Jennifer Anniston? I want my life back.

There was a moment, in which my tired and rung out mind tried to connect with what my eyes were actually seeing, and then when it did finally catch up, I experienced a physical shock as the realisation of what was about to happen went straight through me, as if I had been thumped hard in the groin.

I had turned my back for two minutes.

And now this.

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

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

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

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

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

Jennifer Anniston eat your heart out.

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

How? How? HOW?

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

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

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

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

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

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

That he is now this bright eyed and bushy tailed?

The stench of baby wee is overpowering.

I need coffee.

I am a bad mummy.

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

I need proper coffee.

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

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

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

I am a bad mummy.

I don’t feed him before we go.

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

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

What is that birdie doing up there?

Where are the clouds?

Is there a man in that van?

Does he like diggers?

Where is that ambulance going?

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

I don’t know.

No idea.

Maybe.

Possibly.

Somewhere far away…

The end is in sight.

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

DRIVE THRU* CLOSED.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh and how the universe laughed.

Because of course, who then trundled in behind us?

My ex-boyfriend.

Of course! 

But not only my ex boyfriend, oh no.

That wouldn’t have been awful enough.

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

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

They saw me.

I saw them.

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

AWWWKWAAAARRRD.

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

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

‘Mammy! I am pooing!’

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

And that was my morning.

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

Jennifer Anniston? I want my life back.

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

Be Careful What You Wish For…

I just assumed it would all come true.

I was destined for bigger things.

I was so sure I was.

I believed in it so deeply; that while I waited for ‘it’ to happen, life became grey and dull.

Whatever ‘it’ was, I wouldn’t need to try at all, as I was just so sure, it would be thrust upon me.

It would find me.

It being ‘the greatness.’

One day I would wake up and all of my wishes, dreams and desires would have come true.

I would lie flat on my back in my single bed on those long lonely nights, listening to crappy 90’s music and imagining myself in to a life where I wasn’t miserable, wasn’t lonely, bullied, forgotten, but was stood waiting to perform in front of crowds filled with millions of people.

They would all be screaming and chanting my name in fevered excitement that they were about to enjoy my company, and I, of course would be slimmer than a stick insect, with massive hair, huge sunglasses and obviously acting as cool as a cucumber.

‘Yes’ I would smile in my imaginary life ‘I have made it.’

Every dream was different. (But I was always as shallow…)

I was going to change the world with my singing voice, with my dancing, or even possibly with my intelligence, (it was MY DREAM ok?) or maybe with my immense knowledge of all things 90210 and Melrose Place related, and of course I would never ever look back. (Unless it was for a fabulous photo shoot image.)

My name was going to be remembered throughout the sands of time, and I would be happy and rich.

When my time in the spotlight was up, after I had, had a slow movie montage of my life played to me while Take That sang Never Forget live! And everybody clapped and told me I should be knighted for my services to Fashion/Singing/Wearing sunglasses, I would immediately become like a mother Teresa type figure but with better outfits (and with no issues with gay marriage.)

I may even win a Nobel prize for being fabulous.

The fact I have always been unable to so much as hum, without forcing previously perfectly healthy blackbirds to come over all suicidal and fly headfirst at 40mph in to a brick wall, and mostly when I dance people end up calling the paramedics as they assume I am having some sort of epileptic fit, was besides the point.

In my dream world, everything would be different.

By the time I was 30 I would be a superstar… at something, and all of my dreams would have come true.

I remember all of this, as last week I was cleaning out schoolbooks and diaries and basically, crap, from all those years ago when I was a teenager, and I came across a diary entitled ‘Dream book.’

(I also came across my old school shirt with all the sixth form leaving signatures on it. Why did everybody draw willies at that age? My school shirt is peppered with balls and odd shaped ballooning cocks with smiley faces. Was there really any need?)

(To lexy, I will miss you, here is a smiley knob and hairy balls to remember me by… Laura.. xxx) 

It was filled to the brim with utter bollocks. (The dream book AND shirt.)

But it made me smile, because at the time, writing that utter bobbins in that dream book was how I carried on.

I was dreaming of how I thought my life would go.

It was those dreams that made me get out of bed in the morning.

I was 16.

As I tipped open one of the diaries, I was thrust immediately in to a melancholy moment, when on my lap an envelope, fell. (See, I’ve even slipped in to melancholy prose…)

I knew instantly what was in it.

At the time, the way I saw it, geography IGcse could just bore off because I was destined for bigger things.

While my classmates learned about cloud formations and how to recognise a Small Crack from a Gaping Crevice (which actually, may be a good title for a book I am writing on the after effects of labour) on field trips, I searched for four leaf clovers and stars to wish on.

(10 grand a year on private school fees well spent then, yeah dad?)

From Inside the envelope, as I opened it, with my fat fingers trembling, out fell, wrapped in tissue and sealed with a note, a four-leaved clover.

