirror to check…

‘Oh my god!’ you think to yourself, ‘I do look miserable! I thought I looked ok today but I really do look miserable. I must do! Because why would they have said it, if it simply weren’t the case?’

And there you were thinking you were feeling great!

The sneaky interject, it creeps up on you…

By the time you get back to your desk, you have plastered on a fake smile so bright, you look like the village idiot and unsurprisingly… you are starting to feel completely and utterly miserable.

Shocking right?

Either I am completely weak… or I am not the only one life has this annoying effect on?

Hellloo?

Oh god.

I hope I’m not the only one.

So what was I saying?

Yeah!

Even if I am the only one!

It’s ok! Cos I have a plan!! I can beat the interjects!! (And I sincerely hope you join me!)

Basically, by telling you I have hairy legs (and have my hair tied up with a pair of knickers right now – god the Irish One is one lucky man) I am essentially guarding myself from interjects by not putting myself down, but by being honest and proud!

I am proud of every one of my crispy, stubborn hairs! (Honest…)

Apparently I should have gotten to know myself well enough over the last 32 years that only I, Lexy Ellis, should be able to control my own mind.

And I need to share with you my vulnerable side so that I get more comfortable with human contact (blah cringe blah) and ward off others controlling me.

So with that in mind… I share with you some therapy… honesty… cringe, cringe, cringe…

I am miserable but no longer psychotic. (DO NOT ARGUE WITH ME ON THIS ONE!) But sometimes I wish I still were psychotic, because when I was, everyone left me alone except when they brought me cups of tea. Now no one ever brings me cups of tea anymore. I miss that.

I hate shaving my legs and this makes me a bad mother. (Look I don’t know why ok? I just think if I was a good mother I would probably want to shave my legs more often, but I don’t… how do you get over the knee without slicing yourself? It’s a nightmare! Scabby knees aren’t sexy!!)

I am curvy and I love it (but call me fat and ill cry for a week…. Ok a month, maybe a year.) Ok, I don’t love it. Sometimes I wish I were really thin, but only so I could eat my way back up to a size 16.  Why do Diam bars taunt me so?

I can’t stand people who hurt others by telling nonsensical and cruel lies. Sometimes when somebody hurts me, I sing nasty songs to him or her really loud in the car and picture myself being interviewed on the telly about it. It’s actually fun. ‘No Oprah, I believed her completely, until I found out she thought I was a mug.’

I am all talk. Except when I am thinking, and then mostly I am analysing. Like, could someone actually swim to America from Blackpool? And, if I eat a donut and keep my eyes shut, maybe my hips won’t notice. And, did they really walk on the moon, or was that a cow in the background? What will Addison look like when he is 21? Will they ever invent a self filling car that doesn’t need petrol?

I love my son. And it scares the living shit out of me, because if anything ever happens to him, and he gets stolen from me, I will stop breathing.  I will actually fold from the outside in. The thought of this happening sometimes makes me want to die. Sometimes I wonder if this feeling is worse than the possibility of perhaps not having ever felt anything for him at all. Love is terrifying to me.

When I was younger somebody stole an important part of me. One day I will tell them this. I will be brave.

I suffer with clinical depression brought on from postnatal depression brought on from a life of not knowing I was missing something.

I AM NOT ASHAMED.

Right now, I am trying to think about me. It’s really hard! (See how I snuck the real stuff in there? DONT MENTION IT!! PRETEND IT DIDNT HAPPEN!!! ARGHHHH I HATE BEING VULNERABLE!)

I hate interjects, because one way or another, I usually end up believing them, but from today, I will try really hard not to.

I am a good mum. What I lack in money I have in love.

I am kind, friendly and loving.

Occasionally I am psychotic.

I take no sugar in my tea and love a nice chocolate biscuit…

Ahem.

Forgiveness, with Extra Cheese.

He punches me in the face repeatedly.

Drawing his arm away first to muster up all his strength before balling his fist tight to ensure maximum impact, he throws himself at me again and again.

They land square in my face and I reel backwards as my head explodes with stars and my nose implodes from the force of the vicious attack.

