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.

A Guardian Angel.

‘Do you want me to call an ambulance?’

‘No. Honestly it’s fine. I will be fine. Honest.’

‘Are you sure? Your hand was just on fire.’

‘Oh…good point, but no, I don’t want to waste their time you know? They are probably really busy.’

‘Lexy. Your hand was just On. Fire! I am calling an ambulance!’

I don’t remember much after that but apparently I projectile vomited all over the kitchen, before ‘kind of’ folding all in on myself like one of those wavy moments from Scooby doo and falling head first in to the oven.

Unfortunately, bouncing off a metal kitchen appliance on the way down to meet the grimy lino meant that not only had I managed to unceremoniously catch my hand on fire while making dinner but I had also inadvertently cracked my skull open which resulted in quite severe cooking related concussion.

This is why I now refuse to cook.

When I woke up/came around 2 people dressed from head to toe in green and yellow, one of them who’s name was John, I remember, were tending to my hand and the smell of sick and burning flesh made me vomit again.

I then apologized for wasting their time, before passing out again, but not before catching a glimpse of the bloke I had been cooking dinner for, high tailing it out of the door at the speed of a bullet, never to be seen again.

Worst. First. Date. Ever.

And I didn’t even get any Gas and Air.

On a non-descript Wednesday evening on the fifth day of May in the year of 1996, my life journey with Salford Royal Ambulance service commenced.

By ’Journey.’ I do not mean I work for the ambulance service, oh no!

I’m crap in an emergency to be honest, so even if I did want to work for the ambulance service, which I would love to, I wouldn’t be able to.

I tend to just freeze you see, and kind of just stare off in to the distance, in highly tense situations.

That’s why I hate it when I am alone with my two year old and he purposely starts to choke (so inconsiderate to my crapness!) or decides to climb and then jump off a 90ft tree or something (I WAS watching him! I was immobilized!) and also why I refuse to drive on the M6 in rush hour.

I would however like the perks of working for the ambulance service.

Mainly the never-ending supply of gas and air, I love gas and air. It’s seriously the only reason I am considering labour again.

Honest.

Anyway. Moving on.

My burnt wrist had only just recovered from a skin graft when my best friend was forced in to action, on my behalf.

‘999 what is your emergency please?’

‘My best friend just fell off a tram stop.’

‘A tram stop?’

‘Yes. A tram stop.’

‘A tram stop?’

‘Yeah. She was trying to impress this guy stood next to us and fake laughed to try and get his attention. Thing is, she didn’t realise the edge was right behind her and she took a giant step back as she flicked her hair. She hasn’t been squashed by a tram or anything…. Yet…’

‘Is she lay on the track?’

‘No she has kind of…Slithered out of the way of potential oncoming trams.’

‘Has she been drinking?’

‘I know you are probably expecting me to say yes right now. But no, she hasn’t! ’

The ambulance people were called Elizabeth and John, They weren’t convinced I wasn’t drunk. But really, I wasn’t! I was just in agony, and right before I vomited all over them, they told me my wrist was definitely broken. As it turned out I had minor concussion and had broken my wrist in 3 places!

Worst. Way. To. Try. And. Impress. A. Guy. Ever.

And also? I still didn’t get any gas and air.

Four months later I was visiting my dad, having chosen to head for a nice, relaxig holiday in Spain, to get over my accident, and with my hand still in a cast and 19 pins holding my life together, I pressed the outside gate buzzer to let my dad in.

He had been out shopping to get us ice cream.

He waved down at me holding a Cornetto from the top of the hill, put the car in to gear and then proceeded to drive down the hill towards me at full speed.

‘What are you doing?’ I screamed in shock, only just managing to jump out of the way.

His face was deeply panicked as he glanced at me in horror, a memory I will never forget, as the jeep careened past me at 60 MPH and glided, like a falling tank may glide, off a deep ravine.

I remember turning to watch and clutching my heart as it seemed to just hang in mid air, stopped in time for a split second, before rolling downwards and out of sight, carrying my beautiful dad with it.

It was a couple of seconds before I sprang in to action and realised the person who was hysterically screaming, was in fact, me.

‘Helicopteros Sanitarios, como os puede ayudar?’

‘It’s my dad!! He has driven off a cliff!’

‘Wait… what?’

‘My dad just drove off a cliff! We need a helicopter! The breaks must have failed and he just drove over the edge! I saw the whole thing. Oh my god… his face!!! You have to come. YOU HAVE TO COME NOW!!! There is no way you will get an ambulance up this mountain; we need the helicopter, PLEASE COME! I can’t help him; I have pins in my arm! Oh my god! Please come! I think I am going to be sick!’

‘Your dad drove off a cliff?’

‘Yes!’

‘Is he ok? Wait… why do you have pins in your arm? Are you injured too?’

‘Forget about me! I am always injured! It’s my dad! I can’t see him!!! Oh my god, the car is at the bottom! It rolled over and over and again! Please come!’

‘How high is the cliff?’

‘It’s about 160 feet!’

‘We are on our way!’

The ambulance people were called Antonio, Sergio and Raul. They saved my dad’s life in the back of that helicopter. Twice.

They said they couldn’t believe he wasn’t dead.

They said he must have a guardian angel.

I extended my stay so I could look after him.

With one hand.

Worst. Relaxing. Holiday. Ever.

And no. I STILL didn’t get any gas and air.

2 months after returning from Spain, having had my wrist removed from a cast, I decided I was fat, and it was about time I did something about it.

‘999 what is your emergency?’

‘A girl in the gym has passed out. There is blood everywhere.’

‘What has happened?’

‘She doesn’t want an ambulance but she definitely needs one! She was running on the treadmill, I saw the whole thing.’

‘What is the nature of her injury?’

‘She just stopped running!! I think she fainted! The treadmill fired her off the back of it like a rag doll and she flew head first at the bike I was riding!! I think she has given me whiplash!’

The ambulance people were called Anne Marie and John. Worryingly John addressed me by my first name before I had even removed the ice pack from my face.

‘I knew it would be you.’ He stated, his eyes dancing. ‘Please don’t be sick on me this time!’

I didn’t respond. I was too busy digging a hole to Australia.

Two black eyes, a broken nose and a broken jaw resulted in me losing quite a bit of weight actually.

It’s hard to eat chocolate with your mouth wired together.

I never stepped foot in that gym again.

And no. I STILL DIDN’T GET ANY GAS AND AIR!

It wasn’t long after that, that I stopped leaving the house all together, much to the relief of my now boyfriend.

Well, he was relieved… until I got pregnant.

Have you ever wondered what happens when the most accident-prone person on the planet gets pregnant?

‘999 what is your emergency?’

‘My girlfriend thinks her waters have gone. She had a turkey sandwich for lunch and she has been vomiting. Also she says please don’t send John, I don’t know what that means?!’

The ambulance lady was lovely as she dropped me off at the maternity unit and the midwife explained in front of her, that I had just peed due to relaxed pelvic floor and strenuous vomiting.

‘999 what is your emergency?’

‘My girlfriend thinks her waters have gone. She hasn’t been sick this time and it is her due date. We were going to drive to the hospital but she says she is in agony and I can’t drive!’

The ambulance man (GOD DAMN JOHN!) was very understanding when he dropped me off at the maternity unit and the midwife explained, ONCE AGAIN, I wasn’t in labour but had ONCE AGAIN, just peed due to a relaxed pelvic floor which had probably been aggravated by strenuous sex. (We were trying to induce labour!!!)

I vowed never to call an ambulance again. Or at the VERY least move to the Outer HEBREDIES.