My wish, the wish I made 18 years ago at the age of 15, was written in bold pink ink.

‘I wish to never be normal.’

I probably should have been more specific.

Whiplash…

I guess, in the grand scheme of things, I do take a lot for granted.

It seems however that perhaps I should be more appreciative of stuff.

Like, my neck.

I never truly appreciated the momentous amount of effort my neck puts in everyday, not only keeping my humongous Sindy doll head with its erratic and uncontrollable bonce sitting on top upright, but it also seems to have some influence over my voice box too.

Who knew?

The neck and the voice in cahoots, I wonder if any medical people are aware of this phenomenon? Maybe I should write to … um… er… Google?

For the past week having been suffering with some pretty intense whiplash following on from my surprise fondling session with a glass wall, it has dawned on me just how much of my life I owe to my neck.

‘You are taking it a bit far Lexy. I am sure you could speak normally even if you are unable to swivel your head!’

The Irish one was frustrated with my whiplash.

The Irish one was wrong (as usual) as I had tried but totally couldn’t do ANYTHING normally without my neck agreeing.

It was like my GSCE drama was coming back to haunt me and for some reason I was really getting in to character.

As a Dalek.

Not only did I find myself having to walk and operate generally like I was in some dodgy parental version of Dr Who, but I was also, on account of my (Immense and fabulous theatrical background – seriously you should have seen me in the local theatre’s version of Drop dead Fred! I was the most life-like tree you ever saw!) I was also beginning to sound like a Dalek too.

‘Talk normally!’  He bellowed as he approached me from behind (not in a dodgy way) in the kitchen.

‘I ser-iou-sly carnt.’ I had mechanically responded turning slowly around to face him with my shoulders, a look of horror etched on to my face.

Just before this happened you see, I had been in the throws of attempting to erect a makeshift splint for my neck made out of an empty KFC bargain bucket and seven ice lolly sticks all glued together.

Addison, who had eaten the 7 ice lolly’s in a bid to seem useful was now swinging from the light fixtures screeching like an over sugared Russian monkey gymnast. Seriously, only dogs could hear him.

So upon shuffling in to the kitchen to fetch more glue for my whiffy chicken sponsored neck upholstery and discovering as I felt something remotely poo like squidge between my bare toes (as obviously Dalek’s cant look down) that Doodle had released his bowel all over the floor, I totally felt it normal if not necessary to shout.

‘EXCREMENT!! EXCREMENT!!’  In the most mechanical Dalek voice I could muster.

It just came out naturally, actually. (Which is also how doodle later explained himself.)

I have noticed though, that having whiplash is also akin to having just given birth.

In that, you are in all this pain but no one gives a damn cos now there is a baby (ours who was by now licking the windows,) you may as well be a lump of whale skin. (Although saying that, I’d make a nice lipstick me. They could call me – Shit Tinkle Brown.)

So anyway, here are my new years resolutions.

1) Stop walking in to glass walls as this ultimately leads to runny poo ending up between your toes and you being unable to clean your feet cos you cant bend down without either a) screaming like a girl or B)…. Screaming like a girl.

2) Keep the fish alive, because when the fish are dead they hold no entertainment value and a ‘holiday down the toilet’ is now just not cutting the mustard with the child. He is also now starting to believe, on account of us having to change the story, that to get to heaven, you have to flush the loo. Awkward.

3) Do more stuff that involves vodka.

4) Stop forgetting to take my medication.

And that’s me out.

‘Irish one!’

‘What?’ he replies a look of concern passing over his features.

‘Lick my poo toes!!’ I snort at how funny I think I am.

‘You are gross. I can not believe we are getting married this year!’

OH MY GOD.

I want to walk down the aisle dressed like a Dalek!

‘HE MUST OBEY! OBEY!’

I wonder if Disney would allow it? I bet they have the costume and everything…

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…

Medically Recognised Moose.

‘Some people won’t be happy until they have pushed you to the ground. What you have to do is have the courage to stand your ground and not give them the time of day. Hold on to your power and never give it away….’ – Donna Schoenrock.

I have to be honest.

I don’t have it in me to write at the moment.

I am wading through mud.

Every. Single. Second.

I am lacking in the vitality, shall we say, required to even make eye contact with society.

I just want to sleep.

And sleep and sleep and sleep, and maybe moan a bit, and then maybe sleep some more.

(When I say ‘moan,’ I mean like ‘moan,’ like complain, not moan like ‘orgasm’- just to be clear here. Lord knows I don’t have the energy for that right now. Well, I may do, if I didn’t have to make the necessary conversation afterwards… Why is Ann summers so damn expensive??)

Anyway, my depression has never manifested like this before.

Usually, when I am experiencing an episode (as I have taken to calling it) my illness propels me, like a woman out of a comedy circus rocket. I speed in to the universe with my hair and my all in one silver shiny clad arse, bulging, wobbling and shaking about from the G-force, behind me, like a lardy superwoman on crack cocaine.

