Beauty and the Buffoon.

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

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

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

I am all in a dither.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Try it if you don’t believe me.

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

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

I LOVE THE AMERICANS.

I should have been American in my opinion.

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

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

Michelle is the American ringing me today, you see.

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

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

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

A robot stuck on ‘demo mode English accents.’

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

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

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

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME!

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

She is organizing my wedding for me for goodness sake!

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

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

I was trying to bond.

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

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

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

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

(SQUIFFY? I meant nervous!!!)

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

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

Utterly farcical.

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

(I want some gas and air!)

It seems now is a more appropriate time.

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

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

It is an important conversation!!

The Irish one has chosen his song.

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

Eye of the Tiger.

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

But he is adamant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But mostly I want it to be me.

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

But so far my list just feels a bit crap!

None of my favourite songs seem to fit!

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

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

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

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

Resurrection. – Because I love Ian brown.

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

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

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

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

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

I just don’t know!

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

The very thought of that makes me incredibly uncomfortable!!

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

I need to take my medication.

I need Michelle to like me.

I need a drink!

I need to pick a darn song y’all!

I need to be from UTAHHHHHHH.

Help!

Oo Oo!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enough with the dog and sheep stuff already.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It must have been my crazy eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then I stop.

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

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

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

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

‘Don’t cry mummy, don’t cry!’

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

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

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

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

Cavalier.

I will not be broken again.

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

I will not experience this again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harrowing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It has.

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

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

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

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

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

I blame Starbucks entirely, for all of this.

All of it.

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

A 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. 

Is this the light? (Hope.)

I am in shock.

It is 2012 and I am 32 years old.

I have lost time, where have I been for the last 17 years?

I just woke up.

2001 was 11 years ago,

I am in shock.

1999 was 13 years ago.

I am sad.

Where have I been?

I have been lost, without even realising.

How could I have not realised I was missing?

How could I have not realised that despising yourself and your life, wasn’t normal?

How have I lived for 17 years without noticing life wasn’t how it should be?

Ashamed. Always ashamed.

I am grieving today, as my medication is once again tweaked and my last therapy session rings in my ears, echo’s in my soul.

I am grieving today, even though I feel almost, almost… bubbly.

I am grieving for my lost years.

I can feel the acute sadness deeply, sloshing about in my heart.

I am looking at photos, and staring at my eyes.

The pretence.

My broken eyes.

How could I have not noticed, not everybody was broken?

I want to look after myself, and I want to apologise… to me.

I remember my first meeting with James.

‘You are severely depressed’

‘No I am not.’ I had indignantly replied ‘Everyone is like me.’

I remember the slap in the face.

‘Are they?’

I remember the anger, and the shock… and the shock… aren’t they?

Where has the time gone?

How am I 32?

Why did I resist help for so long?

How could I be so comfortable feeling so undeserving?

Why did I resist medication for so long?

How could I not see I was suffering with an illness that needed treatment?

I am grieving for the 17 year old me.

But I am also,

I am also welcoming back the 17 year old me.

Ooo and she has a twinkle in her eye.

I like her.

We have some catching up to do.

It feels exciting.

And today, as well as grieving, I am full of hope.

It may disappear tonight, but right now? I have clarity, and it feels amazing.

I like the ‘right now.’

Do they still sell Diamond White?

It’s the 17 year old me’s favourite drink.

We are off to see Alanis Morissette on tuesday, me and her.

Do I get a second chance?

I am only 32.

I hope so.

Home is Where the Vomit is. *

‘Time waits for no man but true love lasts forever.’

Well, except when it doesn’t.

Because lets face it I am sure we have all ‘fallen in true love’  a few times, at some point.

You know, back in our histories, back when true love didn’t involve cleaning vomit out of our eyelashes at 3am, we must have all, at some point,  lay in our beds at the age of 19 or 13 or whatever and fantasized and Romancasized (and other words ending in ‘sized,’) about this ‘one true love’ we just met!!!

And we all also no doubt whittled away countless hours day dreaming happily and excitedly to ourselves before falling in to a contented sleep about this amazing ‘true love’ who we had totally ‘fallen for’ who we really believed was the dogs gingganggooli’s.

(Sorry. I could have just written the ‘dogs bollocks’, but I have been trying to get ging gang gooli’s in a post for so long now and I saw this as my opportunity. Go on… it’s ok. Sing the song! I am! Ging gang goooli goooli goooli gooli gooli, ging gang goo, ging gang goo!)

Because that’s what girls do!! It’s the whole fairytale thing!

‘This is it. This person is ‘the one! THIS is TRUE LOVE’ we surely have all smiled to ourselves excitedly in bed, picturing the wedding and the ring and, well usually I would think about how fabulous and drunken my hen party would be but whatever, this isn’t about me, this is about us, ‘this person is the one!!!’

Yes you.

Me and you. We have all done it.

Me as in the one writing this, and you as in the one reading it. Ok? Admit it. Even if it was Jason Donovan you were picturing, you pictured it. I know you did. You did? Right?