Pregnancy? It turns out, is not so magical, and also? It completely steals your dignity. Not that I had much to cling on to! But still!

Not only did exploding in to the world of motherhood leave me with weak pelvic muscles (that may be an understatement) but unfortunately for all of us involved, it also brought with it a most unexpected and horrific illness, by the name of Post Natal Depression.

‘999 what is your emergency?’

‘My girlfriend has taken an overdose. Please hurry up. Please hurry up..’

‘Is she breathing?’

‘Barely. Please hurry up.’

‘Ok. Stay calm. We are on our way.’

‘Oh my god, please hurry up! She is dying. She isn’t breathing. Please hurry up! Oh my god. No no no! Please hurry up. SEND JOHN!’

I do not know the names of the paramedics who saved my life. I do not know if John turned up or not and if I was sick on him again and I do not remember anything for weeks after that.

But I do know this.

The paramedics saved my life in the hallway of my house.

‘999 Emergency what is the purpose of your call?’

I would like to say thank you for cooling my fingers, for holding my wrist together, for saving my dad’s life, for not jumping back when I puked on you and for never making me feel like I was wasting your time. But mostly I would like to thank you for saving my life.

My 2 year old would also like to thank you for saving his mummy and his granddad.

And now his Grandma, who you brought in to hospital, but who is yet to come out.

What you do? Is inspiring.

Thank you.

Now.

Send me some freaking gas and air!

I clearly deserve it.

*This post was first published in August 2012 on Trying my Patients, Ella’s blog. To read her fabulous blog, jam packed with stories as a paramedic, a blog which i am addicted to – visit here  - Ella’s blog. 

You Haven’t Let Anybody Down. (Relapse.)

‘I know how you feel mate’ I whisper in to the cold dawn air, pulling my feet underneath me in a bid to keep them away from the icy bite of bitterness curling in from behind the balcony wall.

Sitting completely still listening for noise, any sound that may signal somebody is aware of my trespassing; goose pimples slowly creep up my bare arms and with the rising of the sun, the dawning of the full meaning of what I have been trying to do, what I have been attempting to hide, rests uncomfortably and like a desperately unwanted failure, on my already struggling heart.

From behind the steamy glass partitions to my left, completely unaware of my actions, the rest of the household are warm and snuggled beneath their duvets, breathing evenly, deeply ensconced in a dream world no doubt excitedly anticipating the start of the day and all the joy that is bound to be felt with the arrival of more family from overseas and the start of the festive period.

I find myself sat almost catatonic, at least this is how it would appear from the outside looking in, but as usual beneath the stillness there hides a tornado of destruction desperate to escape, and yet here I sit motionless and contained, like I have found myself sat on many mornings over the last 3 weeks, wide awake at 5am, although this time, my surroundings are not familiar in any sense.

Today I will write. Today I will be honest.

Legs squashed beneath me on an alien, yellow and damp plastic chair that resides like a welcome friend, that seems to know what I need, on my mother in laws balcony, staring in to the early morning nothingness, completely alone except for the two enflamed, rock hard and aching glands in my throat which arose out of nowhere at tea time yesterday like 2 unwelcome Russian ballet dancers, all shiny and proud, desperate for attention, at a party for comfortable and relaxed stoned hoodies only, I notice a spider, hot footing it across the balcony handrail.

I decide instantly that he is Jeff reincarnate and smile as I glance to the hot cup of tea I silently made in an unfamiliar kitchen earlier, that sits to the left of my laptop now, its steam dancing and molding itself confidently around the cold morning air, it too seemingly overjoyed and excited by the intoxicating swell that Christmas brings.

Even Doodle the usually over excited and ever-awake poodle heaved a heavy sigh of disdain as I crept from the musty sleep smelling room where both my son and the Irish one slept, the room I had lain awake in for most of the night before finally giving in, desperate to get words on paper, grabbing only my laptop and a pack of cigarettes to assist me in the journey.

Now I wish, of course, as I reach for my tea, my feet angrily tingling and overcome by numbness, that I had also grabbed my socks. Thinking ahead has never been my strong point. I wanted this to be romantic, soldier like, brave. I realise now, I could have been just as brave, soldier like and romantic, with warm feet.

As I sip my tea I witness in horror Jeff lose his footing on the narrow balcony handrail and watch transfixed as he dangles precariously from a lonely thread of web suspended above a 2 story drop that would surely, if he should fall, ensure his untimely death.

I know cats have 9 lives, but I am pretty sure spiders don’t. I can safely assume this because Doodle has a penchant for eating them, and unless our house is ‘the place spiders go when all their other lives have been exhausted’ or the ‘place spiders go to prove the 9 lives thing wrong’ I just cant see it being the case. If Jeff were to fall now, he would die. End of. Remember, Jeff is no longer a magpie, he has been re-incarnated as a spider. A spider without wings, thank god! *Ergh Shudder* Imagine if spiders could fly! *Shudder* shudder*

Panic stricken on his behalf I watch as he wraps all 8 of his hairy legs (we have a fair amount in common this new Jeff and I) around his silvery translucent self made strong hold, as it blows and bobs about in the morning breeze, clinging on to it for dear life.

Blowing the (artistic, seriously if this was a music video I would totally be the star… which is why socks wouldn’t have been appropriate, socks just aren’t sexy, and I wanted to feel sexy and depressed) smoke from my mouth from the rolly (I am so rock and roll) I made earlier, I contemplate helping him.

Jamie’s words ring in my ears.

‘No one else can help you, support yes, but you are the only one who is able to help you, you learnt how to do this in hospital. You were not in hospital to be cured, only to build an armory of tools to assist you in the journey towards that ever-illusive light at the end of the tunnel. A light which incidentally, can fade, only for you to switch it back on again.’

I should help him. I am clearly unable to help myself so I may as well help him.

If I picked the web up I could save his life, lift him on to the table beside my tea, where he would be safe for a while, until Doodle wakes up that is anyway, but what if, during this high voltage moment of spider terror, I dropped the web with my stubby eczema ravaged fingers and because of my actions he plummeted to his death anyway?

I wouldn’t be able to handle the guilt. I stood on a slug yesterday and cried for a full three minutes. It was truly traumatic. Sluggy entrails – everywhere. I even considered, as I am in Ireland and all, reciting a few Hail Mary’s. As it was my glands were killing and Addison was about to run in to oncoming traffic so there was no time. I did however, pray for the slug a little last night.

As I watch him clinging on, bobbing about in the wind, (back to Jeff the spider, seriously I am like the insect version of David Attenborough at the moment) no doubt frantically wishing for a break in the weather pattern so he can shoot out another web from his bum (they do make the webs in their bums don’t they?) and climb to safety, my mind wanders. (Seriously, I am useless in an emergency.)

I am sure when he first carefully planned and imagined his future, created his home, his life, met his wife, started college, got his degree in web construction, got his wife pregnant accidentally, became a father to six million spider bairns who all seemingly moved in to my flat, only to be eaten by a black fluffy four legged cloud, and got knighted as Sir Spider the first for his services to the Eccles spider population, he truly believed everything he had built, everything his eight legged life was built on, was stable secure and steadfast.

But now look at him.

Dangling from a disappearing thread of nothing, in a country he feels a little bit lost in, wishing he had maybe taken more time to enjoy the moments leading up to this one.

And this is where it becomes evident I have more in common with Jeff than just a slightly chubby set of hairy legs and badly misjudged footing.

I too have been clinging to an ever changing, translucent piece of thread tied to the end of my sanity, (not my bum) dangling over what felt like a 2 story drop, for a while too.