I don’t even have a cape to hide my rump. They don’t make them in my size.

Honestly, I can be found in my darkest of moments, zipping around the place like a shocked monkey that has been inadvertently strapped to a Formula 1 car on a humid day.

Sweating and with massively uncontrollable hair.

‘Lexy are you ok?’ People will gasp as I jog past them in a flash of twenty-two inch heels, carrying 9 files, an oven and my car, a massive grin plastered on my face.

I don’t hear them of course, as quite clearly, by the time they get to the bit with the question mark, I am already in Azerbaijan, offering to do somebody’s washing up.

That’s how fast I normally am when I’m depressed.

The Mo dance is actually an M for Mammywoo.

Seriously.

But, the last few months have been weird and different and unsettling, the last few months I have fought to stay awake.

I have fought to wake up, to operate.

I have fought not to drive from my bed to the bathroom, and cursed that my hallway isn’t big enough to squeeze a VW polo in to it.

My illness has grown, my illness seems to have evolved, it is smart.

It is 3 o’clock on any normal day, and in Northern Crazy town where I currently live (I used to live in Central West crazy town but was forced to move when the Jackson family emigrated here) a major shit storm has been circling for a few weeks showing absolutely no signs of letting up.

The shit storm is what is making me tired.

The shit storm is what is making me want to lie down.

The shit storm has a name.

For the purposes of today I shall name the Shit Storm… ummmm…. Slag Wagon.

Yes. Slag Wagon.

Like I said, I live in Crazy town.

We have crazy names for shit out here.

You should come visit, ill let you know when I’ve got rid of Slag Wagon and we can share an apple.

Because Slag wagon is ferocious, she can paralyze you with a simple flick of her thin hair.

Because Slag Wagon is unrelenting, she can point out your darkest corners and illuminate your weaknesses to those who shouldn’t see them, with a raise of her over plucked eyebrow.

Because Slag Wagon is ignorant, but manipulative, she ensures you believe her ignorance is because you aren’t worth it.

And I wouldn’t want you to have to meet her.

Slag Wagon is sneaky.

She can be loud and purposeful in her tirade.

But.

She can also be silent and manipulative, turning you inside out, without even speaking.

Slag wagon? She is a Troll Whore.

A Troll Whore in ugly clothes, smiling, a precious smile.

Today is 3 o’clock in Crazy town.

And Slag Wagon is doing what she does best.

Wiping me of all my confidence and sucking the life out of me through my eyeballs.

Making me think everybody hates me, that I am useless and that the world may end any second and I will never see my son again.

Does Slag Wagon sound familiar to you?

I am distracted as my phone rings and I am shaken by Slag Wagon like a dildo in a plate of jelly when I realise who is calling.

‘Hello?’  I answer my phone, avoiding Slag Wagon’s gaze and immediately, and without really noticing myself until afterwards, shifting from the curled form of a battered kitten, bruised, tired of the fight and yet still struggling to breathe in to a majestic and powerful lioness sensing the impending danger of something attacking her terrain.

Slag Wagon hasn’t noticed.

She has moved on to her next victim.

Damn it I wish she would notice I am capable maybe then she would leave me alone.

I watch her retreating flabby arse with relief and feel my confidence seep back in to the space between my bones.

Just breathe, everything will be ok.

‘Hi Lexy, it’s Gary, where are you?’

Gary is my next-door neighbor (the one Doodle released his colon and his anal glands all over last summer. It was a messy affair. That sounds like a film title but it isn’t. God imagine a film about that. Anyway… )

SHIT!

WHY IS GARY ON THE PHONE?

Immediately my brain is on high alert and my hair starts to swell, my face taking on a monkey expression.

Slag Wagon, of course, jumps on for the ride of her life.

Why is Gary calling me?

What could he want?

Maybe he wants a cigarette?

But I’m not in.

He knows I’m not in.

Surely he doesn’t expect me to drive home from work and give him a cigarette?

No that can’t be it.

Oh. My. God.

Something terrible must have happened.

Has the chemical plant blown up?

No it couldn’t have.

He would be dead and he wouldn’t be able to call me.

UNLESS HE HAS TURNED IN TO A ZOMBIE!

Oh my god I have a zombie on the phone!

He doesn’t sound like a zombie though.

OH.MY. GOD.

Has someone been run over?

But why would he call me?

Maybe he thinks I ran them over and scarpered.

But I would never do that!

Oh. My. God.

Is my house burning down?

Why is he calling me and not 999?

For the love of god man, call 999!!!!

Oh my god Doodle will go up like a cotton ball on a bonfire!

He is highly flammable!

OH. MY. GOD.

WHY THE HELL HAS THIS BURNING ZOMBIE CALLED ME?

Or did I just leave the washer on?

Does he just want a cigarette?