And now we, (us) can undoubtedly and inevitably look back on those failed flings and relationships and think ‘how did I not see back when I was with him that he had a penchant for, I don’t know, watching animals fornicate or something. (Seriously reader, you have been out with some right weirdo’s!!) How could I have not seen what an absolute Tool he was back when I first starting dating him?’ and we shudder and carry on washing up, changing a nappy, cleaning up sick bleary eyed or talking to the wall or something.

So the tagline for the film ‘Forever Young’ a 1992 classic starring Mel Gibson, (bear with me this will all make sense in a second) isn’t exactly true but whatever, I am willing to overlook that for the purpose of this post.

Have you ever felt homesick for a time that has passed?

Mel Gibson is a soldier or something, don’t quote me on that, and in this breath catching, stress popcorn eating film, he basically asks his friend to freeze him cos he thinks his girlfriend is dead. (As you do) Which his friend actually does for him (FYI- what kind of friend does that?? Why couldn’t he just, I don’t know, let him grieve at the pub or whatever? And seriously! Who has a person freezing machine handy anyway?! ‘Oh come in, make yourself at home! This is not a sunbed no! It’s my cryogenic coffin, just in case you fancy becoming an ice pop later!!’ I mean it is so bizarre but anyway.) What ends up happening (spoiler alert!) is that he wakes up forty years later in 1992 (which is such a coincidence cos that’s the year they made the film) and his whole world has zoomed on forty years and it turns out his girlfriend wasn’t even dead and they find each other, and well she turns in to a frog.  (That last bit may not be true but I didn’t want to ruin it for you if you hadn’t seen it.)

But basically the point I am making is, that is how I have felt for the last two weeks while I have been ‘home’ in Spain. (But without the dead girlfriend, the frog and the friend who wants to cryogenically freeze me. Because with friends like that, who needs enemies??)

I sat on my dad’s wall one night while I was there, staring at the coastline lit up by the clear night sky, legs dangling down on to the rocky mountain below, glass of wine in hand and feeling a bit well… melancholy.

The silence, as I sat there, drinking it all in, was only broken by the odd echo of a car horn in the distance and the ever present night time sound, the deep hum that gives away the baseline to a party that is no doubt happening somewhere without you.

It came as a shock to me right then, with the palm trees rustling and blowing in the wind beside me to my left, and the humid air dancing around my shoulders, that I had been homesick for a very long time.

It was overwhelming how acutely this speared through me.

I must (seriously!!!) be an idiot not to realise how homesick I have been. Why has this never come up in therapy? Had I blocked it out because it was just too painful? Or was I really, just a flipping idiot, and had not realised?

Every light, every car horn and every twinkle has a memory attached, but, but… it isn’t the same as it was…  everything has moved on, has changed, has evolved.

I pressed the side of my forehead against the cool air-conditioned car window as we weaved down strange roads during the daytime, roads, streets and alleyways, which I used to know and adore, like family.

Every corner had a memory attached, every smell made me inadvertently close my eyes, breath in and secretly smile to myself.

But when I would open my eyes, having seen and felt myself so vibrantly in the moments of the past, heartbreakingly, everything was different and I couldn’t recognise the place it now was.

Different school children running down the street, not my friends or their younger siblings, instead faces I would never know, could never have known, and would never recognise.

10 years have passed.

How could 10 years have passed?

My friends all grown up now, and with children who vomit on them at 3am, all of their own.

The flats where I lived, where I spent my happiest years, demolished. A Starbucks and a shopping center instead, stood majestically and polished in the place where I laid my head every night, and grew up.*

That night I sat on that bloody mountain (with my ever present glass of wine) and I re-lived the way it was.

I took in as many deep breaths as I could and I smiled.

I remembered the laughter (3 girls all squished on my moped piss drunk at the age of 14?) and I laughed.

I remembered the tears (1 of the 3 girls crashing my moped because she encountered a rock and didn’t know what to do – DRIVE OVER IT LAURA!) and I cried for the way it was, for the times I didn’t appreciate until right at that instant.

I remembered my home, when it was my home and I was sad. Sad that now people were drinking frozen Frappuccino’s in the exact place where we buried the dog. *

And maybe it was never as perfect as I remembered it, but if I could just go back and touch it, revisit it, for just one evening, I would.

My childhood. (The good bit.)

Because I miss it, and I am pretty sure that is how Mel Gibson must have felt when he woke up after 40 years of being a human choc-ice, and found out his girlfriend used to be a tadpole and he had made a stupid choice and missed all the bits in between. (Like the bit where she grew legs and hopped out of the pond.)

Before I licked the wine glass clean though, I caught sight of the stars.

And I smiled.

The stars were still exactly the same.

(Look reader, if you study astrology then you are probably dying to comment right now and tell me that they aren’t the same as they were 10 years ago, as we see them how they are five years ago or something, but I am asking you nicely not to ok? I need the stars to be the same SO JUST LET ME THINK THEY ARE THE DAMN SAME, OK?)

The stars, I noticed, were still EXACTLY THE SAME. Still winking mischievously at me, and cleverly reminding me that I can see them from where ever I am, at any time. (Obviously not in the mornings, but you know what I mean.) And that I carry my memories with me. And they can never be stolen. (Except maybe by dementia, but let’s just ignore that for the moment.)

The stars reminded me of one simple truth, and eased my pain.

Home, is now, and will forever more be, wherever Addison is.