I haven’t written because I wanted to write happy, I wanted to prove I was mended, fixed, better. I wanted to wipe the slate clean, to expunge the ever growing record of depression and miserability from existence. As if I could tell myself that if I could only will these thoughts to be true, I am happy, I am better, I am cured, I would begin to feel them. That the time I spent in hospital away from my son would have been worth it. That I would have succeeded.

And the real thoughts, the thoughts that ensure I feel like a failure, a waste of time, have let everybody down, am not only a bad excuse for a mother, but a terrible friend, a liar, worthless, if only people knew the real me they would see that I am disgusting, despicable, mean and ugly inside, would slowly melt away in to obscurity.

With each passing day I have gripped harder, tightened my hold, ignored the inner turmoil and acted, pretended, fabricated and invented, to others as well as to myself, that life has suddenly manifested from murky grey in to bright yellow. I am hopeful, I am happy, I am content, I am Zen. I have Chi. (Or whatever.)

And all the while, as I have been dancing around acting like Rosie (everything’s Rosie… damn that bloody cartoon and its catchy song, I want her hair) while secretly clinging on to a mere fiber in time, to stop me from breaking, some fucker has been standing there pointing a hairdryer’s worth of wind in my direction, watching me bob about like a poo making its way down a river.

I haven’t been happy, or funny, or joyful, or (spit this next word out) ‘better.’

December dawned with swollen eyes, an allergic reaction to new medication and with it a sinking feeling that hiding behind every corner of my smile, the depression was ready to creep back in.

Mickeys twice upon Christmas constantly on repeat in the living room was the sound track to my disappointment in myself for not having tried harder, for not having been a better more lovable mummy and for having let everybody down and for feeling lost once more, as I took to my arm with my hair straighteners and caused such a severe burn I very nearly required a skin graft.

The month continued, suffocated with avoidance and denial and therefore being unable to write the truth, and having no escape hatch, as my mental health took a nosedive hand in hand with my relationship with the Irish one.

I hate you! (I mean myself) I love you! (I mean you.) I hate you! (I mean myself) Leave me alone, I am lonely, get away from me but please hug me. You are horrible! (because I have let you down) I despise you! (I mean me.) You do nothing for me! (Because you can’t read my mind.) I want it to be over! (Because I am not good enough, or of any use to anybody.) I want to die. (Because even if you did love me, I could never love myself.)

After an accidental codeine overdose last night in a bid to ward of the swollen glands I can no longer help but think of as Russian, bleary eyed and off my face as enough of the Irish one’s relatives to fill not only Christmas present, but also Christmas past and Christmas future came bundling through the door, faces beaming and excited, I finally realised it was time to tell the truth. (Not to his whole family. I’m depressed not insane. Hi! Welcome home for Christmas! I think I want to die again! Here, there is your present! No. I didn’t do that.)

I brought the Irish one out on to the very same balcony I am sat on now (after first admitting my dark thoughts on Twitter, for courage) and through floods of tears, garbled out the truth.

‘I am having a relapse. I am a failure. I am sorry I have let you down.’

‘I know,’ he replied softly, kneeling at my feet, holding on to my knees for support ‘I have known for weeks. And you haven’t let me down. You have nothing to be ashamed of. I just wish you had been honest sooner, you know there has always been support here.’

Tears of disappointment, shame, relief and love fled from the inner shadows of my soul and slowly I began to allow myself to be supported once again.

Something that isn’t always easy but if I had remembered, had always been there, either from those around me, or from the many stranger friends I have met online.

And this is where I find December dawdling to an end.

Sat in Ireland, at 6am on the eve of Christmas Eve, an empty cup of tea by my side, the dog scratching at the door to be let out and the Christmas tree lights glistening in the corner, from the warmth of the family room inside.

I glance up at Jeff quickly, heart hammering, only now that I am coming to the end of this emotional rollercoaster, remembering his plight and hopeful that by himself, he has made progress.

It is with a mixture of relief and awe I see that he has climbed back up and is now sat back on the balcony edge, a slight smile on his face, about to shave his legs. (I may have made that last bit up.)

Fair play to him.

If he can do it, maybe so can I.

‘I know how you feel mate. Thank you.’ And with that, I get up out of the chair, forgetting that my legs have completely fallen asleep underneath me and collapse in to a heap on the wet floor.

After I have cursed the pins and needles, and Jeff has finally stopped laughing at me and I have realised I definitely need to absolve the language that spilled out of my mouth with more than a few hail Mary’s, I finally creep back inside and slide back in to bed next to the Irish one and fall asleep listening to the sound of my sons snoring gag reflexes. (Boys!)

The journey is long.

I haven’t let anybody down, because I am still fighting it.

I didn’t jump off the boat and in to the icy water, on the way over here. I wanted to. But I didn’t.

Thank you for all your support.

Merry Christmas.

The One That Broke The Camels Back.

I am currently inexplicably wedged in to an enormous brown leather armchair munching on a gigantic and sticky Starbucks caramel waffle, so although I feel for the main part, like a bit of a hog, (Starbucks sofa’s must be made for people who weigh nothing! I am actually sinking!) As the gooey caramel lodges itself between my teeth, all over my lips and down my front and while the crumbly biscuit exterior makes best friends with my inner thighs (currently fighting to push each other away and failing miserably) the writing of this post feels strangely apt.

I am about to ask you a question,

She says cocking her head to the side, trying to take on the role of nurturing therapist while continuously munching away and slowly descending in to the back of the couch with every bite, so that my feet are now at a 90% angle above me,

But I would like you to have a good think about this question, and all the possible responses you can imagine before answering.

Ok?

Here goes.

I am about to offer you one of my Caramel waffles.  Really, they are delicious, delectable, mouthwateringly gooey, appetizing, and scrumptious and completely calorie free.

Stay with me here.

They are the ultimate biscuit, a biscuit to rival all other biscuits in their category and you desperately want one. By the time I have finished showing you the full delights of the super tasty taste sensation, and by the time I have finished wafting it under your nose so you can smell the super sweet-scented smell sensation, you are so desperate for a bite you almost snatch my hand off.

And you can have it if you really really want it (a zig a zig ah) but as always in life, there is a catch.

Each and every time you take a bite of this waffle, the waffle you simply cannot imagine turning down at this point, for the disappointment would be too great, I am going to thump and twack you over the head with a bloody big stick I have been surreptitiously hiding behind my back.

(You may have to help me up first though. I think I am actually stuck. I am typing this laying completely flat on my back but still sat on a sofa… only at Starbucks…)

This is the scenario you find yourself in ok?

The waffle is sat on the plate in front of you, calling your name, willing you to have a lick, just a single, tantalizing lick, but out of your peripheral vision you can now see me stick in hand poised and waiting to twat you across the head with every munch you try to enjoy.

(I am a full on bitch in this scenario, I know this. And really I am ok with it.)

So what would you do?

Stop reading now please, look away from your screen if you have to, and deliberate.

What would you do?

I REALLY REALLY want (ah zig a zig ah) for you to have a little think about it. (Get them cogs a-turning folks!)

Last week, while I was still existing on the ward and before I came up for parole, and therefore release, I was asked this very same question.

I mulled it over for a full 7 days.

Arriving back in my support group this morning, the air thick with dismay and rising damp, I was the epitome of smug Sally Wanker. (There was a girl in my class called Sally Wanker. There really was… or maybe that was a nickname. I cant remember, but either way she was smug.)

‘I know what I would do James.’  I proclaimed to my therapist, plonking my bag down, taking a load off (quite literally, I had dressed for Antarctic adventures but somehow it was now 80% and snowing outside…what the hell is going on with our summer??? Anyway, I digress…) and whispering hello’s to the rest of the mentalists with no identity at all. ‘I totally, full on, know what I would do.’

