Marbles. Scattered. Everywhere…

My therapist behaved like a goat today.

I am not sure I can be much clearer than that to be honest.

It isn’t a metaphor.

I was sitting on his plushy three seater purple sofa, my legs curled up underneath me, my phone on silent beside me, the summer rain angrily pounding the window behind me, and absentmindedly ploughing through my troubles, all inside of me.

The past few weeks there have been issues.

I feel as if on occasion, I have been forced to eat and chew through, and swallow and stomach a lot of different people’s dinner, and because I have been filling up and feeling nauseous and bloated from eating all of their food, there has been no room for mine, and no inclination for me, to eat my own.

When I have sat down to eat mine, while listening to some music, putting a wash on, playing Thomas the Tank engine and trying to decipher the council tax bill, I have felt so full and sick I have just ignored it.

Left it on the side to go moldy and sweaty. (God I hate sweaty food, don’t you?)

I have been ignoring the smell, ignoring the flies, the warning signs, and continuing to finish the dinner of others.

That is a metaphor. Obviously.

You see, I am currently trying to lose weight, so of course all I can think of is food.

But do you understand what I mean?

‘I understand, Lexy.’ James my therapist responds for the first time as a human and not as a farmyard animal.

I paused for a second at the sound of him speaking but when my phone flashed on the table beside me; I glanced guiltily towards it, trying to scope who had text me without it being obvious, when out of the silence, I heard it properly again.

He was baaing at me.

Like a goat.

Again.

He is quite sexy my therapist. He is what I would describe in this setting as a sexy, caring, cute, kind hearted, warm eyed and precious… goat. He sits, each time I see him, unraveled in front of me in his armchair, waiting and selflessly willing to help me ‘eat my dinner.’

Seriously. Cant. Stop. Thinking. Of. Food.

I am not sure what the point he was making was, although at some point I am sure I asked, I cant actually remember, but everyone has their own stuff don’t they? I didn’t want to press it, in case he got upset.

Maybe he was grieving for a long lost dead goat or something, I don’t know.

Like I say, I can’t remember.

I don’t remember much at the moment.

It worries me.

It’s like stuff is falling out of my head.

I don’t mean long ago memories and the likes either.

No.

I am not actually forgetting the stuff I would LOVE to forget.

Remember falling off a table headfirst in to the crotch of your best friend’s dad when you were drunk, and shouldn’t have been, on your 16^th birthday? Check.

Remember what letter comes after K in the alphabet? Um….

I’m losing the mundane stuff and none of the stuff that still makes me go red!!! (Sorry Mr. Torrebadella.)

I now, am unable to spell ‘house’ without spell check (haus) and on Friday last week I was interviewing someone for my ‘aunty Janice’ (she needs an assistant for her new business) and forgot their name at least 34 times during the half an hour slot.

I was already mortified but when he went to leave I was quietly confident I finally had it nailed and merrily shouted ‘goodbye Steve!’ as he left.

And do you know what I heard him mutter under his breath?

‘Its Fucking Dave, you moron!’

Oh the shame.

I am a moron.

I do remember however, that when I was sectioned ‘they’ mentioned memory loss as all being part of depression, but to be honest, I struggle with that.

I don’t like to think depression could rob me of anymore than it already has.

The word depression is really starting to scare me.

In a big way.

I guess I am only now beginning to fully understand the consequences and the potential physical harm of constantly fighting and living with this illness myself.

It is frightening me.

It is just so foreboding and intimidating.

Anyway… So when I remembered this, I did what I always do with stuff that scares me (phone bills, the gas man, eggs….) I locked it in the cupboard marked ‘THINK ABOUT IT SOME TIME NEXT NEVER’ and instead decided to take matters in to my own hands, and diagnose myself, by of course typing Memory Loss in to Google.

The sensible thing to do.

I thought if I could prove it wasn’t depression, I would have nothing to be scared of.

Turns out that instead of depression, I potentially now have either, Aids, south American worms living in my inner ear, Dementia, Alzheimer’s or the EBOLA VIRUS!

It was at this point and with a huge sigh of relief that I unlocked the ‘THINK ABOUT IT SOME TIME NEXT NEVER’ cupboard (letting out the gas man too- poor bloke was starving) and felt slightly relieved that I probably wasn’t going to shit out my gall bladder any time soon and that it probably was depression causing my memory loss.

Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.

‘What makes you believe you are forgetting things Lexy?’

(Therapist rule number one – NEVER ASK WHY, ALWAYS; WHAT WHO OR WHERE. WHY IS UNANSWERABLE!!!)

I shift in my seat, secretly pleased he has stopped behaving like a goat and beginning to wonder if I had imagined the whole thing. I then begin to panic about what else I may have imagined,  and after pondering whether the Irish one actually did do the washing up this morning or if I just imagined it,  I then come to and realise, shit! He has asked me something!!!