And that is the future for us to carve.

And that, Dear reader is fine with me.

————————————————-

*Why does Addison only every vomit at 3 am?

*How cool is that??? A Starbucks where I used to live!!! Its destiny is what it is!!! I’m like Mel Gibson! Maybe true love doesn’t die?? MAYBE STARBUCKS IS MY TRUE LOVE!!! Oh my god!!! It’s a total sign!!!!

** Not Doodle. Doodle is alive and well. Just so you know I would never bury Doodle while he was still alive.  Well not totally anyway, having fun in the sandpit doesn’t count does it? DOES IT?

NightSwimming. (Me, Dave, and the cast of Chicago.)

She locked me in the toilet.

It was not fun.

Last night while staring with unbridled rage at the back of the Irish One’s innocent, unknowing and gently slumbering head, while trying unsuccessfully to get to sleep, my brain (which clearly hates me) seized the moment and escorted me on a not- so magical -mystery tour of my youth.

In all honesty I was seconds away from venomously flicking this bruise that currently lives on the back of the Irish Ones neck, such was my frustration and jealousy at his peaceful sleeping form (and in all honesty I hate that he swans off to play football, so it serves him right for getting a bruised neck, he’s lucky I haven’t punched it, its big enough to have it’s own name) so it was probably best that my attention was averted away by my brain (the brain that still clearly hates me) on to yet more memories I had long forgotten.

Insomnia at it’s best ladies and gentlemen.

Like he hasn’t been through enough, bless his little Leprechaun socks, my subconscious must have been thinking.

But ‘Thwack!’

Just imagine how great it would feel to flick it though!

Then I could totally pretend I had done it in my sleep, or even better! Just deny it ever happened at all, with a casual and groggy ‘what? You must have been dreaming honey but I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU WOKE ME UP!’

I could pretend I was in Chicago the musical and burst in to song! (You know! Like in the Cell Block Tango? ‘I DIDNT DO IT!’ I could sing,  ’He ran in to my finger! He ran in to my finger, 9 times!…’ actually forget that. That sounds a lot ruder than I wanted it to… we aren’t that kind of couple… I mean there have been times when I… you know what? Lets move on.)

Oooo just thinking about it is making me grin. (The musical…)

Ahhh nighttime frolics, how times have changed. (Ahem.)

Anyway.

Bruise flicking aside, I am actually, usually quite a nice person, honest.

This leaves me unsure at to why my brain decides to regularly torture me for hours on end, when I am ravenously desperate for sleep, with dragging me on silent but very painful journeys, jam packed with my biggest regrets, most embarrassing moments and greatest and most horrifying adrenalin pumping life memories.

Dave. Dave is what the bruise should be called.

Insomnia is too calm a word to describe not being able to sleep.

Who comes up with these names?

Maybe I should apply for a job doing that.

In honesty there is a fair few I would change.

Insomnia being the first, I would immediately change it to Headfucknia.

I would also change the spelling of diahhorea diahorrea diaherria diahorria, (case and point)! And change it to Bumburnsplateria.

Anyways.

I assume that this particularly high voltage memory came as a courtesy aperitif to what will no doubt be tonight’s action packed main course of fuel jammed adrenalin anxiety 4am deliberations.

On Sunday we are flying to Spain.

Those who know me, will know I hate flying almost as much as I hate Dave the bruise.

Yes, Dave suits him.

My house wont be empty though, for any would be amateur burglars out there, no it won’t be empty at all, it will be full of massive burly German Shot putters wearing lederhosen and weedy but clearly dangerous mafia types in trilby hats all smoking cigarettes and whispering about their collection of guns and knives and er, stuff. I am having these house sitters flown in from… well… Germany and Russia…. to er… protect all the valuable foot tearing toy trains and cars and… Shall we move on?

DON’T BURGLE MY HOUSE. Seriously, it’s not a healthy place for feet.

Anyway, during this particular memory, I was flying home to visit my father for his 50^th birthday.

I had glandular fever and was pissed off.

Not just because I had glandular fever but also because…no it was mainly because I was stuck on a plane and had bloody glandular fever.

Me feeling hopelessly dizzy, dopey and rough, of course meant this trip was bound to involve a hefty amount of embarrassment for me and of course, a dopey, ditzy, and not very apologetic flight attendant.

The very same flight attendant that ended up locking me in a tiny toilet coffin (did I say coffin? I meant… well… coffin) at 800 million feet above sea level.

As if being stuck on a fuselage attached to two enormous steel gasoline and match holders, cleverly designed to look like safe engines at that height wasn’t bad enough, I was now trapped in a cubicle with a loud swooshing hole that dropped the poop out.

‘I can’t get out!!’ I had screamed, upon hearing a lock clunk from the outside and dropping a big one.

I never lock toilet doors, just to be clear, on account of being incredibly anxious in small spaces thanks to being scarred for life by Virgin trains and their electronic door invention, which resulted in me being trapped in a shit stinking toilet from Manchester to Brighton for 7 hours (!!!) at the age of 25. (And if that wasn’t bad enough, I was on my way to visit a potential boyfriend at the time, And let me tell you, no amount of channel number 5 masks the stench of sweat, cheap bleach and condensed commuter poo. Marilyn Monroe clearly never traveled on a ding a long, or whatever those swinging trains are now called…)

Anyway, back to my memory.