‘I am assuming this is about the waffle Lexy, but before you tell me, and as you have asserted yourself to speak first (damn,) could you please tell me about your week, we have missed you around here, what has been going on for you?’

‘Not much’ I say, keen to get this out of the way and finally be able to give him my answer to Waffle-gate.

‘I notice you are wearing full make up today, including lipstick, that’s a change from the norm, what has been going on for you?’

‘Are you saying I look like a transvestite?’

‘Did it sound like I was saying that?’

‘No. But I think I look like a man.’

‘Ok.’ He smiles kindly ‘I don’t.’

‘I am also wearing Skinny jeans James. Have you noticed my ultra skinny Jeans? I thought I would look skinny in them, well at least that is the effect I was hoping for, but as it is, I can hardly breathe and you may think I am wearing deep purple lipstick James, but it is actually a lack of circulation to my upper reposotries, to be honest.’

‘Your upper what now?’ He asks, concern pushing through the joviality in his voice.

‘My upper reposotaries.’ I retort confidently.

‘Did you make that word up Lexy?’

‘A little bit yes.’ I smile.

“I am sensing that you are (completely mad) a little all over the place this morning, so let us start simple. Tell me one thing this week that made you smile secretly to yourself?’

‘My son.’

‘Stock response, something else.’

‘He did though.’

‘I am sure he did, what else?’

‘Well I smiled when I saw a beautiful friend, and felt truly content for the first time in a long while.’

‘Great but again, stock response, anything else? And really try to hear my question now. Please tell me one thing this week that made you smile TO YOURSELF SECRETLY.’

‘As in, is there something I am secretly proud of myself for?’

‘If you think that is what I meant, then yes.’

(FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!!!!!)

‘I’m taking back control?’ I state, as if asking him permission for this to be true.

‘From who?’

‘Everybody.’

‘Who is everybody?’

The million-dollar question.

Who is everybody?

I know my answer to this, and I am sure in our own way, we all know our own answer to this.

Who shreds our confidence, who pushes our buttons and who do we have to fight to regain some of ourselves back? Each individual story is completely unique, but sometimes (and just to be completely enigmatic here) sometimes the person who commits all these heinous crimes against us, is us, Isn’t it?

Sometimes we need to take control back from ourselves, before we can even consider attempting to win it back from others.

I know I do.

How many times do I beat myself up with a big bastard stick? How many times over a 24 hour period, do I call myself incapable, stupid, fat, ugly, thick, not as good as that person over there, unhealthy, miserable, idiotic. The list is endless. And ok, I may not say them out loud. I may not say;

‘Hey Irish one, sorry I burnt your chips, it is because I am a thoughtless, worthless great big lump of wasted blood and organs ok?’

I may not say it out loud. But I think it.

I may not say;

‘Hey Irish one, please don’t look at me, or try it on with me or touch me because since having this baby my body is truly disgusting and the very thought of you touching it makes me want to curl up and die in shame. I hate myself and I would really prefer if you did too, thanks.’

I may not say it out loud. But I think it.

(I may actually try being honest next time, as I am quickly running out of excuses to not be intimate. Last night I literally told him I couldn’t, as there was a strong possibility of me having scurvy. Luckily, he has no idea what scurvy is, and I assume he imagines it to be a long the same lines as having thrush. Either way I got an early night so all’s well that ends well… Except it isn’t. Because I miss him, and I hate feeling like this… Damn houseboat. Anyway. )

I beat myself up constantly.

And not only that, I allow others to do it too, usually because I am in complete agreement with them.

I deserve to be hit with a huge stick while eating a waffle.

Don’t you?

‘Would you eat the waffle Lexy?’ James asks, eyes wide open.

‘Yes James, I would eat the waffle, I wouldn’t mind so much really,’ I pause for dramatic affect ‘the pain of being hit, because the waffle would be worth it.’

I state this sitting smugly in my bubble of insightful intuition I have learnt over the last three weeks.

He urges me to explain further.

‘I know now,’ I explain thoughtfully ‘after being here for three weeks, just how much pain and torment I can handle, it is nothing new. So the waffle would be worth it you see. Sometimes a small amount of discomfort is worth the enjoyment…’

‘Would you now,’ his eyebrows knot in intrigue ‘you would eat the waffle, are you sure?’

‘Yes. I would eat the waffle.’ (FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!!)

He is thoughtful in his silence, before looking at me once again and continuing.

‘You would eat the waffle, even while being hit with a great big cricket bat?’

‘Eh? I thought it was just a stick.’

‘Ok. Now it is a cricket bat. Would you still eat the Waffle?’

‘Yes.’

‘What if the immense pain the cricket bat was now causing, began to completely outweigh the enjoyment of the tasty waffle, then what would you do?’

‘I would run away with the waffle James.’ I roll my eyes wondering to myself why I didn’t think of this response sooner. Running with the waffle is the ideal solution. I would be burning off the calories immediately (mine isn’t calorie free) and would avoid being battered.

‘Both of your legs are broken. Would you still eat the waffle?’

‘Do I have a wheelchair to escape on?’

‘No! Would you eat the waffle?’

‘If I had two broken legs?’  (Is it me, or is this getting a little out of hand now? It’s a bloody waffle. They aren’t that nice!)

I sigh, ‘I would have probably given up on the waffle by now to be honest.’

‘So’, his turn to pause for dramatic effect ‘You would deny yourself the pleasure of the waffle when it became too painful?’

‘Yes,’ I reply with a deep sigh ‘If you had broken both of my legs I would be most displeased as not only have I just bought new shoes, but I cannot eat when I am pissed off and although Starbucks waffles are delicious, I would not want my legs broken, so I would leave the waffle where it was.’

I am aware that I am waffling (no pun intended) but when I stop he urges me to go on.

I falter slightly before believing I finally grasp what he is getting at and ploughing on with what I deem to be his revelation full steam ahead ‘because some pleasure isn’t worth getting hurt for is it? I wanted the waffle, you offered me the waffle, but it isn’t worth the pain, so leaving the waffle seems the perfect solution. Even though I miss out on what I wanted…’

He smiles slightly before leaning slowly back on his chair, not losing eye contact with me once.

I am completely confused.

Now I have said it out loud, that doesn’t seem right at all.

The room is deathly quiet.

‘Can I ask you something Lexy?’

‘Go for it.’ I say shitting myself now; sensing something important is about to happen.

‘Did you never consider, even for a moment, that you could just take the stick off me?’

I hadn’t.

‘…And eat your waffle in peace, with no pain, just enjoyment?’

I hadn’t.

Had you?

*This post was brought to you by Postnatal Depression. Finding the inner courage to take the stick away, personal insult by personal insult, believing in myself little by little and opening up and peeping from behind the wrought iron door, tiptoe by tiptoe.

‘Hey Irish one, I burnt your chips because I was busy being a brilliant mummy playing with Addison, and I set the oven a little too high. Ill bang some more in.’

Shit happens.

Want a bite of my waffle?

We all want to know how it ends.

…. And as the fetching (and not even a little bit gay) prince (in his tight white jodhpurs and brown thigh high boots) intentionally and carefully bowed his head down towards the blessed and fortunate princess (who was more than a little bit annoyed he was wearing her boots) and brushed his lips gently against hers (careful not to smudge her lip liner) a concerto of salient song began to rise from behind them (Ministry of sound presents the best of R&B 3)…

…And as the music played on (drowning out all thoughts of bronzed beach ready men, from both of their minds) and as he gazed deeply in to her crystal white eyeballs romantically, grabbed her tiny perfectly manicured hand and whispered (quite literally) sweet (FA) nothings in to her shell-like, together they decided cheerfully and deliberately to toddle off in to the fawning yellow, orange and red sunset…(Clearly for  dramatic effect)...