‘Gary?’ I respond, my octave so high, dogs in the nearby offices (yes dogs in offices, this is CRAZY town) start howling. ’ Is everything ok? Oh my god. I’m at work? Is the house burning down? ARE YOU A ZOMBIE?’

‘No no its ok… wait, what?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Okkkk, Well I thought I’d call as I am sat in the garden. Where is the Irish one?’

‘Oh my god is THE IRISH ONE on fire?’

Pictures of the Irish one running round the garden shouting Irish obscenities like BEEEJEEZZUS! With his bearded chin alight and smoking, filter quickly through my mind.

‘No, no I was just…. wait, what?’

‘Gary I don’t know. I think he is in bed? I don’t know! Gary what is going on?’

My lioness is slowly joining the frenzied orangutan, Slag Wagon and Michael Schumacher.

‘I think Doodle has got out. He’s ok but he is out in the garden on his own. No drama. ‘

I finish the phone call, start another immediately, ball the Irish one a little bit for not being on fire but asleep in such a Doodle related emergency and then I breathe.

And as I take a deep breath.

I realise.

I am not a battered kitten, so why am I behaving like one?

Why am I giving Slag Wagon this power?

I know what she is.

She is an illness.

She does not own my mind.

I am a 32 year old woman with a good heart.

I am capable, and loving and totally sane.

Why do I give her my power so freely?

Why do I crumble in to a million pieces at the thoughts she places in my head?

Worst case scenario thoughts, that if they happened, I would be able to deal with.

One way or another, but probably won’t happen!

Why do I curl up in protection and take on board her opinions of me even when I know they are wrong?

Why do I let this illness attack me so ferociously with her manipulative, ignorant bullshit?

She tells me I am weak and evil and selfish with the flick of her hair.

She tells me Addison will die and places will blow up.

She tells me everyone hates me.

She tells me I am worthless.

When actually it is her.

Will I ever get the strength to fight her?

Ignore the intimidating takeover of my senses?

Slag wagon is a full on Slag Wagon.

Am I strong enough to fight back?

I don’t even know where to start.

I feel the panic coming on and I immediately think I am going to die.

My breath is raspy and panicked.

I need control.

I need to breathe.

Maybe this is a starting point.

Labelling Slag Wagon and recognising her as weaker than my resolve?

I don’t know.

I need to label my fight back maybe?

Outsmart the cowbag?

I think for the purposes of Crazy Town I shall label this fight – Start to take deep breaths and remember you are in control, and aren’t alone and also get out of bed.

Back off bitch, or you will regret it, if i wanted to be I could totally be a ZOMBIE!

Me, my support and my Meds are coming to get you.

Slag Wagon, is of course, normally called – Anxiety*.

*But Slag Wagon is a medically recognized term originating from a Wagon full of Slags that were always worried. It happened years ago. In the Stone Age maybe, or at some point anyway.

I Should Never have Gotten out of the Car. (Booo!)

“Is there any such thing as a healthy relationship?’

His curious and caring eyes are not robust enough to penetrate my armor today, no matter how much I hunger for them to be.

No matter how desperately I crave for them to be.

The setting of my therapy has changed.

I pull up on the gravel pathway nowadays, usually in the rain, open the car door, letting my feet fall on to the stones outside and I sit for a while, staring up at the old Victorian building that time has ravaged.

There is no doubt in my mind that this building used to be majestic, stunning and warm, but what time has left behind can only kindly be described as an ugly shit hole.

I wonder if time ever has to answer for all the hurt it causes?

It takes me a little longer to find the courage to enter therapy these days without the backdrop of the hospital guiding me in, and without the security of anyone knowing where I am.

It takes me a little longer to trust.

Sometimes, as I sit on the eccentric purple sofa in this new room, trying and failing to find a restful position, that gives both the impression I am supported yet uncomfortable, facing James, I vividly imagine releasing bucket after bucket of tears and pain, with slow methodical like actions on to the thick cream carpet, that swallows my feet, between us.

I imagine, almost dream like, not being able to stop as the gushing of the pain and the tears soaks the space between us and the carpet becomes so sodden that it can no longer hold anymore and like the giving of a dam, I then imagine that we each begin to float away from each other in the tide, him in his comfy one seater with his new converse on with the labels turned down, and me, barefoot on my lonely three seater.

And then once again I can be alone, and will be able to escape his annoying questions, questions that I do not want to answer just yet, thank you very much.

I imagine calling out ‘WILSONNNNNN!’ like Tom hanks does in Castaway, except it won’t be a baseball that is floating away sadly, it will be a bottle of wine that I have drawn a smiley face on. A smiley face that looks exactly like my therapist.

‘WILSONNNNN!!!!!!’ I daydream, wishing the hour was up but knowing it has just begun, ‘if only you were here!!!’

Because I honestly do think, my therapist and I would get on a hell of a lot better over a glass of wine, or maybe a bottle.