‘Shut up.’ He says firmly. ‘Shut up.’

I don’t matter.

****

The room is cold and humid with the damp odor of a thousand tears shed.

It smells of last year. This makes me angry.

Outside, from the ledge on the roof, I spot old water hanging frozen in to stalactites that would be beautiful, I think to myself, if it wasn’t for the ingrained dirt and filth shining through the glimmering mirage. The imperfections are not what make them beautiful. If only it was clean water. 

James sits upright in his chair, his glasses perched on the end of his nose, his legs crossed, his Christmas moose socks peaking out from under his trousers, providing me for the briefest of moments with an internal grin, a respite from the cesspit of hopelessness I have become buried within.

Moose socks rock. I must remember to get some for Addison. I am pretty sure Chandler had some on Friends that Janice bought him. Moose socks would make me laugh more. I could drink my coffee in them. I hope Grey’s anatomy is back on soon.

Three chairs occupy the cramped room, all of them positioned around a small round table containing a telephone, and all of them taken.

We sit like sardines, all staring at the telephone. If it rings now we will shit ourselves. It is so quiet in here.

Actually, I am not sure why there is even a telephone in here. Maybe some therapy sessions go on a bit long and they have to order food in. I wonder if Domino’s deliver to mental hospitals. I’d have a pineapple one. With extra cheese. And dough balls and…

James coughs in to his balled up fist.

I shift in my seat, uncomfortable. I want a pizza.

I know I am stalling. I also know I need to stop stalling and thinking about cheesy goodness dripping with.. STOP IT!

They are both waiting for me to speak.

I need to stop thinking about pizza. With extra cheese and possibly mushrooms. Although that could be overkill.

The woman in the chair next to mine is a friend, just to clarify. And I’m not in a police cell in the mental hospital either. I know they have one of those, which is worrying but no,  I am in an experimental therapy session.

I just need to get on with what James has asked! He asked me to speak.

The silence lasts forever. I can hear her tapping her foot next to mine. So bloody impatient.

I hunch my shoulders over and sniff, bringing my right boot on to my left knee so my fat knee is pointing at her. I play with the laces on my boots. I am sat like a man. Like the alpha male. This isn’t how I wanted to come across at all. I am vulnerable! Shit!!! But if I move back now I will look weird. This is so uncomfortable. I need to speak. I am embarrassed but I need to speak. I’m also getting cramp and I need to trump. Damn.

I move my leg back quickly and say ‘ok’ loudly, in the hope it will mask the nervousness escaping from my bum.

At least I try to say ok, but I have been silent for so long it gets caught behind a ball of flem and I end up choking instead, which definitely masks the trump that was forced out by the cough, so I am relieved at this, as I gasp for breath.

‘Ok’ I try again, after my back has been patted and I have regained my breath and taken a sip of water. Good job my trumps don’t smell.

‘You are a good person missis and I love you. You are kind. Err… you care about others. You have looked after me. You make me laugh and you make others laugh when laughter doesn’t seem possible. Err…You have pretty eyes and a huge heart. You look after your friends and know the meaning of fighting for what you want and err…You gave your last tenner to a homeless person when you needed it to get home, because you care. I admire you for that. That was kind. You never put yourself first and will go above and beyond for somebody in need. You are not a bad mother, or a bad daughter or an evil disgusting person. Err…’ I shift in my seat. ‘…You have nothing to feel guilty about. You are not going to hell. You deserve to be loved. You deserve love. You don’t have to beat yourself up for the things you are unable to do. Erm…’

I trail off and slouch unwillingly back in to the uncomfortable silence, still unable to make eye contact while saying any of that, I am now looking down and weaving my fingers through my huge red scarf, that is sitting on my knee.

I feel fragile. I do not believe the things I am saying to my friend, but I feel I have to say them. She needs me to say them. She needs to know someone is there for her. She is a good person at the root of it, but she has caused a lot of pain too. Its hard not to judge her for that.

‘Can you make eye contact with her Lexy please?’ James asks softly and I feel her look up at me for the first time too.