And of course,

The princess and the (camp) prince live happily ever after…

Yes, they lived happily ever after…

Er.

Hang on.

Did they though?

I mean, it is all very well ambling off in to the sunset on a nice warm day isn’t it?  Or, even, like in some of my favourite fairytales, splashing away in a rowing boat with a warbling frog serenading you with a Peter Andre hit, or even I suppose in a more realistic sense, driving away with tin cans suspended off the boot of your car and ‘Just married’ scrawled in shaving foam across your back window, but seriously?

Happily ever after?

What happens then, when twilight approaches and you realise that while you have been too busy hiking off in to the middle of nowhere, gawking in to one another’s openings to the soul, not only have you caught sunstroke and are now beginning to feel distinctly frigid and nauseous, but that he (the village idiot), being the self- centered, tedious and irresponsible imbecile he is turning out to be, forgot to bring the bloody coats?

It is a bit more challenging to gaze devotedly in to one another’s eyes, when your teeth are chattering incessantly and your nipples could cut through glass, isn’t it?

It is slightly more arduous to remain with the feelings of happily ever after, when you are vomiting in to an ice bucket and he is holding your hair back while checking out your arse, isn’t it?  (Because let’s face it. They probably do.)

What happens then, to the Happily Ever After, when you realise that while you have been too busy splatting about in the middle of the Atlantic ocean, enjoying the time spent with your singing frog and the man of your dreams, that you are actually in fact starving, miles away from the nearest Harry Ramsdens and that Prince Fumble in the jungle here, couldn’t catch a fish in a deep fat fryer?

OOOO I’m on a roll now,

And what happens, to the (spit it out now) Happily Ever After, when you arrive half a mile down the road from the church in which you just declared your undying love and betrothed yourself to him forever, when he turns around with a look of glee etched on to his features, starts waving besottedly at a 6 foot, perfect figured, big boobed goddess and starts advising you that this is, in fact his ex, she lives next door, he absolutely adores her and that you and she, will, no doubt, get on like a house on fire.

What happens then ey? (EY? A spade that’s what! A spade!!!)

AND what happens 3 months post Sunstroke-gate when she drunkenly forgets to reach for a condom, gets impregnated, tears her Tupperware from tit to tatters and ends up in a mental institute having spent too long chasing all her scattered marbles aimlessly around the living room floor?

What happens then ey?  (EY?)

I tell you what I believe would help maintain the happily ever after.

I believe that if all men, princes, paupers, kinsmen and blokes came with a handbook, life would be a lot damn simpler.  THAT’S WHAT.

I believe, that at the age of 19 there should be a mandatory handbook ceremony held for all men. (Mandatory like the army is mandatory in Spain. A civil service type agreement.)

From the ceremony until the end of time, they are to keep the handbook with them at all times. Through every relationship, through every argument and through every tryst, the handbook must be accessible for the female to read/use/study at any given moment.

The lady in question can then fill in the handbook as she goes along and when she deems it necessary, therefor preparing the next potential girlfriend for what is to come, and what she expect from this fellow without ever having to meet her.

PERFECT!! Don’t you agree?

Very immature, laughs at his farts, never does washing. 01/08/1999.Annabel.

Great at cooking, very bad wind and total commitment-phobe. 02-11-2001.Jane.

Picks his nose & eats it, can happily sit on loo for up to 3 hours. 09-9-2006.Meg.

Cooks a lot, great in bed but won’t wash knives and forks. 01-01-2008.Susan.

Generous, Lazy. Farts too much, moody, boring but great in bed. 07-07-2010.Lisa.

Needs another mother, never mind a girlfriend, also, pretty sure he is gay…  01.01.2016 .Princess Anon.

Charming my arse. 04.05.2020.Cinderella. 

That sort of thing, do you see what I am getting at?

I honestly believe that if all men came with a handbook, our happily ever after’s would be a lot more accessible.

We could window shop.

‘OO farts a lot, no thanks! But hmmm Great in bed, may be worth the excessive farting, hmmm may give it a go… oh no! Doesn’t wash the knives and forks! That’s a deal breaker, NEXT HANDBOOK PLEASE!!’

(Wouldn’t it also make life a hell of a lot easier if all ex girlfriends were then transported/shipped/kicked off to another planet entirely with no reception on their slutty phones, where they were forced to spend their days eating Pringles and watching ‘Psycho!’ on repeat? I think so.)

But anyway, back to reality with one hell of a bump.

There are no handbooks, there is no singing Peter Andre frog and there is no rest for the wicked.

Here I am, having gathered as many marbles back in to my quality street tin as I possibly can over the last 3 weeks, suitcase in one hand, Addison, Doodle and The Irish One in the other, about to walk out of the mental hospital for the first and hopefully only time in my life.

Addy, the Irish one, Doodle Mcpoodleson and I, all holding hands (Doodle walking on two legs like a real life boy- bless him, he has such abandonment issues) getting ready to stroll off in to the sunset.

I am leaving behind my crazy friends, I am leaving behind my own room, I am leaving behind my 15 minute observations, I am leaving behind the safety of being allowed to be mental, and I am heading off in to the big bad world, with a new set of coping mechanisms, a pot heart and a little leap of faith hoping to set me free.

I have tears running down my face as I say my goodbye’s to the home I have hated, sobbed in, been broken within, liked and eventually loved.

I do not feel ready, but then I am not sure I ever will.

Will I live happily ever after?

I doubt it. (For all of the reasons above, plus add in a gastro enteritis prone poodle, a toddler with a penchant for licking plug sockets, a pelvic floor supported entirely by Tena Lady and an Irish one that eats more cow than can possibly be healthy and a permanently blocked bog… the list is endless…)

But more importantly will I live forever after?

I plan to.

And really, that is what matters, I suppose.

*This post was sponsored by Post natal depression, the road to recovery, stamping it out step by step.

I don’t want to get off. (The Roller-coaster!!)

Drum roll for the crazy person please!

For the past 2 weeks while I have been existing (not living) in ‘the facility for the mentally incompetent’, and all the while delving in to the deep, dark and destitute corridors of my recollection banks and unearthing some pretty horrific memory morsels (or canapé’s if you will) from years gone by, I have also been managing to uncover a few forgotten activities that I thought were now completely redundant.

Yes for the last 2 weeks, as I have been living the celebrity dream, crying daily, feeling shards of glass in my heart relentlessly and wearing big shades constantly (to keep up the superstar image!) I have also been indulging in a few activities that I really had forgotten I enjoyed.

Stop being rude.

I’m talking about listening to music, reading a book and just pottering about.

Although, while we are on the subject of rude stuff. (Because you know how much I love it.)

Do you remember when I told you I was on 15-minute observations?

Well I still am.

And do you also remember when I admitted to you I self-harm?

Well I still do.

(Yes I am in hospital but no; being in hospital doesn’t magically make you better. It’ll take a while before they’ll manage to rid me of that age-old coping mechanism. I like self-harming, see. It makes me feel human. It is like anesthetic for my heart. Is it wrong to admit that? Does that make me weird? I don’t care. Self-harm is better than self-dead right? Right.)

Well Last night as the clock struck 12 and Fahalarki the night nurse was prowling the corridors with a Twix looking for some poor unsuspecting anorexic to torture, (I’m setting the scene here so bear with me) and while I was busy doing a 13 minute poo (from start to finish, just in time for my next check) and after a particularly bad day involving somebody painting a picture of my favourite handbag and then purposely drawing rain heading towards it (therapy is hard yo!) I was overcome by the emotion of it all and with flashback images of wet Gucci and ruined leather screaming through my psyche, I took to my stomach with a paper clip.