‘What?’ I whisper.

‘What? Are you Joking?’ He doesn’t look amused.

‘What?’ By now I am alarmed.

He sighs. ‘You have an irritating way of making a point, I asked what is it that is making you think you are forgetting things!’

It was at this point I started to cry.

It was as if a damn had burst.

I was gutted, and sad, and lost and mostly scared.

‘Probably because I have the Ebola Virus or Aids, or lots of tiny worms living in my ….’ I burst out between sobs. ‘Or maybe, maybe I am losing my memory because this depression is actually sending me mad.  I am scared James, I am so scared. This illness terrifies me James. I feel like it has the power to steal me from myself. Sometimes all I hear in my head are monsters. The noise is so loud. Louder and louder. Everybody’s voices, everybody’s troubles, my own voices, my own self hatred, my mother, my father, I even hear Doodle barking!’

I pause and reach for a tissue. My hand shaking. The worst was still to come.

‘Yesterday I made Addy dinner and forgot to feed it him. He must have been starving! I only realised when I had put him to bed. He had his desert, and his bottle and I was praising him for eating all his dinner, but he didn’t eat it! It was sat by the sink!’

I shake with guilt and fear.

He waits until I have finished.

And.

Then.

The bastard… BAA’S AT ME AGAIN!!!!

Snot flies down my noes as I explode with laughter, all over his rug. (Sorry again Mr. Torrebadella.)

‘You have to slow down. I am putting you back on one thing at a time. You have to be able to eat your own dinner. Try to politely refuse everybody else’s issues. When it gets too much, apologise and walk away…’

‘But then I feel badly for doing so! It is a never ending cycle!’ I interrupt, frustrated ‘then my brain tells me I don’t care, or I am not a nice person, or that they hate me!’

‘Homework.’ He responds. ‘In the moment.’

‘This week you are not allowed to multi-task at all. AT ALL. If you are playing with Addison, put your phone down. If you are washing up, wash up. Dance, please try to enjoy the feeling of doing one thing at a time.

I want you to slow down. Your brain my speed up at first, but eventually it will slow down. Do you hear me? ONE THING AT A TIME. Slow down.’

‘Ok’ I sniffled, and after spending at least 20 minutes looking for the car, I finally set off home.

The problem is, I don’t know how to do one thing at a time anymore.

I am a mother.

But I think it may be important to at least try.

Which is why I am going to stop typing while I eat this cake.

MMMM cake.

Anyway, what was I saying?

Oh that’s right!

My therapist baa’s like a goat at me, and I can’t remember why!

Maybe he has the Ebola virus.*

*Or tiny mexican worms in his ears.

Oh my god!!! I can’t believe I just ate CAKE!!! I am on a diet!!!!!!!!!

I’m gonna run away for a bit now. (But i mean it.)

I still have a long way to go I know this.

I’m having a little trouble at the moment distinguishing dreams from real life – so I don’t for one-second feel ‘cured.’

(Mental note to self; Alanis Morissette isn’t your best friend who takes you abroad on a tour bus and you aren’t a robot either just FYI. Maybe discuss lowering the dosage of your meds at your next consult yeah?? )

But,

BUT,

A year ago yesterday, yesterday, my god it only feels like yesterday, I was being pushed against my will, sobbing, ruined, derelict and smashed in to a million pieces, through the big double doors of a facility for the mentally ill.

I was terrified.

I was alone and I was crushed.

I was trapped in my brain and I didn’t speak the language.

But,

Today?

A year on from trying to kill myself over a Mcflurry?

I giggled for no reason.

I just giggled.

And caught myself….

….Aaaaaaand was totally overwhelmed by it.

And then obviously, being a girly type girl, I cried cos I giggled for no reason, and then someone asked me why I was crying and I obviously tried to explain I was crying because I was giggling for no reason and so then, when I think about it, they just kind of walked away saying ‘oookkkkaaaaayyyyy.’

But that’s the point, i was okay! Know what I mean? Of course you do, cos you are all as mental as I am. (Right?)

I giggled for no reason.

I was thinking about my life.

And I giggled.

Like naturally.

Not forced.

So, it got me to thinking about what got me here, to the giggling for no reason part of my life. (That may not last but who cares, I enjoyed it!)

And I realised, and felt the need to… well…

I wanted to say thank you.

Thank you,

You are all as mad as a bag of frogs and I wanted to say thank you.

It’s a year ago yesterday so it felt appropriate and timely to genuinely express my honest to god most meant, most heartfelt appreciation and thanks,

For every hug,

For every text message,

For every single statistic, for each one made me smile,

For every comment you left on my blog,

And for every tweet,

For every re-tweet,

For every Dm,

For every person that has sent me hope, and shared with me, a bit of themselves.