I had immediately, still sat in the squatting and weeing position kicked the flat of my feet up on to the offending door, to check what I had just heard was in fact the sound of prison.

The door, much to my disappointment, and most likely the relief of the people sat in the first few crushingly tight rows, did not open.

‘Let me out!!’ I screamed jumping to my feet and banging on the door still mid wee but so much blood rushing to my ears I swear I may have blacked out momentarily.

With my voice having been ravaged by my aching glands, my breath coming out in raspy glandular spurts and with the wee running cold down to my ankles I tried not to cry  ‘I didn’t lock the door but now I can’t get out!!’ I howled.

‘I know!!’ what must have been the orange shiny faced flight attendant yelled back relatively calmly from behind the metal door, ‘I locked it for you. Twas left open.’

‘I know!’ I now shrieked trying to steady myself and banging my elbows off every available surface in the process, ‘I know!’

What felt like an eternity of turbulence passed and when nobody responded I began to hammer on the door again and tried to push it open with all the puny feverish strength I could muster.

‘I am agoraphobic!’ I begged pathetically loudly to 245 passengers ‘ please UNLOCK the door, unlock it, unlock it, oh please god unlock it!’

‘Your agoraphobic?’ came the female voice again ‘Well you should be alright in there then, it’s tiny.’ She sounded confused.

‘NO!’ I had shouted now at full force. ‘Let me out!!!!’

‘Just unlock the door.’ She had calmly whispered back in her Liverpudlian accent. ‘You’re being very loud. It is simple. Just unloccccchhhkkkk the door from the insiiiide.’

In an immediate whirlwind, I grasped at the lock, slid it to the unlock position and with the force of a highly steroidal midget body builder, burst out of the cubicle like a hot rat out of a saucepan.

A hot semi naked rat, out of a saucepan, that was also covered in urine and shaking like a shitting dog.

A hot semi-naked rat covered in urine and shaking like a shitting dog who had just inadvertently mooned, front bum and back bum, 75 rows of skint Malaga to Manchester holiday makers.

The bastards actually applauded.

Oh the shame.

‘AGORA-PHOBIC’ I had stuttered directly in to her face, trying desperately to salvage any pride that may have remained, while hurriedly trying to pull up my jeans and hide my face, as well as ignore the horrified gasps coming from the old man sat in seat 1A, who got so close at one point he nearly got a bite of my left cheek instead of his soggy salad, ‘is actually a fear of not being able to escape.’

‘Oh.’ She had retorted blankly ‘I thought it was a fear of open spaces. How do you get on in lifts then?’

I don’t really remember much from here as I actually did black out and was escorted off the plane and in to the arms of a mustached Spaniard supporting a first aid box (we landed first) but I do remember that air stewards face very well and so help me god if I ever see her again… (I’ll go bright red and wish for the ground to swallow me up whole.)

It really was as simple as that, one minute I had been lying in bed not flicking any bruises and the next minute… well I was still in bed but on the back of that memory my heart was pounding and I was literally curled under the duvet in shame.

Bloody insomnia.

Bloody glandular fever.

Bloody Virgin trains.

Oh I was curled up like a donut!

Not for long though.

I’m resilient; I soon went back to staring at but not flicking Dave and planning and stressing out about my wedding. (He hasn’t asked yet, but you know, I am sure he will! I am such a catch!)

On Sunday we go to Spain.

We are travelling back to my birthplace!!

(I wasn’t actually born there, I was actually born in Rochdale but that’s wholly beside the point, I should have been born in Spain and totally would have been too if it wasn’t for the fact my mum and dad lived in Rochdale at the time of my birth… )

I won’t be using the toilet on the flight unsurprisingly and plan on fashioning instead an adult size pair of pull ups out of a bandana and 25 Tena lady’s first thing Sunday morning right before I down 3 diazepam, 6 anti depressants and a bag of square crisps.

(The square crisps are just in case I never get to eat any again.)

I do realise this cocktail will undoubtedly ensure I miss Addison’s excitement at being so close to a plane and not being a drooling blob (he was 9 months last time) and I am sure, like his daddy (and Dave) he will love flying, but alas, it will be the only way I will make it through.

Wish the Irish one luck.

I won’t need it.

I will be off my face before we even leave terra firma.

I better apply for a passport for that bruise, as it’s probably going to spread somewhat.

God love Dave.

He’s part of the family.

(… And he’s got it coming…he’s got it coming…)

I love me a good musical.

Forgiveness, with Extra Cheese.

He punches me in the face repeatedly.

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

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

‘Shut up.’ He says firmly. ‘Shut up.’

I don’t matter.

****

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

It smells of last year. This makes me angry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

James coughs in to his balled up fist.

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

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

They are both waiting for me to speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘No’ I whisper. ‘I’m sorry.’

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

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

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

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

‘Try.’ James implores kindly.

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

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

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

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

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

She is beautiful and illuminated in her anger.

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

Two tears roll down my cheeks as I blink.

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

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

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

***

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

I matter.

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

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

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

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

You are my reason to fight.

You are perfect.

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

For the love of…

I am a good mummy. The best.

It’s a start.