OK.

Took to my stomach with a paper clip, isn’t necessarily true.

But either way, let us just say I harmed my stomach, and this new wound combined with old scarring starting to heal, created a social hand grenade that the likes of PolPot (or even Kinga from Big Brother) could never have imagined.

Disaster.

I had jumped in to bed at the sound of heavy footsteps approaching my door and was having a good old scratch of the insistently itchy and semi healed scars under the covers, when who should bob her bedraggled and sometimes freaky, floating head around the door without knocking, but Fahalarki.

I was startled she had arrived as soon as she had and was concerned she would realise I had self harmed so jumped at the sound of her voice.

’15 minute check Lixy.’

As her eyes widened and she quickly started to back out of the room I realized the sheer atrocity of the level of her misunderstanding.

She had clearly been mortified at the sight of my elbow bobbing about at stomach height under the covers, a fact further heightened by the fact I was now acting like a rabbit caught in headlights and had now automatically and INCORRECTLY assumed I was erm… giving myself a treat? Starting to feel better? Finding my happy place?

You know what I’m on about right?

EX.CRU.CIATING.

Shouting protestations but not actually being able to explain what I had actually been doing (for fear of being caught self harming) got me absolutely nowhere but Shamesville Arizona.

‘Look Falahraki, I cannot tell you what I was actually doing but I wasn’t doing that ok?? There are a lot of things I can do at hyper speed in a 15 minute slot, as I am now finding out, but let me tell you, THAT ain’t one of them ok?’

I was wasting my breath. She was sniggering behind reception with Clarke the intern and I was now forever to be known as the ‘MUST KNOCK ON DOOR BEFORE ENTERING WOMAN.’

Not good, really not good.

But anyway, Can we move on now? (I don’t know why I share these things I really don’t!)

‘Sometimes you need to walk a mile in a man’s shoes before you could fully understand the extents he will go to, to hide the pain. Welcome to the Hotel California, please check your car keys, your sanity and any weapons of mass destruction in at reception and follow me to your room. You may notice the bedding smells of cat piss, but let us assure you, that is your illness, there are no cats here.’

I am pretty sure there must be but whatever.

I cannot believe I have been in here two weeks.

It is nothing like I expected when I first arrived all those moons ago.

There are no straight jackets, there are no wide-eyed, straight-backed shufflers scuffling about reciting the Lord’s Prayer and there is no nurse Ratchet. (Although there is one nurse who is a complete bitch.  I think there always is, in any hospital setting. The token hag that nobody likes and who likes nobody, but the less said about her the better… JUST GIVE ME SOME DIAZIPAN COWBAG!….sorry… moving on…)

Did I ever tell you that on the very first day I arrived (which now seems like 12 years ago), I spent so long meaninglessly ambling up and down the corridors, they assumed I was a pissed up alcoholic searching for booze and I was breathalised.  And clearly, as I haven’t drunk in months (ahem right) I was completely affronted!

‘But you look drunk Lixy.’ Fhalarkiiiii had assumed incorrectly. (AGAIN.)

I had just been admitted for god’s sake! I had been sobbing for 3 hours straight as the realization of what was happening, finally started to bleakly and sinisterly seep its way in to my consciousness. I wasn’t going to be able to kill myself (I couldn’t even be successful at that!) So I was imprisoned here, against my will, for the foreseeable future. I had shrieked and wept and prayed and pleaded, for them to let me go, I just wanted my son, my poodle and my own pillow.

Due to many a gushed tear, a heavily swollen face, the humidity in the air and eye sockets that could pass for boiled eggs, my contact lenses dried up and I was literally unable to see.

Now, clearly because of this I couldn’t walk in a straight line, I was tired and I may have been slurring my speech.

I was not drunk. I was delirious and did not want to be alone.

‘Oh you aren’t drunk Lixy? Ah well, sometimes you have to walk in a mans shoes….’

The above condemnation definitely wins most annoying saying I have heard in the recent weeks at the mad house 2011.

1)   Because I don’t want to wear another mans shoes I have my own, and have you ever actually put your foot in another mans shoe? They always feel wet! It is all kinds of wrong. Not going to happen. Like sharing socks. Gross. and 2) because it is a cliché and it completely redundant, in that no one would ever actually do this.

‘Excuse me? Are you depressed? You are? BRILLIANT! Can I borrow your shoes? Apparently walking a mile in yours will help me understand my own pain. What do you mean no? Oh you are size 5, never mind, thanks anyway.’

Facetious me?

Well I am allowed to be.

I have managed two weeks as an inpatient (I am pretty proud of myself incase you haven’t noticed.), and although I am slowly, as if wading through mud, making progress and maybe, somehow, possibly believing there may just be, potentially, perhaps an actual light at the end of the tunnel and that maybe, just maybe someone may have switched it on, I am still absolutely terrified of the future.

I feel as if I have been suffering with Post Natal Depression for so long, if that horrible debilitating illness is no longer settled in, and has been forced out, then what the hell will it have left behind?

Does that make sense?

Will it be like when a lodger leaves manky flooring, blue tac stained walls and old apple core’s in the drawers in the wake of thier departure? Will my life be like a black and white still of a 1930′s private eye’s office? (Just go with me. It just came to me.)

I am absolutely shit scared of going back to normal life, outside of the confines of these walls. Back to the unknown, completely unknowing.

Which is unfortunate as next Friday I am being discharged.

They feel the time has come, to send me back out in to the real world as a fully rehabilitated, swinging from the chandeliers, in no way ‘well’ but certainly ‘getting there’ mother of one, wife of none and empty woman of weirdness.

It has been one hell of a journey. A journey I would not be keen to repeat, which is why I am going to try my damnest over the next four days to learn some ‘shit’ to help me in the future.

Because I don’t want to end up back here, I don’t want to end up dead and I don’t want to end up existing again, instead of living.

I suppose the up side of being released however is at least when I get home I can scratch my stomach in peace. (Ahem.)

When was the last time you listened to music you liked?
When was the last time you stopped running 100 miles an hour?
When was the last time you stopped torturing yourself and rested?
When was the last time you made time for you?

*This post was brought to you by post-natal depression. Fighting but no longer winning. ME AND YOU OUTSIDE DICK-HEAD, NOW! And this time I’m bringing medication…

It’s Lima by the way.

Somewhere in between being sectioned (in to the mental hospital) kicking, screaming and making jokes, and this moment right now, where I am curled up in a ball on the bed catatonic staring at the bathroom door, I seem to have lost all capacity to think positive.

I can’t even laugh.

Not even at myself.

Which is peculiar because even in times of trouble (when mother nature calls to me singing words of wisdom…) I have always been able to find the funny, even if I am the only person in the room sniggering.

Friends and family ‘on the outside’ keep insisting, when they hear my hollow, tinny and tired voice, that ‘this place’ is making me worse.

I am maintaining and explaining on a regular basis that they are mistaken, that being in here is like taking a packet of antibiotics. Sometimes you have to get worse before you can get better.

‘It is a process. I will be fine. I am on the mend. Honest. I am. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be better in a week.’

I battle through the dialogues, summoning the strength from god knows where, trying to keep it jolly and bright, all the while the silent tears running down my face.

Are they right though? Is this place making me worse?

I have now been an, isolated in my own brain, and yet, friendly outgoing and maybe even quite popular to the rest of the world, inmate for 168 hours and 15 minutes.