You saved my life.

You brought me back from the brink.

You made me feel loved.

Some of you leave comments saying thank you to me, and that i’m an inspiration, but you are wrong - you all are.

I’m just telling my story, but you keep me going.

All of you. I mean that.

Some of you my best friends who i know, and some who i have never met.

Madness.

Thank you.

I mean it.

Today I fucking giggled for no reason!

(And I like to think it wasn’t med related!)

Is this cheesy? I don’t care.

I just wanted to tell you, so that you know, how much you all mean to me and ok, ill probably vanish now cos ill wake up in the morning with a ‘thank you hangover’ and curl in embarrassment about the fact that I showed how much you actually all mean to me, and so now  in my mind you’ll probably never ever come back but i mean it and im not drunk, so I’ve said it now and Im not taking it back.

I mean it.

And I don’t mean to be big headed or annoying I just wanted to say thanks.

PS – And just FYI, if she knew me she would totally want to be my friend, cos then if she was my friend she would have you as friends and although you are all certified as crazy, I am lucky to have you and she would be too.

PPS- I’m talking about Alanis (not the robot, who was also female. Obviously.) 

Jubilee Memory’s. (Who the hell is Edward?)

‘Why would a gorilla be on the boat with the queen?’

He plonks himself down on the sofa in front of where Addison and I are now attempting to re-create the leaning tower of pizza out of mega blocks, well I am, Addison has now grown bored and has taken to throwing them at Doodle instead, and stares at me with an odd look.

The television is blaring out the jubilee celebrations in the background, while Doodle tries to shimmy up my jumper in a desperate bid to get away from the plastic pellet attack currently taking place, and outside as ever the rain is pouring.

‘Pardon?’ I ask him confused from my crossed legged position in mini Italy. (Thinking about it now, I totally should have been building Buckingham Palace. Damn it. Nevermind…)

‘Eh?’ he responds tiredly rubbing his eyes ‘which bit? Are we going to the supermarket at some point?’

‘All of it.’ I yawn, ‘who said anything about a gorilla? And yes I suppose we are.’

‘You did. When?’

‘What? When? I don’t know, in a bit. I’m not even dressed.’

‘Just then!’ he half shouts growing irritated by the noise Doodle is now emitting as Addison pins him down and tries to shove a single red block where a single red block should never be shoved.

‘Addison Stop it!’ he yells, as Addison being Addison jumps up and tries to look innocent, this child has an unhealthy fascination with trying to shove things in Doodle’s behind ‘you JUST asked me why there is a gorilla on the boat with the queen.’

‘Camilla.’ I spell out slowly at the realisation of his dimwitted half heard error, but kind of wishing I had asked him that and imaging how random that would have been, before prizing the mega block from my sons hand and batting Doodle away from where he is now trying to reverse in to my mouth backwards to escape the torture. ‘I asked you if that was CAMILLA on the boat with the queen. Doodle get down!’ I admonish. ‘My mouth is not a place for you to hide!’

‘Ah. Yes I suppose it would have been, she is married to Edward now isn’t she? A gorilla would have been more interesting to watch though.’

‘True.’ I relent nodding. ‘So are we going to the supermarket? Wait, Edward? Who is Edward?’

‘TRAIN SHOP, TRAIN SHOP AND SAUSAGES?’ Addison climbs on my knee, shouts this in my face and bites my nose. While I am trying to detangle myself from his tiny teeth, The Irish one grabs the remote from beside me on the floor.

‘The queen’s son.’ He says pointing the remote at the telly and starting to flick through the channels ‘is there nothing else on apart from jubilee stuff?’

‘Edward isn’t the queen’s son.’ I respond trying to stand up, planning on going and getting dressed so we can go to the supermarket but being severely hindered by the two year old I seem to be wearing like a necklace.

‘Yes he is. He’s the one married to Camilla, you know, the one who used to be married to Diana but then ran off with Camilla after she died.’

I look at him confused and try to respond, even though I now have ten fingers in my mouth, none of which belong to me.

‘That’s Charles.’ I say, my voice muffled ‘And I’m not sure they ran off. She is on the boat with the queen isn’t she? Are you going to get dressed so we can go out? We need bread and sausages. We could walk?’

Doodle jumps at the sound of the word ‘walk’ directly on to The Irish One’s knee and begins licking his face. He spits, laughs, wipes his mouth and pushes him down ‘we don’t. I got some yesterday. No let’s drive. So who is the queen’s husband then? Is that Edward?’