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

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

What would you say to your bully? 

Catching the Egg.

When a priest in a Volkswagen blocked me in to an unmovable position in the car park last night, with nothing more than a raised eyebrow and a slight smirk, I knew it was time to drop the charade.

I took it as a sign from God himself. (Kind of.)

LEXY 1; VERSE 12.

‘It is time to pack up your fake smile in an old tin case (or something to that effect) and get the feck home so you can go to bed’

That’s the message that I heard anyway.

I ripped off my smile with a distressing amount of frustrated energy as I sat in my cold and dusty car, littered with empty fruit shoots and Starbucks cups waiting for that (grrr, must not swear in relation to holy man) holy man to buy his bag of chips, and allowed the real me to seep back in through my bones, like a hot drink working it’s way around my bloodstream.

My shoulders drooped; I rolled back my neck and breathed in to the silence a long and slow breath, a breath that in that silence belonged all to me, with no audience.

Here it comes, I thought to myself, feeling the floodgates open.

I am coming back.

For the past few days I have been conducting a social and personal experiment on myself.

‘The power of positive attitude.’ is a poster I am faced with each and every time I visit my GP.

Usually I walk past it and shoot it the middle finger, usually I march past it summoning all my remaining strength not to rip it off the wall, screw it up it to a tiny ball and jump up and down on it, usually when I trudge past it, my bags weighing me down, it makes me sad.

It reminds me of all the times I have been told to get a grip, to just smile more and to just be happy and then ‘you will be.’

Of all the times I have told myself, I am not normal, not worth it, useless.

A lack of understanding from those who you love, including myself, has been for me and probably always will be, like the most hurtful of shots fired from a weapon, which I could never recover from.

One of the biggest lessons I have learned from all of this therapy?

Realising it is ok for me not to be numb, that to have those mixed emotions, to feel angry and sad, with others, with myself, with the world, both at the same time is actually perfectly acceptable.

Just because I own the diagnosis ‘depression’ doesn’t mean I am not entitled to feel.

And hey, get this!

You are actually allowed to feel more than one feeling at a time! Who knew?

It is ok, to feel angry and sad, as an example, instead of feeling angry BUT sad.

(The ‘but’ negates the feeling prior to the latter. It takes away the importance of the first feeling, and in doing so, makes us feel like we shouldn’t be feeling it. Does that make sense? But hey!! We can feel many things all at the same time; no one says we cant, except perhaps ourselves, when we so effortlessly put ourselves down, with a great big ‘BUT.’)

‘Think positive and watch your life change.’ The poster screams at me.

This last time though, on my way to pick up my never ending subscription of medicine (or ‘meds’ as they say in the mentalist business) I paused directly in front of it and stared it down, like one of my demons.

I remember struggling to shrug my shoulders from the weight of the guilt, self hatred and confusion resting upon them but definitely attempting to, thinking ‘ok, as my 2^nd return to work in a two month period is looming in front of me, why not, I may as well try to be positive, it isn’t like I have anything left to lose, and as I am now struggling to control this depression again as it seems to once again be mauling me on a daily basis, I may as well give it a go.’

I thought that possibly if I hit it with the element of surprise for a change, instead of IT slamming me up against the wall, I could rid myself of the fear that had been growing up my mood like wild ivy since the week previous.

It worked for a while too.

Monday was a success in work, smile plastered on my over made up face and acting like a show puppet filled with coo’s and ooo’s and yeay’s! And slaps on the back and beams.

Tuesday was ok too as the show carried over. ‘Woohoo I ran out of petrol!’

The only truth in the act, being the overwhelming sense of love that every now and again, tugged at my heart strings as I watched my son tap dance to Thomas the tank engine. (It is the Irish gene I am sure.)

I feel it some days now you know, that sense of the future being exciting, that all these women kept going on about, right at the beginning.

Every now and again.

And that gives me hope.

By Wednesday, I thought I had beaten my diagnosis.

I really did.

I was all ready to ring the manufacturer of the poster and thank him (had to be a man) personally for his contribution to mental health.

Somewhere during the performance I had lost my heavy, down trodden and sodden suitcase containing all my self hatred, depressive thoughts and dark inner turmoil and yeah ok, the underlying murky water was ever present lapping at my feet, but it had become more like a puddle Addy tries to stick his tongue in, rather than a lake I have to rescue doodle from, and yeah I was exhausted from all the fakeness but hey! That isn’t important is it?

As long as I seem to be winning, thats all that matters!!

Could a positive attitude be working?

Then I met James for therapy.

I love Wednesdays because of James.

For the first time in my entire life I have an emotional safe zone.

As I type the words ‘emotional safe zone’ my stomach clenches up with the discomfort of it all, and I have to fight the urge not to stick my fingers down my throat and call myself pathetic.

To need somebody?

To trust somebody and for them to have told me they trust me?

Erghhhhhh makes me want to peel my skin off and set myself on fire.

I am actually physically shuddering.

‘Wow’ he exclaimed at seeing me bound in to the room, bounce in to the chair and shoot him with a grin I thought was sure to make him believe I was all better, and therefor re-confirm to me, that I was cured ‘That’s scary!’

I laughed at his insightfulness, but it was as hollow as my misguided recital.