It all started to go a bit pear shaped (like my bottom) about 21 hours ago, to be exact.

I was fidgeting with my knickers again, trying to get comfortable in my regular seat by the window (seriously, a size 16 rump in size 8 pants is just not comfortable! Sitting down actually hurts!) Waiting for the start of another session of group therapy. I was sharing this information, and the contents of my badly packed suitcase (NOT A EUPHANISM!!) with the rest of my fellow inmates and they were all laughing at me…

No, hang on.

I mean laughing with me.

With me.

Right?

When the facilitator sauntered in, took a look around, and began attempting to quieten us down to prepare for the start of the session.

Yes. I told him about my knickers. (And explained perhaps this could be the reason why I hadn’t cried recently, they were obviously cutting off the circulation to my tear ducts.)

This didn’t even raise a smile. (Miserable git.)

I had supposed up until this point, I had been managing on a day-to-day basis pretty well. As far as I was concerned I was an A* student.

I wasn’t wallowing in my depression, I had let my walls down, or so I thought, I was talking in group about real honest issues, pushing out the odd tear, allowing people to witness me sad, grabbing tissues, blowing my nose and then lightening the mood for everybody and having a laugh before I left.

Surely this is what they want us to do? Surely this constitutes ‘working hard on ones trauma.’

Apparently not…

According to the Scouser/miserable git, nobody had seen me vulnerable.

Vulnerable is a big word in here. It means you are making actual progress, not just surface progress. (Does that make sense? Because it has taken me a week to figure it out.)

This is the only place in the world where telling somebody you are feeling fragile, or running to your room in a dramatic flood of tears gets you a pat on the back. (And all your weapons of self destruction removed.)

I argued with him until I was puce and exhausted.

‘I am being vulnerable. I am, I really am LOOK!’ I stopped talking, pointed at my eye and pushed out a tear, my legs bouncing up and down like a jumping bean on a pogo stick ‘Look I am, I really am!’

He cast a glance around the rest of the group; all seated silently in their semicircular placed red armchairs, declining to make eye contact and looking at best; uncomfortable.

‘What do you all think, other random inpatients with absolutely no identity? Have any of you seen Lexy Vulnerable?’

The answer was a resounding no.

Treacherous bastards!

I didn’t get it.

There was too much to laugh at in here, how could one not laugh? Is that what they meant? That I was to stop laughing?

On the Thursday morning I had arrived the weather was scorching, I had dropped Addison off at nursery and had nearly changed my mind and given up then.

I don’t need hospitalisation! We could go to the park.

As he waved goodbye to me with the usual ‘bouy bouy!’  I had turned towards to the door, tears coursing down my cheeks.

‘Are you Ok Lexy?’ the nursery lady had asked me, a funny look brewing on her face ‘he is only on a half day isn’t he? Are you picking him up in 3 hours?’ The 3 hours pronounced slowly as if to remind me to ‘get a grip.’

‘No’ I struggled to keep my emotions under some ordinance of control ‘his daddy will be picking him up and dropping him off for the foreseeable future.’

‘Ah right,’ she said, a look of delight passing across her (thick bint) features ‘are you going on holiday? How exciting? Somewhere nice?’

‘Actually I intend to spend the next two weeks on the set of ‘One flew over the cuckoo’s nest!’ did not seem an appropriate reply, so I just nodded and fled to the sound of Addison screaming and the nursery assistants shouting

‘Have a great time on your jollies! You deserve it! Addy will be fine! BYE NOW!! Don’t get burnt!!!!’

I was a shaking snotty and grotty mess by the time I finally arrived at my ‘holiday destination’ and was met on my arrival by a nurse called Samantha.

My legs were threatening to give way underneath me as I handed over my car keys and watched my bags disappear.

‘When do I get my car keys back?’ I asked, my heart racing.

‘How long is a piece of string?’ came the reply.

Eh?

168 hours later and I still can’t fathom this riposte.

My head was royally and firmly placed up my arse, which was why I didn’t push it any further, as she gently ushered me in to a poky side room just behind the huge reception desk, and began to explain the admittance procedures, of which I have no memory.

I do however; remember cheering up considerably as she began to ask me a serious of completely random and obscure questions.

‘What colour are my eyes?’

‘Pardon?’

What colour are my eyes?’

I lean forward to get a better look ‘Blue, why?’

‘What is the date today?’

‘The 11^th of June I think, why?’

‘Can you hear voices?’

‘Pardon?’ (Seriously starting to consider that she isn’t a nurse at all by this point, and is instead an escaped lunatic playing a joke on me.)

‘Can you hear voices?’

‘Yes.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes of course I can! I can hear your voice, I am replying to you. Look if this is some sort of joke then I don’t really need this…’

‘No I mean, can you hear voices in your head?’ She interrupts.

I rock back in surprise and bellow ‘GOD NO!’

‘Good. Who is prime minister?’

‘Is this some sort of test?’

‘Can you just answer the question please Lexy? Who is prime minister?’

Now that I fully understand that this is a test of some sort, my nerves kick in to overdrive.

I must pass this test! I must pass this exam! IT IS A REAL LIFE CRAZY TEST!

Who the hell is prime minister?

As per sodding usual in these situations, as my nerves kicked up to wharp speed, my mind emptied all useful information out, and I was left with a big fat blank.

‘Erm, I can’t remember but I think there are two of them. Some sort of collaboration, association, alliance, agreement, DAMN IT! What is the word?’

‘Coalition?’

‘Yes coalition!’ I shout, pointing in her face convincingly.

‘Can you remember their names?’

I couldn’t.

Complete. Mind. Blank.

‘No. But I usually can. Honest.’

She smiles kindly. ‘No problem.’

‘Can you recite the five times table please?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I am numerically dyslexic.’

‘Oh, ok.’ She sighs, noting something in the margin. (Probably ‘bullshitter.’)

‘What year is it?’

‘1999.’ I pronounce, shooting her a big confident smile.

‘Pardon?’

Oh god what did I just say?????

‘2009!’ I shout, quickly correcting the mistake and then falling over myself in the realization that I am still wrong ‘2010, shit! 2011! Sorry….’

‘That is ok.’ (Clearly it wasn’t.)

Her final question should have been ‘What is the capital of Peru?’

Now that I would have been able to answer.

I have been keeping that tiny morsel of information for a rainy day, crossword puzzle, IQ test, pub quiz or test like this, but the question, unfortunately has never materialised.

The remainder of the ‘assessment for mentalists’ did not improve much from that point, and I suppose in all honesty I have spent the majority of my time since then trying to convince the staff I am not in fact fully insane, just a bit sad.

Which is why it comes as a shock to me to hear the friends, colleagues and compadres I have met and been completely honest with, since I have been in here agree with the facilitator and state they haven’t seen me vulnerable.

‘So if I laugh I am not being Vulnerable?’ I ask Barry haughtily.

‘Lexy, who the hell are you? Really try to hear me now. Your laughter is a coping mechanism; you don’t have to tell jokes in here. It is ok to feel anything and everything you feel. People will laugh with you. Not at you, with you, because I know you must sometimes wonder about that…..’

I curl up in to a ball on my chair, my forehead resting on my knees.

‘… But we are here to listen to you. The you that has been forced in to hiding for the last 10 years, You can drop the walls. You are finally safe. And we will look after you.’

As the meaning of his words sank through the very many levels of my consciousness, like sand through an egg timer, the weight slowly lifted from my shoulders, the quiet settled on my heart and the tension vanished, muscle-by-muscle from my body.

The proper vulnerable tears started not long after.

What does one do with ones self when the coping mechanisms you have learnt to rely on are pulled down, joke by joke?