I limp in to the hallway dragging Addison, who now, like a limpet, is clinging to my leg and singing ‘Incy wincy Spider’ at top volume and shout that the queens husband is ‘Phillip, I think. Do I have to drive? We only need juice!’

‘Is he the one with the bladder infection?’ He responds from behind me, also coming to get dressed. ‘We don’t need juice. I got some yesterday.’

‘I don’t know?!’ I laugh while tearing Addison off my leg and pulling my jeans on. ‘How would I know? How do you even know that?’

‘Doodle Get down!!’ we both shout in unison as Doodle jumps on the bed, and attempts to pin Addison down.

‘He text me.’ He responds smugly, shimmying off to the bathroom with a grin. ‘We are pretty close are Phil and I. We are best buds.’

‘Addison go brush your teeth’ I smile, sending him after his mad daddy.

‘Well maybe you should ask him who Edward is then!’ I laugh, running a brush through my hair, ‘and if that was Camilla on the boat!’

He sticks his head around the bedroom door and winks.

‘Why would there be a gorilla on the boat?’

I laugh and start the search for my boots.

‘TRAIN SHOP TRAIN SHOP TRAIN SHOP!’ Addison shouts, spitting tooth paste everywhere. ‘TRAIN SHOP WITH EDWARD AND A GORILLA!’

‘Addison, bathroom!’ We both command simultaneously as Doodle comes trotting in with his lead hanging  out of his mouth and trips Addison up. (Revenge. No doubt about it.)

‘So who is Edward?’ I think momentarily before starting the search for my car keys.

It was only when we got to the supermarket that we realised we didn’t actually need anything and we had left the telly on, and I still didn’t know who Edward was. By now, however, the conversation had moved on to crowns and trucks, vespa’s and pork pies. It was a very british conversation.

So what did we buy?

3 union Jack flags, some cake and a bottle of coke. (It was the only british food we all could agree on. Is coke even british? Anyway…)

We then returned to the flat, waved our flags, sat on the sofa, ate some cake,  drank our coke and watched… Toy story.

Proud to all be british, although I may need to brush up on my knowledge before Addison starts school and I need to know this stuff.

Having grown up in Spain, see, I was only taught about the spanish Monarchy. (That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it, but don’t ask me about the Spanish Monarchy because… erm… ill be too busy waving my british flag to answer!’)

Long live the queen! (Who was in fact talking to CAMILLA on the boat, I think. Well. I’m not sure they spoke, but I’m pretty sure she was there. Wasn’t Kate’s dress nice?)

Happy Jubilee.

What would your Jubilee memory be?

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

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

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

No matter how desperately I crave for them to be.

The setting of my therapy has changed.

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

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

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

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

It takes me a little longer to trust.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Oooo James, BOOOOOOO!’

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

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

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

I didn’t want to talk about relationships today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I sense his pain.

I hear his core beliefs echoed in my own.

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

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

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

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

Others,

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

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

Some days I wish I could just drift away.

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

I pick a fight with him instead.

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

He smiles from beneath his slow shock.

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

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

He is always there for me.

I talk to him.

He listens.

I cry to him.

He cares.

I ask for help.

He helps.

I tell him how evil I feel.

He doesn’t judge.

He gets to the root of me.

He pisses me off.

He sets boundaries and he offers me advice.

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

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

I owe him a lot.

My THERAPIST who gives me THERAPY.

How in the hell can therapy not exist???

God he is so annoying.

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

A Lifestyle Choice? (Depression for Dummies.)

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

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

I know I am very lucky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I know I need to realise I am lucky.

I know this.

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

I know you think I am selfish.

I feel selfish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

All of us.

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

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

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

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

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

Who would choose to die, over living?

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

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

Nobody would choose this.

Depression is an illness. Not a choice.

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

End the stigma.

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.

Music as Therapy.

I used to listen to music all the time.

Back when I was young, free, single and happy (read; drunk) turning the stereo on while searching through a huge pile of cd’s with one hand, and grabbing my glasses and a pint of water with the other, was all part of my very brief morning routine.

The music would go on before the shower did.

Before the kettle did.

Before the make up would.

And usually before I could actually see what I would be listening to.

The music would usually be on before I was even fully conscious.

Music was my therapy.

The therapy I didn’t even realise I was getting, free of charge, from my top of the line, mega blaster, sat in the corner of my bedroom. (I do miss that chunky thing. Sometimes my iPod just doesn’t cut it. I miss slamming he cd holder down Wham! Waiting for the whirr of the Cd… Ahhh the good old days. IPod’s are just so delicate… but anyway.)

I would dress in front of the mirror listening to upbeat tunes, singing in to my hairbrush and imagining myself performing to millions… (Like I am sure we have all done.) I would point the hair dryer at my head and imagine myself in a music video as my hair blew out behind me… (Like we all did, right? RIGHT?)