‘No’ I whisper. ‘I’m sorry.’

They both sigh simultaneously. Once again I have failed. I feel mean.

‘Would you like to respond to Lexy?’ Jamie asks her kindly, inquisitively.

Her head shoots up and she glares, but not at me, at him. She seems angry. Aggrieved, pissed off. She is strong. She is intimidating when she is like this.

‘Not really.’ She barks pounding her fist on the arm of the chair.

‘Try.’ James implores kindly.

I take a deep breath. I am not sure I want to be here for this really. Maybe I should call a taxi. Maybe that is what the telephone is for actually. For when therapy goes wild.

‘You are wrong,’ she growls as she turns, taking a deep breath and switching her intimidating stare from him, in to the side of my head.

I’m not stupid enough to make eye contact so am now staring at the stalactites again.  But I feel it. Her fire is burning holes in my head. She scares me. I shouldn’t have come here today. I need to look after myself never mind her. I have enough going on. I want to go home for a pizza. Damn that bloody telephone.

‘So wrong.’ She continues while my leg jiggles about nervously ‘I am a bitch, I am selfish, I am wrong, and YOU’ she shouts now she is on a roll  ‘more than anybody knows that! I should be happy with what I have and I am not. I am spoilt and rotten in my core. What I have done cannot be forgiven! I took an overdose!! I chose death over you, and my child and my boyfriend and my parents, are you listening? I only think of myself!!! You may sit there and tell me you love me,’ she spits this out ‘but we both know you are only saying these things because James is making you. When we leave here today I won’t hear off you for weeks as usual and given that I am evil, I can’t say I blame you. I hate myself nearly as much as I hate you and your constant positivity telling me I actually deserve things and people and bloody love! You think by sitting in here and pretending you love me that this will all go away? I told my brother I hated him and he died. I was so selfish and I still am! I never put a wash on, on time, I am a crap mother, I can’t even cook, I bump my car constantly and I am never on time. I am lazy! LAZY AND SELFISH! I hate you and I hate myself!’

I avert my gaze from the frozen filth outside and take a deep breath as I turn to make eye contact with her for the first time.

She is beautiful and illuminated in her anger.

‘Yes.’ I whisper ‘I know you think you are all of those things but I disagree. One thing I will say though, is you are a bully. You bully me, and that needs to stop. I need you to hear that. I am fragile and you control me, but I want you to know I am here. I do deserve to be loved and I will not put up with your bullying any longer. I am going to fight back.’

Two tears roll down my cheeks as I blink.

‘Lexy’ I continue on speaking to the empty chair, the other side of me, the strong side of me, that is staring back at me angrily, in my mind. ‘You are worth it. You matter. You do a thousand things a day that prove that. You have to forgive yourself. You are still fighting. You are still here. I am fragile but I am ok.’

I am my own worst enemy and I am learning to fight her.

James leans over and pats my leg. ‘Good work today Lex, keep fighting the bully in you.  Take a few minutes and we will have a break.’

***

My eyes watering from the force of his punch I grab his hands.

I matter.

‘Addison. Mummy was telling you she loves you. We mustn’t hit, even if Special Agent Oso is saying something important, it will never be more important than mummy telling you she loves you. You are perfect and mummy will never tell you any different, but we mustn’t punch and we mustn’t be horrible. Do you understand me?’

‘Ice pop?’  He asks in return, a question sealed with an open mouthed slobbery kiss that catches more of my nose and leaves my face covered in pre- dummy gunk. Nice.

Yes son. You can have an ice pop.  You can also have my heart and you can keep that.  You are perfect and beautiful and bold and funny. But you will not hit me.

You are the reason I will keep confronting my bully and spend the time teaching you to love yourself.

You are my reason to fight.

You are perfect.

‘But throw the wrapper in the bin please and NO!! DO NOT SHARE IT WITH DOODLE!!! DOODLE IN TO BED! YOU HAVE A DODGY ENOUGH BOWEL WITHOUT SHARING ICE POPS!!’

