Dory.

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

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

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

And it’s not only potatoes.

It’s tomatoes too.

I, once again, am idealizing suicide.

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

Almost.

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

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

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

My windowsill was glorious.

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

And then I would want to smash it to smithereens.

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

It cannot be natural.

Does the worm go hard?

And if not?

HOW COME?

It is EATING WOOD!

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

I had been at work 4 hours.

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

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

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

We are only one step away from chickens!

And I have a phobia of EGGS!

Anyway.

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

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

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

I am sinking here, again.

I am so bored of sinking.

Of being.

So What the hell is he thinking?

Potatoes?

Is he trying to push me over the edge?

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

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

(*Seriously, LOVELY area.)

Do fish even have heartbeats?

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

Annoy them?

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

But I will be honest.

Sometimes I think they may be communicating with me.

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

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

But I can’t.

I have no energy left.

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

And now?

The Irish one is growing potatoes on the windowsill.

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

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

Oh.

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

And that,

May just be a Game changer.

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

Never getting out of this fish tank?

Then really,

What is the point?

All I wanted was a tiny particle of hope.

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

It was hope.

But now he is happily growing potatoes on the Windowsill,

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

Even if his hands do smell of Bum.

So for now,

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

Boc Boc.

Black Eyed Fleas. (Journey.)

A lot of things have happened today.

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.

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

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

My best friend throws her head back and laughs heartily.

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

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

‘Yeah but…’

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

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

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

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

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

I am haunted.

Someone is calling my name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours truly,

Lexy Ellis.

Anyway.

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

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

So we did.

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

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

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

“Lexy? OH MY GOD!”

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

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

Like real voices in their head?

Not thought voices.

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

Not those voices.

They are just our thoughts aren’t they?

I mean actual voices.

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

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

Us bat shit poorly crazy ones.

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

But I want to.

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

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

I hear voices.

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

‘Radio Chorley!! Coming in your ears.’

That is what it is like.

They are in my ears, not in my head.

SO real.

Just. THERE.

‘Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!’

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

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

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

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

His breathing is long and measured.

He is fast asleep.

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

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

‘I heard Addison shouting.’

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

(So don’t look mental at all.)

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

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

I am in that beautiful place between awake and sleep.

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

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

I physically jump four feet in the air.

I switch the light on and start to shake.

‘Huh? What is gone?’

I am frightened.

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

They have started laughing too.

Sometimes I just hear laughter.

They are happy.

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

It’s coming in my ears.

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

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

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

It isn’t a conversation.

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

They don’t tell me to eat cake.

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

I hear words.

I hear made up conversations.

And it isn’t all of the time.

It’s enough though.

I don’t answer them.

Then I would be crazy, right?

I need to focus on what is real.

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

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

‘You are an amazing mummy.’

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

I am doing my best.

The jeans I bought him don’t fit.

But I love him so much it hurts.

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

Please don’t make fun of me.

Or treat me any different.

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

But I am normal.

Did you just hear that?

Of course you didn’t.

Nobody is there.

Beauty and the Buffoon.

I guess you could say, I am not your average Disney princess.

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?)

In Hindsight… (Woo.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We both knew I had no choice.

It was the unspoken elephant between us.

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

I was told I was brave by other patients.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yeah.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can’t remember if I responded.

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

Anyway.

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

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

How I missed my baby for weeks on end.

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

How I wanted to cease to exist.

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

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

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

I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

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

Mammy VAGINA???

Mammy VAGINA!!!

Oh my god.

This does not bode well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enough with the dog and sheep stuff already.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It must have been my crazy eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then I stop.

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

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

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

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

‘Don’t cry mummy, don’t cry!’

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

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

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

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

Cavalier.

I will not be broken again.

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

I will not experience this again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harrowing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It has.

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

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

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

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

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

I blame Starbucks entirely, for all of this.

All of it.

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

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?

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

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

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

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

Not now.

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

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

All that was, has been stamped on.

It is lost.

Nothing can ever be the same again.

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

Not this time.

There can be no turning back.

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

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

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

And she stills.

Again.

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

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

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

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

How could he do this to her?

When will this all end?

What will she do now?

Does he no longer love her?

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

How could he put her through this, again?

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

She feels it building once again.

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

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

A seat filled with failure.

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

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

In a rush to arrive nowhere, anywhere, wherever.

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

What she want’s, is it important?

Has it ever been important?

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

What she wants.

It can never be.

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

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

She wants to be allowed to end it.

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

She wants to feel it.

She wants it to take her.

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

Life is worth living…life is worth living.

No, she can no longer kid herself.

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

Why is he so unreasonable?

Why does has he purposely done this?

Does he hate me?

Why does he want to hurt me?

Why am I such an awful person?

He is so weak.

I am so weak. 

He will hurt me.

I hurt me. 

Her face is hot and dirty.

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

She considers running her car off the road.

She considers high tailing in to the bridge.

She considers jumping.

But he knows.

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

But he cares.

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

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

Overpowering the guilt.

Stop this now.

For him.

She sits for hours.

Or maybe seconds.

And she knows.

She has to go back.

For him too.

They need her.

She doesn’t deserve them.

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

Tonight she will harm herself.

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

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

She will teach her no good self, a lesson.

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

And as always he is there to hug her.

As she knew he would be.

She doesn’t want his hug.

Oh, but she does.

She longs to allow herself to feel it.

But she doesn’t feel, she deserves it.

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

And she hangs her head in shame.

The most evil part of her darkness has returned.

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

I am not a ‘Drama Queen.’

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

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

This is an illness.

Not a Joke.

And never a Choice.

I Got Pee on My Stress. (Yup. That about sums it up.)

I am so tired I could quite happily sit on this sofa and wee myself.