I would definitely be more honest that is for damn sure.

I rest my head on the hard sofa arm and toy with the idea of picking up my coat and throwing it over my head.

I do this sometimes when he makes me feel uncomfortable and it makes things easier to handle.

Sure, I must look like an idiot, but hey, I am paying him £40 an hour so if I want to act like a lunatic I bloody will.

One day I may even pretend to be a ghost just to see what he does.

‘Oooo James, BOOOOOOO!’

Not today though. Instead I look up at the gilded angels carved in to the horrifically decorated ‘dildo’ rail scaling the four corners of the old Victorian ceiling, and I sigh.

I want to be able to say no, that I don’t believe there is any such thing as a healthy or happy relationship but I am too frightened, because I don’t know if I believe that answer to be true deep down and I also know this will inevitably lead to more questions, that I really don’t want to answer.

‘Well?’ he asks again as I studiously try to ignore the little black box sat to the left of my head, recording every word I say probably for when he needs therapy to get over my therapy, and try not to think about wine.

I didn’t want to talk about relationships today.

I wanted to come in to this room and bury myself beneath the Latin scrolled cushions, curl up and have him tell me I would be ok.

I wanted him to tell me that it wasn’t me who was bad in relationships, but everyone else, and that telling the Irish one he was a Loser and a Bastard and deserved to die for forgetting the milk was understandable. That he was a bastard as milk is vital. I wanted him to confirm to me that nobody liked me, that people hurt me on purpose.

I wanted him to tell me that I was right, everybody left in the end, or died, or betrayed you, and I was right to trust nobody and pushing people away was the only sensible thing to do.

I wanted to be understood, but instead, I found myself irritated by a question, at the root of it, I was unable to answer.

Because at the root of it, I know it is I, who is unhealthy, who is unhappy and who is unable to forgive herself.

I wouldn’t choose to live in my brain if the choice were ever offered, I wouldn’t choose to have to drive over the 60 foot bridge that 7 years ago my brother collapsed off, twisting and hurtling in the dead of night, all alone, in to the icy waters below, so exhausted by living in his brain that this terrifying action seemed an easier thing to do than live, and I wouldn’t choose depression.

Every day I cross that bridge in my car and I hear his fear.

I am not normal, we are not normal, I am evil, we are evil.

I sense his pain.

I hear his core beliefs echoed in my own.

I touch the back of my head and I shiver as the water fills my ears and the ice stings my lungs.

Some days I cross with my foot down and I block it out with medication, with singing, with hopes and dreams of a life I one day hope to live.

A life where my core beliefs don’t tell me I deserve nothing.

Some days I feel free, I feel loved and supported.

Others,

Like today, I don’t realise I am sobbing until I feel my neck wet and my soul drain.

Another bucket of pain that wont seem to empty, no matter how hard I god damn try.

Some days I wish I could just drift away.

I can’t answer his question today, so instead I ignore it and do the only sensible thing left to do.

I pick a fight with him instead.

‘Four days respite I got on holiday. Four fucking days of being at peace. I wasn’t happy, although god knows how much I tried to be, I was at peace, only four days that’s it, out of Fourteen! Four days that the illness granted me a respite, a peace treaty. AND THIS ILLNESS IS SEEN AS A CHOICE? Is this how it is going to be for the rest of my fucking life? Fighting with myself? Blaming myself? Feeling selfish and not being able to explain why I am the way I am? Feeling the disappointment deep in my heart, the disappointment I see in etched in to my loved ones eyes when they see it is back? Not being able to pretend? Feeling hopeless?  Feeling like a god damn failure? When will therapy start to help? I hate therapy and I hate you.’

He smiles from beneath his slow shock.

‘There is no such thing as therapy Lexy.’ He states clearly. ‘What we have is a relationship, and I can hear you.’

When the feeling of wanting to strangle him passes and I am once again safely ensconced back in the car on the way home, it hits me what he has said.

He is always there for me.

I talk to him.

He listens.

I cry to him.

He cares.

I ask for help.

He helps.

I tell him how evil I feel.

He doesn’t judge.

He gets to the root of me.

He pisses me off.

He sets boundaries and he offers me advice.

I feel uncomfortable, but maybe there is such a thing as a healthy and happy relationship.

Maybe he is teaching me they do exist, maybe he is showing me I have more than one in my life, even if I do think I am evil and don’t deserve anyone.

I owe him a lot.

My THERAPIST who gives me THERAPY.

How in the hell can therapy not exist???

God he is so annoying.

‘WILLLSOOOOONNNNN!!!!!’ *Slurps wine.*

Twinkle Twinkle little Cow Pat…

‘Is it going to hurt?’

‘I honestly thought I was going to die last time.’ She says searching in her Vivienne Westwood handbag for a cigarette and then looking directly in to my eyes.