What does one do with ones self when the coping mechanisms you have learnt to lean on, become completely redundant?

What does one do with ones self when the coping mechanisms you have learnt to trust, can no longer be found?

I walk out of the room emotionally buggered and feeling very much like a frightened child.

Fear of the unknown.

I can just be.

Wonderful.

I can just be, who?

Counting crows blasts out from my Ipod, as I remain, feeling like a teenager, curled up in a tight ball on my bed. It is 3am but sleep has long since evaded me.

My eyes are open but I see nothing, lost in a world so far removed from the world I have been living in. An unrecognisable, unprotected world.

‘This circus is falling down on it’s knees, the big top is crumbling down… These trained conversations are passing me by, and I don’t have nothing to say…. you get what you pay for, but I just had no intention of living this way…’

It is like a packet of antibiotics, and mine have just kicked in.

Right?

It is like a packet of antibiotics and mine have just kicked in.

RIGHT?

*This post was brought to you by those awful demons over at Post-natal depression, who we would like to batter in to submission with a cricket bat. But are far too polite.

Who knows best? (Hey Dr…)

What is it you don’t seem to believe?
Why are you walking away with a smile on your face?
You think you have heard this all before don’t you?
You think you have seen this all before?
You think because you work here and I am only here for the first time,
You know best.

Why are you not doing any tests?
Can you hear my boy screaming?
You think it is normal with this type of thing?
You think you have seen this all before?
You think because you have seen 12 cases tonight, my son is just number 13.
You know best.

Why are we being sent home?
Why can’t they find him a bed?
You think I won’t come back tomorrow?
You think you have seen this all before?
You think because I am a first time mother I will walk away.
You know best.

Why am I telling you this story again?
Why isn’t it on the system?
You think nodding and pretending to care will be enough?
You think you have seen this all before?
You think assuring me he isn’t critical will get rid of us for good.
You know best.

Do you know how well I know my child?
Do you think I can’t see you rolling your eyes?
You think because of your PHD you know him better than I?
You think you have seen this all before?
You think using your fancy long words will stop me arguing his case?
Mummy knows best.

Why are you now suddenly alert?
Why are you whispering in hushed tones?
You no longer think these are just melodramatic tears?
You still think you have seen this all before?
Dare to tell me to leave without a blood test. We are going nowhere.
Mummy knows best.

Why are you rushing us back to the hospital?
Why are you now writing urgent letters
You think his weight loss is now worrying?
You think maybe it isn’t just a stomach bug?
You think you protected this little boy the best you could over the last 9 weeks?

No you didn’t.
But I still say thank you.
I still say thank you because finally you listened.

What I really mean is DAMN YOU.
DAMN YOU for making my son suffer unnecessarily due to your arrogance.
Your hypocritical oath means nothing to me.
You did not do your best.
Mummy knows best.

I watched my son suffer.
And I saw your arrogance.
But I still say thank you.
I say thank you because you finally listened.
Mummy knows best.

Don’t call me mummy, unless you mean it.
And don’t roll your eyes.
Because next time you do.
You may miss something.

I am his mother.
I know him better than your PHD ever will. 
But I still say thank you.
Because you finally listened.

———————————–

I need to let go of this anger now.
And focus on the positive.
Focus, as I always have, on my son’s health.

It is a Huge relief, it is nothing more sinister.
9 weeks of hell, caused by a dairy allergy.
It seems like nothing.
It really bloody was traumatic.

Thank you to my twit fam for keeping me sane, and for all your support.

Now help me again?!!?!?!

What the hell can I feed him?

Apparantely sausages are dairy?!?!  We are DOOMED, DOOMED I TELL THEE!! (… that’s The Irish one panicking there….)

Can you buy dairy free chocolate?
It’s just, he looks so cute covered in chocolate.
I can’t wait to see that shine in his eyes again.

Smuggle me a rock hammer.

 (Note; I wrote this in April 2010. Shortly after returning home from Hope prison. I mean, Hospital. )

There should be a bell, or passing out parade, or some sort of leaving doo for when you first step out of the hospital, on your own with your first born child in tow. There should, at the very least, be some sort of announcement! Lexy is leaving everybody! Let’s all give her a round of applause.

That sparkly, new, clean and empty car seat has been staring at me in the face for at least 4 months. I have been wondering, imagining, picturing and hugely looking forward to (and slightly dreading) having a baby to put in it. (Only dreading because I was a little scared. And because apparently, according to my single friend, having a baby means my life is over. I use the term friend, loosely here. Bitch.)

For the four days I have been stuck on the set of Girl interrupted meets Saw 10, the birth episode, I have all but given up hope of ever being able to bring him home. Not because he is poorly. No, I am very lucky, he is perfectly healthy, apart from the odd bit of jaundice. (And there was me thinking he had a lovely tan.) I only have myself and my easily torn anus and lady parts to blame, for why I have been held prisoner for an entire week. (Four days in some countries is a week ok?) I think I have been institutionalised, no, not think. I have been institutionalised. I am like Andy Dusfresne from Shawshank redemption, I am desperate to escape, I do not belong here! I am just an innocent mother, I have been wrongly accused by mother nature, of somebody who for some reason deserves internal tearing and blocked nipular ducts. 

How am I going to survive when I get out? How will I cope without morning rounds? (I will honestly miss 15 students, one midwife, a hairy doctor with a foreign accent and 2 nurses all gaping inside my flute while sighing and tutting. Honestly.) How will I cope without the gas and air? (They had to give it me after I caught the evil Russian doctor’s glasses with the heal of my massively swollen clodhopper. The gel was cold ok? It was an accident!) How will I cope without somebody poking at me with thermometers every half an hour? How will I sleep without the sudden thud of the metal bin by my bed every six minutes? How will Addison sleep without the constant bickering of breastfeeding vs. formula mums in the background? Or the 17 year old, (I am yet to lay eyes on, but who i will shortly see, as am about to stick my (now redundant) make up mirror round the curtain in true Andy Dusfresne style to get a peep!) who’s boyfriend hasn’t even seen her baby yet ‘and is fookin dead I tell ya! Ill lether him’ to lull him to sleep?

It’s going to be hard. Its going to be so quiet. There won’t be luke warm coffee on tap. Or random people bobbing their heads around the door before having a good stare and slowly losing all colour from
their faces before apologising and slowly backing out of the door, a whiter shade of pale. Even though I will clearly miss all of that, today is the day. Today I am being discharged.

However, as I am walking out of the hospital, it all feels a little underwhelming. I am leaving? Anybody notice that? I am taking the baby with me! Hello? Nobody care?

Where is my fan fare? Where is my police escort? Where are the paparazzi?

‘Lexy Dusfresne limped to freedom in spite of five hundred stitches poking out of her lady bits and many nights of stinky smelling foulness I can’t even imagine, or maybe I just don’t want to. Five hundred stitches, that’s the length of five football fields, just shy of half a mile.’

Ok so its not accurate. Or true. If it were true I am sure I would have been contacted by Guinness by now. Nobody’s arse is that long. But still, if Andy Dusfresne can have drama, why can’t I?

That’s much better than the truth.

Which was slipping and falling arse over tit, the minute my chubby boot clad, swollen ankle made first contact with snow. Landing fast and hard on my coccyx, tearing 2 anal stitches and being dragged, (carefully) kicking and screaming back in to the hospital to be repaired. Again. (That’s right. I said again.)

Not what I pictured during many nights of romantically staring at the empty car seat, picturing that first venture out in to the big bad world with my daughter.

But still, at least I didn’t have to crawl through a sewer.  I’m a bit claustraphobic.

Small mercies I suppose.