Two weeks ago I glanced over at a piece of paper I shouldn’t have peeped at during an appointment with a consultant, and saw the words ‘Postnatal / Clinical depression’ scrawled in blue ink below my name.

I will be completely honest with you, the tears streaming down my face as I type this; it has knocked me for six.

I am little girl again, scared, looking for a leg to cling on to for protection from those evil words, words that make me feel like a failure, hoping to find nothing but the familiarity of an empty hardened gate post.

‘Feelings aren’t facts. You are not a failure. You will be ok. You are ok. Things are changing for you, you are learning, educating yourself about yourself, opening up and accepting new rules for living. Being kinder to yourself, recognizing the need for living in the moment, being proud of your achievements. Every little step is a new beginning Lexy.’

I am once again curled up in a ball at the sound of all this horrifying and unwanted, desperately needed but horrendous support.

But, this is the thing I notice, I am hearing it and allowing myself to be comforted by it.

The egg is no longer sliding off the glass.

Depression may still control me, and currently there may be nothing much I can do about it, except continue to fight, but control is always overpowered with knowledge.

Understanding is key.

Right?

The curtain came down on my performance as the rain hammered on the roof of my dustbin of a car and my beliefs of needing to win went up in flames.

It isn’t about winning against the illness; it is about treating myself thoughtfully, considerately and with care while I am experiencing dark times.

Treating myself the way I treat others, one moment at a time.

These dark times will not always be present, and it isn’t you will be ok, it is you are ok. In this moment.

And fear is good, fear is healthy, it keeps me fighting.

It isn’t a competition, it is my life, and I am about to start living it for me.

Maybe the vicar blocked me in on purpose to make me stop and take stock.

A positive attitude is all very well, if it serves a purpose, if it supports you and it feels honest, but not everybody can coast through life like the Duracell bunny, not all of the time.

LEXY 2; VERSE 13.

‘Do not swear at a holy man, he wanted chips AND you needed your wheels turning to bricks’ (or something to that effect.)

Does God rhyme? I should probably check that out.

Can I borrow a bible please?

I think I am finding some faith.

I am hopeful AND scared.

Passion is the Genesis of Genius.

I am a genius.

A genius wearing more colours today than is strictly necessary on account of having to get dressed in the dark, due to an electricity failure in the bedroom coupled with the fact that yesterday, in a moment of sheer madness I bought myself some new clothes and wanted to wear them all at the same time, in preparation for today’s therapy session, but a genius nevertheless.

There is something about a new top, or a new cardigan, or new trousers that really make me feel special. Yes I cant afford them, and yes I told the lady to forget the bag so the Irish one wouldn’t see me coming home weighed down by more credit card debt, but oh it is so worth it.

Wearing new clothes I feel, I don’t know, special, attractive, young and well…unburdened by the everyday humdrum of depression and the unrelenting routine of motherhood.

Do you know what I mean?

My new top meant I didn’t mind when I woke up to find the light switch had given up, the very thought of it sat there, waiting to be worn, motivated me to get dressed even though I couldn’t see what I was doing and once again, experienced the seemingly monthly inconvenience of bounding out of bed to the dulcet tones of my baby screeching, directly on to an upturned plug.

My new top closed it’s ears to me swearing at the Irish one and threatening, like one may do a teenager, to throw out his items if he didn’t pick them up!

(This year alone, I have stood on three upturned plugs. THREE. I will need surgery if it happens again. SURGERY!!!)

My new cardigan meant I didn’t mind when I let Doodle out and he wandered back in, while I was in the kitchen trying to find the coffee I finally remembered to buy, muddy footed and jumped straight on the sofa to eat Addison’s toast.

The thought of my new trousers, waiting patiently in the cupboard for the day when I eventually shed the last few muffins worth of top, did not however, keep  me focused on happiness, when I stepped in to the shower and found myself shin deep in used grubby and bitty Irish water.

My home is slowly falling to pieces, much like my mind, but unlike when I try and fix my faulty mind, I am able to think logically, unlike the man in my life, and rectify the wrong doing in a matter of moments.

The drain has been blocked in the bathtub for weeks. (Ok, so maybe not moments, but I got there in the end.)

Threatening to buy a plunger, call a plumber and buy some drain unblocker for weeks, I finally gave up on the Irish one and took matters in to my own capable and shaking hands. (I think my meds need tweaking. I am currently walking around shaking like an old Volvo going up a hill, and can literally do nothing about it.

‘Are you ok?’ The woman at starbucks asked me yesterday when she handed me my coffee and I proceeded to scatter it, like one would someone’s ashes, all over myself.

‘Yes’ I replied smiling and thinking on my feet ‘I’ve just had a shock that’s all’  which I thought was probably a better response than ‘Yeah it’s just the concoction of anti-psychotic med’s I am taking to stop me going completely mad that make me shake.’

Turns out I should have been honest.

‘Oh no what happened?’ she asked nosily.

And of course I had to make something up on the spot.

‘I thought someone had stolen my son, but then realised they hadn’t.’

First thing I could think of. (Which does actually happen on occasion though in fairness. Again it is the meds.)

‘OH my god!’ she gushed ‘Where is he?’

‘At home with his dad’ and I shrugged.