‘I thought an angel was going to appear from the ceiling and take me to heaven…’

I feel the blood drain from my face as she goes on.

‘I felt this warmth on my back, and thought oh god this it. This is me. I’m off. Off in to the clouds I go…’

Stood on the corner of a quiet street with a gorgeous and hilarious gal pal (she wanted me to call her that) the cool morning air biting at my face, making my lips tingle, the sun just setting up shop, not yet on full throttle but inching it’s way across the road and on to the pavement behind me, as if trying to chase me with a warning of the deep heat I could be in, I take a deep breath.

I am what some may refer to as, shaking like a shitting dog.

I am hopping about like a long tailed skunk in a room full of rocking chairs.

I am feeling no doubt, what every cow must feel right before it gets branded with a red hot poker.

Like releasing a huge cow pat.

‘Then what happened?’ I ask breathless and giddy, my stomach turning over reminding me to clench my buttocks in case I let one rip and embarrass myself.

‘Well. Basically the minute the needle went in’ she takes a long drag on her cigarette as she lights it and grins at me ‘I passed out, and the warmth I felt on my back was the big bloke who caught me waking me up.’

I explode in to nervous and slightly horrified giggles.

‘So not an angel?’ I ask, slightly disappointed. An angel would have been cool.

But fainting? Oh god. What if I faint? I tend to dribble when I faint, and everyone knows that dribbling in a tattoo parlor is social suicide!

‘No.’ she laughs back ‘Aw but he was honestly so lovely. It does hurt, but it’s nothing like childbirth so you should be fine, and at least if you faint you know he will catch you.’

I am about to respond that the catchy ‘its nothing like childbirth’ line has actually done nothing to calm the bowel movements I am currently experiencing when a heavily painted arm, with a neck and head attached appears around the door.

‘Lexy?’ he asked, surprisingly softly spoken, considering how mental and grizzly he looks with his long beard, his beanie hat and the heavy metal rock music providing the soundtrack to his entrance in to my life story.

There is no turning back now.

As I walk through the door I can hear the voices in my head.

‘Do not go ahead with this, or you will regret it! You are an embarrassment! What if it looks stupid? You do realise you are 32?’

‘I forbid you from doing this! You’ll never be cool enough to pull off a tattoo you stupid moose like knob jockey!’

‘You are 32 years old. It is your life, your body and you own your own mind.’

The tattoo man asks me to sit down on the stool opposite him and extend my right wrist.

I am shakily finding somewhere to prop Arthur (my new handbag – so beautiful he deserved a name) when another man appears to the left of me (presumably this is the body catcher) and asks me if I know who Black Sabbath are.

‘Is that the bloke who bit the head off a rabbit?’ I respond nervously, my eyes darting between their faces to the big feck off needle resting on the bench beside the ‘yob’ opposite me. (Yob, was my mothers voice muscling it’s way in to my psychic.)

‘Bat.’ He laughs. ‘ But yes.’

Right.

Bat.

Not rabbit.

Damn it. There goes my street cred. (Oh Jesus, am I actually turning in to my mother? Mental note to self, stop thinking in my mother’s voice.)

‘Are you ready?’ Yob one asks, turning on the stabbing needle gun of death and aiming it towards my clear white beautiful and innocent arm.

I would like to tell you at this point, I calmly and coolly told him I was born ready, and everything went fine, but alas, I didn’t and it didn’t.

‘Hang on!’ I end up shouting directly in to the weapon yielding grizzly’s face before re-adjusting the volume setting on my anxiety and trying to appear calm and collected.

‘Can I ask you some questions?’

‘Shoot!’ he said smiling kindly (which would have been lovely if it wasn’t for the jerking metallic buzzing needle gun of disaster he was holding in his hand approximately 20 cm away from my face.)

‘Will it hurt?’ I asked honestly, the question seemingly pissing off the body catcher as he sighed and stropped off with a roll of his eyes. (Big grizzly men can strop – you learn something every day, as my mother always.. god damn it!)

Oh god. I have no body catcher.

I look down at the tile floor and wonder if Arthur would break my fall.

‘What do you think?’ Grizzly responds interrupting my thoughts and turning off the animated injector of pain and ink.

I breathe a shaky sigh of relief.

2 extra minutes to prepare.

‘I think it will.’ I respond with thought, moving Arthur on to the floor about a foot away from the stool.

If I feel myself going, I will aim my faint towards him.

‘You are right it will,’ he solemnly replies before nodding in the general direction of my left arm and making full eye contact.

‘But I notice you are covered in scars, which tells me one of two things, either you are absolutely crap at fishing (?!?) or you are a self harmer.’

I laugh in shock.

‘If you are the latter, which I am guessing you probably are because you have that sexy but damaged and slightly unhinged look about you, then I will tell you now it wont hurt nearly as much as that.’ He points at a deep bubbly scar above my left thumb. Burn?’

I smile at him gratefully.

‘Yeah.’