I would catwalk in my work heels, up and down my tiny hallway, to some new tunes, coffee in hand, and with Doodle staring at me like I was demented, before leaving for work. (Like we all did right? RIGHT?)

I would plod about the place if I had been dumped, was about to dump, or was just generally feeling lousy, listening to Alanis Morisette and feeling every poignant word.  (LIKE WE ALL DID! Right?)

I would wash up listening to show tunes. Imagining I was Cinderella, or that girl from Chicago. I would throw my soapy hands wide and belt out the tunes in my tone-deaf way, completely living in the moment and not caring who heard. (I KNOW WE ALL DID.)

It was as if each piece of music had been written for me, and was talking to me.

So when did I stop enjoying music?

When life got in the way.

When I forgot I mattered, and when my list of things to get done, got so long, there was barely time to have a wee, never mind put the radio on, or gently maneuver my iPod in to the shitty docking station in the kitchen.

Cbeebies is the soundtrack of this home now, as that is practical and I have come to terms with it.

Hard to imagine, or find enjoyment out of imagining myself as a giant blue sausage man singing ‘Iggle Piggle’ at the sink though, to be honest, so these days I tend to just wash up in silence, focusing on the task in hand. (And the other 8 million things I need to do.)

After many therapy sessions though, I am starting to see how sad this actually is and once again am beginning to see the importance of me time and finding time to do something I enjoy even if I am doing it while I wash up.

So, recently while struggling through a huge pile of bills, I found ten seconds out of my busy schedule of worrying and stressing to plug my iPod in.

And an odd thing happened.

The bills didn’t seem so bad, the task didn’t wipe me out completely and the music actually lifted my mood somewhat, as I sang along, living and loving it, in that moment.

(I may have even stood up and done a twirl.)

I was katy Perry, I was A Goo Goo doll, and I was Eminem all the while opening the motherfunking bills. (Seriously, trashy rap me has such a potty mouth!)

So on the back of this, I am going to do something I have never done before, and I am proper nervous about it.

I want to share the experience, so I am going to start a meme.

A meme called Music Therapy.

You can join in, if you would like to, no pressure though.

When I was younger, I could sometimes swear a song had been written just for me.

That the lyrics spoke to me, told my story, touched every bone in my body and recognized in me a need to be heard.

So, while I was trying to enjoy the music again, I found, once again, this began to happen.

I took twenty minutes for myself when Addison was in bed, plugged myself in to my music library and chose three songs that I had recently heard and enjoyed, and felt touched by and I copied down the lyrics that spoke to me.

I hope that makes sense.

If you would like to have a go, just pick;

3 beautiful songs.

3 different bands.

3 sets of lyrics that touch you in anyway you want to show.

Mine were all speaking to me directly, So here goes my effort.

*****************************************************

October 2011. 

Dear Me,

I am not the one who broke you.

I am not the one you should fear.

I have no solution to the sound of this pollution in me.

And I want to be free, to talk to me…

…

Lately I’ve been hard to reach; I’ve been too long on my own

I’m just so fuckin’ depressed, I just cant seem to get out this slump

If I could just get over this hump

I took my bruises, took my lumps

Fell down and I got right back up

I don’t know how or why or when I ended up in this position I’m in

But I know one fact, I’ll be one tough act to follow

One tough act to follow

Here today, gone tomorrow…

…

Sometimes it feels like everything’s going wrong

And we feel like it’s all our fault

But there ain’t nothing wrong

With thinking with our hearts

And letting someone near

That storm might break you down

But you’ll get up again

And learn from your mistakes

And you will be loved be loved be loved, you will be loved be loved be loved…

*****************************************************

Wow.

I can not tell you how much I enjoyed listening to all that music, I found myself laughing at ‘The underdog’ thinking no, I  cant use that. It says I will not survive!

I found myself grinning at Katy Perry ‘TGIF’ and thinking no, I cant use that in case the Irish one things i screwed someone on friday night… AHH WHAT FUN! And I reconnected with so much music!

I have really got so much out of doing this, listening to the songs, the words and finding the personal meaning to me, and to read the three I finally chose now in black and white… whoa!

Maybe I don’t hate myself as much as I thought I did.

Maybe I will be loved. Maybe I actually am a bit proud of myself for struggling through and maybe,  I have shit taste in music, but the memory’s, the pleasure… well it makes me less embarrassed to share!

I honestly cannot wait to do this again in a couple of weeks to see how it has changed, I have so much music to choose from! (All just as rubbish!)

I have thought of five more, in the last ten minutes!

And I really loved doing it, I really did.

I would love to read, cannot wait to read, some of yours, from you beautiful people, so will tag the following people.