I left her looking confused and fled. She may think I am an idiot, but she is completely unawares of my genius status, so I will let her off.)

Sometimes though, I do wonder why my brain doesn’t step in and gag my mouth in times like this, but genius that I am, I can only cope with so much.

Wearing my new top, my new cardi and promising my new trousers I would see them soon, I took drastic action on the plughole.

There are only so many times I can listen to ‘I promise to fix it tommorrow’ off himself, especially when I am knee deep in his Gak so I seized the hoover nozzle off the Dyson, and yes I know the correct term is vacuum but it’s a hoover ok? Just like a tampon will always be a Tampax to me, even if it isn’t. Life is too short to split hairs, which actually brings me to my point nicely, and stuck it over the plughole.

With a whoosh and a phaaalunk 7 years worth of hair (sorry if you are eating right now) was sucked up by the magic flute and hey presto!! The drain was unblocked.

Now I know this isn’t an inspiring tale of recovery or a poignant tale of woe but still, it felt important enough to share. (I am in therapy in an hour, so I promise the next one will be better.)

As I looked down at the ‘hoover’ now grumbling and whining, sodden and severely pissed off at being used as a make shift plumber, horns and trumpets started celebrating my ingenious plan.

The water ran down that plug hole like horses galloping towards a finish line at the grand national!

I was victorious.

Too too too toooot!!!

And yes ok, now the hoover smells like something died in it, and yes maybe with it being an electrical item it probably wasn’t the best idea to plunge it in to a bath of water but hey! My hairy shins are now free from second hand water, and that feels marvellous!

I do sometimes wonder about the need for the Irish one.

If Doodle could get a job, I would probably marry him, to be honest.

Because my man, can do a job…eventually, if he has all the right equipment, and the right light, the universe is pulling in the right direction and it is a Tuesday in May, but sometimes, just sometimes, it isn’t worth the wait.

Especially when one owns a Dyson.

If you want a job doing?

Get me round.

I am a genius.

Anyway, I am off to therapy… and then I need to call an electrician about the bedroom lights… or do I?

Hmmmm.

Life in Slow Motion.

Shopping I must shop today, I need sponges and cloths, the one on the sink has been there since New Kids on the Block were at number 1. It is manky. Which reminds me I need to buy some drain un-blocker too. The plug is filled with hair. Gross. I wonder if I will ever stop malting, which reminds me I need to hoover the dog hair off the sofa before the Irish One gets home tomorrow night or he will go mad. Oh we need fish too. I must make Addison’s lunch from fresh tomorrow, he will eat fish, he always does, yes that is a good idea, it will need to be put on at eleven while he naps, or should that be half eleven, what if it goes cold while he is still asleep? You know people don’t like you right? They think you are a terrible mother.

Maybe I should just cook it when he wakes up? But what if he climbs on the TV stand while I am in the kitchen and knocks it over on himself? No I will cook it while he sleeps then wake him up and he can eat. If he is tired he could sleep again this afternoon while I do some writing. If they liked you, you would feel it. I am sure they call you things behind your back; it is because you are worthless.  

Shit, when will we go to the shops? I need sponges and cloths, oh and washing up liquid and nappies. Damn I will need to go to the bank first. Right so if I wake Addison up and give him is lunch then we can go to the bank and then I can go to the supermarket. Nobody will ever love you enough Lexy you are hard work.

Right but before all of that I need to make him breakfast and I need to wash up and let the dog out. What time is it? Oh. 3am. I really should get some sleep. Ok I will try and sleep. Don’t forget the sponges tomorrow. Maybe you should get out of bed and write it down in case you forget…you are pathetic.

Oh and drain un-blocker! Do not forget that, and make sure you hoover…shit the shopping! I went to Asda before! How did I forget that? Because you are an idiot…

It is happening again.

I am starting to run too hard, too fast and for too long.

When I say I am staring to run, I don’t mean in the literal sense because I do not run and never will. Occasionally I will jog, but only if I am jogging towards someone holding a chocolate bar, or maybe after the pizza deliveryman if he forgot the sweet chilli sauce, but running has never been my thing and I am not ashamed to admit it.

What I actually mean is, I can appreciate when I am making myself ill again by never stopping for breath, by driving through the Starbucks ‘Drive thru’, paying and leaving without the coffee, and forgetting to smile at the realisation.

I suffer with depression, this much is true but sometimes I forget I can do things to help myself.

I start to fall in to old behavioral patterns, and one by one I start leaving my marbles behind, losing them, leaving them and most disturbingly, abusing myself instead of coming to my own rescue.

A while back, when my sheets were starched white, a magpie was my best friend and a doctor would pop his head in on me to check I wasn’t dead every fifteen minutes, I learnt a lot about recognizing the signs of illness, and how to live in the moment.

‘Take one day at a time,’ is a phrase I have heard countless times over the last few months, from health professionals, friends and family. In fact I have heard it so often, I sometimes wonder if Addison will whisper it to me as his first full sentence.

And although I nod and murmur my agreement while shooting a Wallace and Grommit type grin back, I don’t really listen, when perhaps I should be doing.

Before being admitted in to hospital I would say I didn’t understand or know how to ‘live in the moment’, I thought it was just an annoying cliché.