He has totally put me at ease, bless his – evil clown tattooed, graveyard scened, burning Jesus dying on the cross-etched inky black- cotton socks.

‘Degree?’

‘Third.’

‘Respect.’ He nods. (There are no words. In my opinion unless you are Eminem, you can not get away with saying ‘Respect.’ but whatever…) 

Before I get chance to jump up and run outside to tell my gal pal (again she wanted me to call her that) that the tattoo man thought I was sexy and unhinged which in my mind passes roughly for cool, he ran his plastic gloved thumb over the trace on my wrist and turned the blade of doom back on.

‘Woo?’

‘Yes.’ I respond enthusiastically.

‘Woo?’ he asks again incredulously, a little louder.

‘Yes.’ I repeat nodding for extra effect. ‘Woo.’

He sighs ‘Go on tell me all about it.’

I close my eyes, as he lowers the tattoo gun towards me and take deep breaths as I do as I am told.

‘Woo saved my life. I used to be cool but then I had Woo. He is my son, he is two next week, he says bugger a lot… I wee when I sneeze’

A pause, and he continues.

Wow this hurts. But I kinda like it…

‘… but Woo also represents the thousands of people who have supported me and cared for me, total strangers, I may add, since I had him. It also represents my dog Doodle…’

The buzzing stops so abruptly, I am forced to open one eye and peep at him.

He is hunched over my hand, pulling the skin on my wrist back tightly, but looking directly up at me, his eyebrows knotted.

‘Doodle?’

‘The poodle.’

The buzzing starts up again as he shakes his head and goes back to concentrating on scaring me for the rest of my god-damn life.

‘So yeah, and basically’ I continue, trying to remember my flow and closing my eyes again with a wince.

Breathe Lexy, breathe.

‘I tried to kill myself, then I went in to a mental hospital, then my therapist asked me when I was going to take control of my own life, and I realised at that exact moment that it was about time I at least tried to free myself from the chains I have, I suppose kept myself under. I want to live my own life, but I never have. I have always asked others ‘Am I ok?’ without actually asking them? You know? Like if they are in a mood then I automatically assume I have done something wrong, and if people feel bad then I have to make them feel better or it could be me that has upset them and then they may not like me anymore. Like they may confirm to me, by not liking me, that I actually don’t like myself. I have always been so afraid, but I couldn’t tell you exactly what of. You know?’

‘No.’

I carry on regardless as he bumps the needle over my crease. (That sounds way ruder on paper than it does in my head.)

‘Well basically, I have always thought I have been living my own life when really I have always been controlled by these voices in my head.’

The buzzing stops again.

It’s ok though. I kind of expected it to.

I open my eyes.

He is looking at me with an expression I am unable to read.

‘Voices in your head?’

‘Yeah.’ I say, looking back at him, focusing on his mono-brow for courage. ‘Like, Sometimes its my mothers voice and sometimes it’s my fathers voice and sometimes its my own harsh voice, and they are always telling me what I can and can’t do. And I am sick of it.’

The buzzing starts up again and once again I close my eyes.

‘Argh!’ I exclaim before continuing between gritted teeth ‘so Woo represents everything I have been, everything I can be, my son, my dog and a new beginning where if I want a freaking tattoo I will get one and I don’t have to answer to anyone.’

He turns off the stabbing needle gun and rubs the blood off my wrist.

‘It represents control, and me, and my son, and my dog, and that mental health is ok and I am never alone.’

He ignores me as he turns away from me and grabs up for some cellophane.

‘Finished. Do you like it?’

I look down at it, and tilt my head.

That’s my wrist.

But.

It looks weird.

‘No.’ I reply honestly, feeling a bit queasy.  Oh shit what have I done?

‘Why?’ he replies.

‘It’s too straight, do some curly bits.’ Oh my god make it better, make it better, holy hell make it better! That looks like a crab pood on me!

The buzzing starts again and I add something.

‘Woo also means, from now on, I am gonna be me, and only me, and the only person who will tell me if I am ok, is me. Or at least, thats the aim.’

The buzzing stops again. He sighs.

‘Do you like it?’

I breath a huge excited breath

‘Yes. I exclaim! I bloody love it! WOO!’ I lift my wrist as I say this.

‘Woo also means Woooooo!’ I add excitedly, lifting my wrist in to his face.

He gets up from his chair and shakes his head.

‘Women’ he mutters as he wraps me up. ‘You’re all as mad as a bag of frogs.’

Whatever! I have a tattoo!!

Woo means ‘Journey.’

Well today it does anyway… tomorrow it may mean destination.

Is it meant to be this itchy though?

Don’t scratch. Don’t scratch. Don’t scratch!

It’s so itchy!!!

Like thrush but on my wrist!!

Oh hell. 

I have woo on my wrist.

Hold On To The Crazy. The Crazy Spurs You On.

I know it is in there.