If I haven’t tagged you, it is only because I ran out of time, and the link thing was driving insane. Technology is not my forte.

I would love to read any and everybody’s!

Please join in, you never know, you may enjoy it!

I  know mine is long, but your’s doesn’t have to be!

Miss Boy and me.

Miss Expat mummy

Miss Susan K Mann. 

Miss Spermie Style.

Miss not my year off.

Miss barema Harshman.

Make mommy go something something. 

Miss Live otherwise. 

Miss Mommyhood. 

If you do not have a blog, and want to take part, feel free to send me an email with your effort on, and I will include it on it’s own page.

Or why not just listen to some music??

It can’t hurt can it?

I’m going back to the washing up… with EYE OF THE TIGER!!!

”Rising up, back on the street, did my time, took my chances…”

Love it.

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

A whole lot of Nakedness, and the Odd Truth.

‘You do realise, that by ignoring the issues, by closing your eyes, sticking your fingers in your ears and singing La La La! They aren’t actually going to go away right?’

‘I am not three, Irish one.’

‘I am aware of that, oh befuddled one,’ he sighs  ‘And please stop referring to me as the Irish one. Doing it on your blog is one thing but in person? I feel like a piece of meat.’

‘Ok,’ I respond trying not to laugh, and attempting to craftily change the subject ‘when are we going on the London Eye? I won it for us you know, with my hard work! So when do you fancy going?’

‘Nice try.’

I sigh. ‘Go on then, what do you want to discuss?’

‘Well, so tell me then, what day are you returning once again, to work?’

‘I er, I er, um, ar, Oh look!’ I shout, pointing at the television my mouth falling open aghast ‘Angeline Jolie has no clothes on!!’

And while his head swivels at the speed of light towards the odd children on Waybaloo that have clearly been dubbed but I will never understand why (Naked Angelina Jolie? Seriously Irish One? On Cbeebies?) I make a run for it in to the bathroom and switch on the shower.

It isn’t that I am not aware it isn’t going to happen I just don’t want to talk about it you know?

I am like Julia Roberts in pretty woman, not a whore, I am not a whore just to clarify here, although on some days I do wish… never mind, but I like to ‘fly by the seat of my pants.’

Some things I just don’t like to face.

Like bills.

I hate facing bills.

Which is why they usually only get paid when a man knocks at the door holding a spanner and asking me where the electricity meter is.

‘Why?’ I ask aghast.

‘I am here to cut you off’ he speaks solemnly in a broad Boltonion accent.

‘But why?’ I inquire again aghast ‘I deserve light.’

‘Because you haven’t paid missis, and if you don’t pay, you get to live in the dark.’

At which point, just as everything is about to be emerged in to obscurity I will reach for my debit card, face up to the fact we can’t cook Thomas the tank engine pasta shapes by candle light and make a payment.

It isn’t laziness, or irresponsibility (although I suppose it is a bit) and it isn’t because I don’t have the money, or because I am stingy and would rather spend my money on shoes than electricity (although clearly I would. I saw some lovely heels today in Topshop…)

It is because, well, it is because… I don’t know why but I blame Spain.

Yes the whole country.

I grew up over there and brilliant country that it is, the general rule for living seems to be ‘why do today what you can clearly put off until tomorrow?’ And seriously, I was brainwashed.

This excuse unfortunately didn’t wash with my therapist when I visited him last week though, and when I pointed out of the window and screamed that Jennifer Aniston had just turned up butt naked and waving a cucumber about, he didn’t even flinch. (Damn it, he is gay, I KNEW I should have gone for brad Pitt.)

But it seems most people currently, want to ask me things I am not ready to answer or to think about even, and in all honesty, it is driving me insane.

‘Do you blame yourself for the last year?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you regret the way things have gone since Addison was born?’

‘Regret it?’

‘Yes. Do you wish you could have behaved differently?’

‘I have a feeling you are trying to trick me here.’ I respond looking towards the door.

‘I can assure you I am not, I am just trying to find out if you blame yourself?’

‘Look!! Brad Pitt with no clothes on waving a jar of hummus about!’

‘Nice try, answer the question.’

‘Why do you want to know?’ I sigh, looking everywhere but at him, anxiety creeping out as my legs becoming possessed by Michael Flatly.

‘Humour me. I’m your therapist.’ He smiles.

‘Of course I regret it,’ I say quietly looking down at my open palms staring back up at me ‘and of course I wish things could have been different, who wouldn’t in my position? I don’t remember the way I felt when I first saw my son, I don’t recall feeling love, I don’t remember huge chunks of his life, people tell me I was happy, that I was a great mum, but I don’t remember him as a tiny baby or me even, I can’t even look at photos from that time, I missed out on so much, of course I regret it. I mean, no I don’t regret it,’ I stumble as I see him latching on and about to go in for the kill ‘I just wish things could be different.’