For the love of…

I am a good mummy. The best.

It’s a start.

There is nothing wrong with who I am – that’s the goal.

I am having pizza for tea tonight. (In case you were wondering.)

What would you say to your bully? 

A Lifestyle Choice? (Depression for Dummies.)

It’s not that I don’t like my life. I do.

‘Good morning Starbucks, yes I am fine, are you?’

I know I am very lucky.

I know from the outside looking in it would seem that I have nothing to be unhappy about, nothing at all.

I know I’m very lucky to have a beautiful healthy baby boy… who, ok is approaching two and has therefor developed a fondness for throwing trains at my face when I wont give him pizza and ice pops for breakfast, but that’s normal right? That’s kids! I should laugh about it. And I do.

I know I have a lovely flat… and ok it is too small and we have no room and of course I would love it to sell so we could move, but that’s understandable and nothing to stress about is it? That’s life. I should be grateful I am not homeless. And I am.

And yes I know both my parents are still alive and healthy and supportive in ways I would never have thought possible… and ok, they are a bit crackers, but whose parents aren’t right? You should be thanking your lucky stars you still have them. And I do.

And to top all this luckiness off I have the support of a sexy bearded man with a nice accent… and ok, sometimes I want to garrote him with my dressing gown belt because he seems incapable of finishing off the washing up, or for that matter, throwing away the used loo roll (!!!! The bin is right there!!!!), but that’s just a man thing isn’t it? I should be grateful he has stuck by me. I should thank my lucky stars. And sometimes, during moments of clarity, I do.

‘Grande, Extra shot, skinny dry cappuccino please… Yes he is nursery. No, no flavor today thanks.’

I know that I should be happy and living life to the full, not wishing my days away.

I know I should try harder to concentrate on enjoying the here and now.

I know life is passing me by and I should be relishing every moment.

I know I need to realise I am lucky.

I know this.

I know you think I JUST need to do all these things and I would be ‘better’.

I know you think I am selfish.

I feel selfish.

‘Yes it was lovely thanks. We went to Ireland. Lots of family and he loved his presents yes. Did you have a good one?’

And I also know you have tried and tried and tried, but you just can’t seem to grasp why I can’t just pull myself together, or why can’t I just smile more? Or why am I unable to just give my head a wobble and see how lucky I am.

I can see in your eyes that you think you have the answers, that you think I am choosing to ignore you. I know when you hug me you think I am weak and I am pathetic, that I have issues, that I am dramatic and need constant attention.

I know you think living like this is a choice I am making.

The illness I am suffering from is not a choice though.

And it is that illusion, that perfectionist, simple view, which is damaging.

All of us.

Who would choose to wake up every morning and want it to be bedtime? Just so they didn’t have to pretend to be happy. Just so they didn’t have to smile and play and swallow down the tears repeatedly every time they could see how many moments they were choosing to miss out on, unable to grasp hold of, unable to get back.

Who would choose to lie in bed all night crying silent tears of frustration? Just because they have lost control of their own minds, just because they are being tortured over and over by demons so cunning and sly, so ferocious and cruel, that they can’t reach out, they are isolated, no matter how many battles they choose to courageously fight in the hope it will stop.

Who would choose to feel nothing? Who would choose to become so numb that human touch evaporates before it even breaks the surface? Who would choose isolation in a room bursting with family and caring faces?

Who would choose to experience only tiny moments of clarity? Who would choose to find natural laughter over something insignificant, so momentous that they remember back to it days later and wish they could experience it again? Be normal.

Who would choose to walk a lonely path in the darkness when there is light surrounding them?

Who would choose to die, over living?

‘Oh how lovely. That must have been wonderful. I am glad your sister enjoyed it. Ok, well I am just going over by the window. Thanks again, have a good day.’

Who would choose to live with a hidden affliction, a disease, an overpowering sickness that nobody could see, that was incredibly misunderstood and was often treated with flamboyant disregard?

Nobody would choose this.

Depression is an illness. Not a choice.

Treat those fighting it, and the illness itself with the respect it deserves.

End the stigma.