I can run at force, and lunge my shoulder in to the door. I can rattle the decaying and stained gold handle and scream, pound and shout through my tears. Let me in, goddamn it let me in.

I can sink to my threadbare knees in front of the bastard armor of thick brown wood, which blocks me from entering and claw at my face with my nails and shout please please, make it stop, just please make it stop.

I can lie down beside it, heaving sobs at midnight, beaten. The cold of the night, the slap of the concrete floor, laying claim to my wet face.

I can get up before the sun rises and plaster on my heavy smile.

A smile plastered on to a face, which is becoming more manufactured with every passing day.

I even have fake eyelashes now you know.

My own eye lashes, you see, weren’t long enough or battery enough to protect me from my own self depreciating thoughts or the preying eyes of vultures trying to catch a glimpse at the crazy woman with the cuts on her arms inside of me.

I just changed Crazy girl, to crazy woman.

Because I am no longer a girl am I.

It is a fact.

I should grow up, I should shut up, I should get a grip, I should… get Botox.

Or fillers!!!

Anyway,

I know it is fucking in there.

I just can’t get to it.

I can visualize it oh so clearly in my minds eye, I feel that if I could only grab a coat hanger, I could shove it under the door and coach it out with a gentle puff and huff, like one does a mini dinosaur.

Or car.

Or chip.

I know what it looks like.

I can almost certainly remember what it feels like, and I can all too easily reminisce about the way it would positively mold itself around me, like a python, ensuring every bone in my body would fill with a fulfilling tingle, a glow, an honest to god fantastic inner smile.

A taste of hope.

If I could just get to it, if I could just find a way.

The problem with medication, one of the problems with medication, should I say, other than the obvious ‘unusual’ side effects;

Included but not limited to,

• Excessive sweating;

Which of course causes me to smell like an old tea bag minutes after I arrive, bounding and false, in to the office gates, only to find the air conditioning ‘has gone down’ and I, of course, am wearing the skin cut from a thousand sheep, (who are all now stood shivering, cursing my name, on the moors.)

• Occasional bouts of Nausea;

Just as I walk in to a full nursery room, stinking of small children, wearing sagging and sloshy nappies and locate my child biting a beetle in half, (YES A BEETLE!) causing me to unceremoniously dump the contents of my stomach in to my new handbag on the way home, while Addy insect chomper wiggly tongue in the back, sings the theme tune to Ghostbusters. AGAIN.

• Increased sex drive;

Before I go in to how truly magnificent The Irish One is finding this particular side effect, let me move swiftly to the next one.

• A loss of orgasm;

Forget ‘it’s like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife’ for Irony. Alanis Morisette, take note.

My orgasm, however, is not what I have been searching furiously for. (When would I find the time, in between all the stomping around pretending to be happy? And besides that, Doodle is always staring at me, it is very off putting.)

No, what I have been searching for, is me.

My inspiration, my laughter, my hope, my happy vision for the future , the dreams I used to nurture.

My very sense of bloody me.

I know that behind that door.

That gate.

That grotty window that I have my nose pressed up against, struggling to see through the grime, lays a dusty and dampened room filled with boxes upon boxes of regrets. Crates filled with drunken memories I hurriedly discarded and sometimes even hid behind the screw pile labeled – CRINGE.

I know I will also have to bat away the numbers flying around the room, the numbers that of course never add up.

My virginity too, will be hidden somewhere in there. Ashamed and cross with me for throwing it away on the wrong man. A man with a crappy name and not my first love, the first love who I wanted to give it to but couldn’t.

I will also find my orgasm, smirking at me.

I will also no doubt find all the things I used to enjoy. Reading magazines, singing, dancing, cooking, drinking with friends, getting dressed up and going out, chatting, hugging, a good book, a film.

When did I even lose these things?

And of course, packed in there somewhere neatly, will be my ability to write without using brackets. (God damn brackets.)

Me.

Me.

I am in there somewhere.

Regrets, warts, awful memories, but also hope, and kindness, and hope, hope, hope.

I think I could fly through those boxes now, if I was just given the chance.

I am not proud of who I was, but I can be proud of who I can become… right?

Give me back my heart. Give back my mind. Give me back my fun.

I want to take back my life. I want to take back my heart, I know I can hold it together.

And that’s what matters.

If only I could get through the doors and… feel.

With medication I am alive.

But.

Numb.

Without medication,

I want to die.

But if I could just get in that room…

Then surely…

I could stay on the medication AND swallow myself whole again.

Give me back my heart. Give me back my life. I know I can hold it together.

I don’t know.

There just has to be a way in.

Doesn’t there?

Isn’t that where the light switch to the end of this tunnel is kept?

It just all feels so pointless.

I’m back on my knees.

Will somebody please bring me a Krispy Kreme?

This concrete floor is awfully cold.

What time should I expect you?

From what I hear, we don’t have to do this alone.

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.