‘Lexy?’

‘What?’

‘Why are you crying?’

‘Oh,’ I exclaim surprised, wiping my eye ‘I didn’t realise I was.’

‘You are. Do you blame yourself?’

‘I guess I do yeah.’ I shrug ‘but who else is responsible if not me?’

‘Why does anybody need to be held responsible? Postnatal Depression is an illness, you need to grieve what could have been, that is true, but it needs to be let go of, maybe it is time to stop punishing yourself, as it is getting you nowhere.’

‘Right,’ I smile slightly ‘except it is.’

‘It is.’ He confirms nodding slightly. ‘You are right it is. How could I have missed this? It is allowing you to remain static in a nonsensical circle of self-harming and avoidance. Blaming yourself for things that are out of your control feels comfortable to you doesn’t it?’

‘That’s right.’ I laugh.  (Although he is mistaken, everything is within my control. EVERYTHING!!)

‘Why are you laughing?’

‘Because if I don’t I will break.’

‘It isn’t funny Lexy. It is heartbreaking.’

I laugh almost sarcastically, annoyed. I am angry with him. Indignant. What does he know? This isn’t heartbreaking, this is life, he isn’t a mother, he doesn’t know, he has no idea of the pressure, heartbroken? I am not heartbroken I am nothing! I am a big fat sodding failure.

‘I am not heartbroken’ I spit out at him. ‘I am nothing.’

He looks deep in to my eyes, a look of shock on his face.

‘You are nothing?’

‘Nothing.’ I confirm. ‘So let’s just change the subject.’

He is silent again.

‘Who is allowed to call you worthless?’ He continues, ignoring my pleas to move on.

‘No one’ I say annoyed that he should even suggest it. I am not worthless, much.

‘Who is allowed to shout at you?’

‘No one.’

‘Really?’ he says an amused look playing on his features ‘I don’t believe that.’

I just look at him blankly. I am not in the mood.

‘Ok,’ he tries again ‘who is allowed to call you worthless?’

‘No one!’ I almost shout ‘of course, no one!’

‘Just you then?’

‘What?’

‘You wouldn’t stand to be treated like this off anyone else, and I am damn sure you wouldn’t dream of inflicting this behavior on anyone else, so why is it ok to do it to yourself? Why is it ok to call yourself a failure, a nothing, a piece of shit?’

I don’t answer for a long time, defiant.

‘How can you regret something that isn’t your fault?’ he asks chin jutting out towards me breaking the atmosphere.

I look up at him solemnly from my chair in the opposite corner of the room ‘it is my fault though’ I disagree with him, ‘that is what you don’t know’ and I lean in to him, trying to make him hear. ‘I could have been different if I had tried a bit harder. Look at all those other mothers, they did it.’

‘Ah.’ He nods ‘So you chose to be this way?’

‘No.’

‘So then?’ he sits back in his chair, and slaps his knees lightly in exasperation.

‘But I allowed it to happen’ I shout louder than I intended to. ‘If I had been stronger, not so selfish, not an evil selfish bitch then maybe…’

‘Did you try and stop it?’

‘Yes.’ I whisper quietly, alarmed ‘of course I did.’

‘And what happened?’

‘You know what happened, can we move on?’

‘So, again, did you choose this?’ he repeats himself.

‘No. I didn’t chose it but…’

‘Would you change it if you could?’ He interrupts me.

‘In a heartbeat.’ I nod, wiping another trespassing tear. ‘Just for Addison. I would live through it a hundred times to keep him here, but it is just not fair on him, to have half a mum, he didn’t chose this did he?’  I am faintly aware of my face being wet again.

‘No and neither did you. Did you?’

‘No.’

‘Can you regret something that isn’t your fault?’

‘I don’t suppose you can, but you can regret not trying harder…’

He sighs, not the answer he is looking for.

I cannot let him win this point, I am not ready to.

‘Do you love your son?’

‘Yes, but not as much as I should. Not as much as all those other mum’s love their children. I see them and they look brilliant, while I am on the outskirts, failing to be…’ I trail off.

‘Can you measure it?’ He asks kindly

‘No’ I sob again ‘I can’t. I am a failure.’

After a few minutes of silence, only broken by my sniffing and trying to hold back the tears he draws the session to an end.

‘That is enough for today.’

‘Ok.’ I nod mutely, glancing at the clock, wiping my nose.

‘Before you go, I want you to think about something and next session we can talk about it. Ok?’

‘Ok.’ I say glumly about to stand up.

‘I want you to write it down.’ He directs and I immediately reach in to my bag and pull out my notebook and pen.

‘Ok’ I say pen poised.