Since being hospitalized I would probably say I do know how to, but usually forget the importance and the need for doing so.

How can I only think about today when next Tuesday I am going to the dentist? (and we all know what happened last time!)

How can I only think of today when I have to find the money to pay nursery on Wednesday?

How can I only live in this moment right now, when I have to put Addison’s lunch on in the next hour?

I need to plan.

Life is too fast and too important; there are too many things to think about, to worry about, to fixate on, to only think of today, to only think of this moment right now.

There is no time to slow down.

Getting everything done matters more.

Doesn’t it?

On Monday evening I left my lifeline, my laptop, in it’s newly bought leather case, sat on the top of my car for two hours in the middle of Salford, while I took all my other belongings (my son and his paraphernalia) in to the house to commence the regimented bedtime routine.  I didn’t realise that this is where my life line, my laptop, had been sitting like a time bomb, waiting to be stolen until 8pm when I sat down to write and remembered with a minor heart attack the last time I had had it.

It was still there.

On Tuesday I left the gas on the hob, crackling and bursting away, turned on full for an hour after warming up ready brek. I only realised after I had started to feel drowsy and had wandered in to the kitchen to get a glass of water. After feeling my legs go weak with relief that I had caught it just in time, I ran with a pounding heart, and opened every window in the house.

Thank god Addison was in nursery.

On Wednesday I was so anxious about getting everything done I needed to get done, I was in Asda with my belongings (my son and all his paraphernalia) by 6.30 am. I woke him up to take him.

After no sleep.

On Thursday and Friday I forgot to eat. I wasn’t hungry. At least, I don’t remember feeling hungry.

I probably wasn’t.

On Saturday I dropped my belongings (my son and all his paraphernalia) off with my mum while I went to a wedding. My mum called not long after and said she wanted to take Addison to the on-call Dr again as his temperature was high again, but not to worry, it was just for her peace of mind. I raced there, in my dress, insisting they wait for me and I went with them.

Returning a couple of hours later, prescription in hand and wanting to get my exhausted belongings (my son and his paraphernalia) in to my own car, and go home, I couldn’t find my car keys. The car keys that also had my house keys attached to them. After an hour of searching and panicking, my mum reminded me ‘I saw you put them on top of the car when you strapped Addy in before we left for the Dr’s, did you pick them up again?’

No I hadn’t.

Miraculously though, they were still there, sat on top of her car, inexplicably wedged under the roof rack.  We had driven on the motorway, we had been to Wythenshaw hospital, got lost, taken at least four U turns, and we had driven home on the motorway and yet, there they still were. Heart pounding, knowing the Irish one was away with his keys and Doodle could have been imprisoned at home, I got in the car and thanked whoever it was, who was watching over me.

I also acknowledged that maybe; just maybe, it was time to slow down.

But didn’t…

On Sunday, struggling to function, the depression having seen it’s opening and thrust itself in, an uninvited guest at the party, I lost my cash card. And 2 credit cards. I shouted at Addison over nothing. I made him cry. Over nothing. I self harmed because I shouted at Addison over nothing and more so than ever before, I wanted to give up. I am a terrible mother, a failure. I researched brain tumors in my spare time while Addison slept, and convinced myself I had one. As if I wasn’t anxious enough. I thought a lot about dying. I hated everybody. We went to Asda and did a shop. A shop I only remembered was in the boot of my car at 3 o’clock this morning.

After eating nothing for dinner.

Again.

When I was first in hospital, I thought I wasn’t depressed because I got out of bed everyday and got on with my day. I kept telling the doctors I was just a drama queen. I can laugh. I can organize. I am not depressed.

‘You are depressed.’

‘No I am not!’

‘What makes you think you aren’t?’

‘I get out of bed everyday!’

‘Do you sometimes think about dying?’

‘Doesn’t everybody?’

‘No.’

‘Oh’

‘Do you ever stop?’

‘Not really.’

‘What do you enjoy doing?’

‘Not much.’

‘Do you ever stop?’

‘No. There is no time to.’

‘It is critical that you stop.’

Like plunging head first in to very cold water, I am reminded once again of those words.

My illness is one I have fought long and hard with.

So why am I giving up now? Why am I ignoring all the advice now?

I am not. I will not.

It is time to slow down again.

Before something catastrophic happens.

When I am playing with my son, I have to put my phone down, remind myself that in an hour, I will deal with that hour, but right now, we are playing. The fish will cook. The day will go on.

When I am making dinner I have to be making dinner.

When I am meant to be sleeping I need to be sleeping.

The days will take care of themselves.

No more multitasking for now.

It is too dangerous, for my belongings (my son and all his paraphernalia) and for my mental health.

And that includes you, voice in my head.

(Voice, not voices!)

No more multi-tasking for now.

One thing at a time.

But what about picking the Irish one up from the airport, you need petrol, you’ll need to put your foot down, you’ll be ok doing 80, make sure you pick Addison up, you need to feed the dog, and have a shower, you need to wash, the Irish One will think you are stinky, nobody likes you stinky…

Shut up.

*And whoever you are, that has been looking after and out for me up there, as if I didn’t know; I am listening, and I owe you one. I am listening. I love you and miss you everyday. A hundred times, thank you. x