Such is the effort I feel it would take to actually stand up and plod my aching hoofs with their mangled toenails, that once used to be described as ‘pretty,’ to the bathroom.

I feel like a giant yellowing elastic band stretched out tight between two points, tense, firm and poised to ping at any moment.

Except there will be no pinging or poinging here today, as I am too drained, too weary and I am not sure what a poing would actually look, feel, smell or taste like.

And also if I poinged, there is always that added worry of where I would end up.

Knowing my luck I would be poinged in to a giant steaming pile of eye eating bacteria, and I would end up blind and walking in to walls, and then my guide dog would eat Doodle and a catastrophic chain of events would follow culminating in me ending up unloved, lonely and housing 28 cats.

Perhaps I could fit a little breakdown in at some point today instead?

Yes a breakdown, that is what I feel I may need in the absence of any steam valve being fitted in to my brain.

I would actually very much enjoy a breakdown round about now.

That is, if a breakdown means I can turn off my phone, get in to bed, not play Thomas the tank engine, ignore the dog who is pleading to go out, throw the bills falling with a heavy thud on the mat every morning back in to the postman’s bag while telling him to get stuffed, strangle the Irish one for waking me up with a penis shaped prod in my back every morning and happily ignore the washing up pile for so long it starts to resemble the leaning tower of … GET THE HELL OFF ME, IT IS 6AM NO I DON’T WANT SEX!!!!! ARE YOU ON GLUE?

But again I am actually pretty sure I am unable to have a breakdown at this point due to the fact that whether I seem to like it or not stuff keeps happening and life whether you like it or not, goes on.

Mum is on the cobbled path to recovery now and is out of hospital.

This thrills me of course, but unfortunately I am now unable to shake intrusive thoughts of what could have happened had she not gotten there soon enough. They are keeping me awake at night.

Well, the thoughts and the fact Addison now believes and with utmost conviction is trying to convince me and the entire neighborhood that 3am is actually the time to put a Thomas Dvd on and munch on a banana while singing the wheels on the bus at top volume!

Damn the big boy bed and it’s unnecessary lack of restraint.

I need a big boy bed that comes with a cage.

A friendly child type cage that would not get me in trouble with the NSPCC or the RSPCA (because yes Doodle would be in there with him for company.) A cage that he loves. A cage that isn’t necessarily a cage, per se, but that also totally is.

Also, while I am fighting to get the devil child to stay in bed, trying to ignore thoughts of my parents dying, swatting away the Irish one and his insatiable libido (Once a month is plenty!!!) I am also being tortured by memory’s from the past week which I had overlooked at the time, as too much was going on.

At some point last week while visiting Momma bear, all stressed out and sweating, I rushed through a very busy A&E department and nearly fell over a very drunken and very proud Mancunian man.

Yes.

You would expect to see a drunk in A&E.

Nothing new there.

Except.

This drunk and very proud Mancunian man had his trousers around his ankles and was brandishing his willy like a weapon (don’t they all?) while swaying to his own beat, singing an Ian brown song at the top of his lungs and failing miserably to pee in to a bottle.

The fact he winked at me as I accidentally barged past him (I GOT PEE ON ME!!) has had me shuddering for days and has basically just ensured my therapist will be paid for at least another five sessions.

Also our next-door neighbors just moved to China.

Yeah.

China.

I blame the Irish one. (Because, why not?)

And Doodle. (Who would regularly amble in through their back door, wag his bum a bit as a greeting and then proceed to shit on their carpet. Something I am sure the Estate agent will fail to mention to the next potential tenants.)

But still, China?

That’s a little extreme.

Are we really that bad?

Also, thank you for leaving us with your fish.

There are now 9 of us living in this two bedroom flat.

And I have no idea what fish need. (I know what they probably don’t need though! Addison launching all and sundry in to the tank at random times of the day! So far I have found – a bottle of deodorant, 2 dummies, a lolly stick, half a banana and a handful of Thomas memorabilia in the tank with them. Doodle has gone in to hiding lest he find himself being unceremoniously dumped in there with them! I may call the RSPCA myself.)

Stress of life. Lack of sleep. Guilt over lack of sex drive, GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME! Paranoia everyone hates me. Stress I am putting on weight. Lack of sleep, GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME! Hunger, but I am too fat too eat. Feeling down on myself. Look at my manky toes. I need a wee. Stress. Lack of sleep, no Addy you cannot have an ice cream it is 3am! Paranoia I am crap at everything I do. Stress over bank balance. Lack of sleep cos I am sure my dad is dead when actually he is just in the bath. Stress we now have fish, and they may die. Paranoia I didn’t look after mum well enough. Stress I have missed work and now will have to catch up. So tired, GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME!! Hunger for some peace. Feeling down on myself. Stress. Lack of sleep, panic attacks coming back. Paranoia, racing thoughts. Stress, car needs taxing. Lack of sleep, drunk man winking at me. Stress, bad girlfriend. Paranoia, he will leave me. Stress. Lack of sleep, GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME!! Hunger. Feeling down on myself. Stress. Lack of sleep. Paranoia. Stress. Lack of sleep. Stress. Paranoia. Stress. Lack of sleep. Hunger. Feeling down on myself. Stress. Lack of sleep…. AND ON AND ON AND ON.

I want a breakdown. (Or just a break from my brain would be good too.)

‘I swear to the holy Lazarus Irish one, if that Dong comes near me one more time I will lob it off Elaina Bobbit Style!’

Oh shit. I need to feed the fish.

And I still need a wee.

And we need to do a shop…

And on and on and on and on and on…

I am so tried I could happily just wee myself. Right here.

Right now.

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!!!!!!!!!