If your child became poorly with an illness out of his control, how long would you punish him for?

And if you wouldn’t punish him for being ill, write down all the things you would do.

Write down five reasons why it is time to stop punishing yourself.

I put my book away, stand up and smile. Bastard.

There is no way I will be able to answer those questions without admitting it isn’t my fault and he knows it.

‘Bye James, see you Wednesday.’

‘Bye Lexy, and oh, one thing…’

‘What?’ I ask, turning to face him from the door.

‘You do love your son enough.’ He smiles up at me ‘you have nothing to worry about there. You aren’t a failure, not at all. And contrary to what you believe, you love him more than you will ever realise.’

My heart skips a beat.

‘How do you know?’ I ask hopefully.

‘Because every time you talk about him you cry.’

….aaaannnnnndddd this is why avoidance is probably a bit poo. (That and the fact I potentially won’t have running water in a couple of days…)

Because ever since he said that, anytime I look at Addison, I cry.

Of course I love him enough, I always have.

Maybe it is time to stop punishing myself? Ourselves?

But I am still not paying the bills, or ringing the council tax people, or even discussing my return to work…

One step at a time yeah?

‘Look! Mr Bloom with no clothes on!!’
(I wish.) 

The world won’t end on a Thursday.

Never at any point in my entire lifetime, did I ever once imagine, that I would end up questioning the fragility of life and the prospect that the end of the world was most definitely upon me, while slapping too much mayonnaise on to a very unhealthy ham sandwich, while arguing with the Irish one, on a very mundane and monotonous Thursday night.

I don’t know about you, but I always imagined, that if the end of the world was about to materialize, I would be prepared (well, as prepared as I could be, given that I am quite possibly the most unorganized person alive) you know? Because clearly we would have all been given some warning by sky news.

‘Next Thursday at four o’clock, the world will end. Breaking news. Don’t worry about your credit card debt.’

And there I would be, at 4 o’clock on said Thursday, on high ground, wearing fabulous new clothes and glitzy shoes courtesy of NatWest, rifling through the changing bag looking for a tissue or something, surrounded by my loved ones and worrying about whether I had left the oven on.

So most disappointingly it seemed the world was going to come to an end while I was making a crap tea.

As the clock struck 8 last night, while Addison was sleeping like a drunken angel, bum in the air, dribble on the pillow and trumping like a beast, and while both myself and the Irish one were in the middle of a deeply heated ‘discussion’, and doodle was most probably licking his bum, we, as a whole family, experienced a very dramatic incident.

A dramatic incident that without a doubt has changed the way I think, the person I am and how I will live my life from this day forward, forever more. It has shaken the very foundations at the core of who I am, leaving my deep rooted beliefs feeling incredibly vulnerable and exposed.

Nah not really, but please, do read on, it was proper dramatic honest.

Elbow deep in washing up and seriously unhappy about it, my Irish child rearing colleague and I were arguing about whether or not I should be allowed to take Addison to the zoo without him, the following day.

‘I am asking you not to go without me’ he had muttered from between very gritted teeth, so gritted in fact, that he had given himself a bit of a speech impediment, which I am pretty sure wasn’t the effect he was going for. His jaw was set firmly and he was blowing air through his nose like a mental bull about to go on a seriously damaging rampage.

‘But that’s the thing,’ I replied using my sing songy voice, turning to face him from the opposite counter, the conversation with the therapist the day previous still ringing in my ears and attempting to appear the epitome of cool, calm and collected  ‘you aren’t though are you? You aren’t actually asking me anything. The word asking’ I pronounced slowly, limp armed and waving my knife around ‘invariably makes me think there are two possible answers to this question, when in all honesty’ I continued slopping mayonnaise all over the counters he had just cleaned ‘there isn’t. You are telling me not to take him to the zoo and James said that when people tell me to do stuff I should question their motives as most people should ask, as I am my own person and…’

‘I don’t want you to go without me because I don’t want to miss out’ he interrupted me loudly ‘I already miss out on so much, how can you not understand that I am asking you not to go because I miss out on so much already?’

‘And that is fine’ I replied, mopping up the spilt mayonnaise with my finger and giving it a good suck ‘but let us not pretend you are asking me, because you aren’t, you are actually telling me not to go and I wont anyway, as I respect the way you feel, but it wasn’t a question, you were telling me not to go, so you can stop pretending it was a question.’

At the time, it seemed like an important argument.

At the time it seemed like I was making an important point, and that perhaps we were heading for a relational breakthrough.

Now of course, looking back, I can totally see I was being a complete anus.

Hindsight is a funny thing isn’t it?

We were arguing about two completely different things though.

He didn’t want me to go to the zoo, and obviously I wasn’t going to go, that was obvious, but I just wanted him to stop saying he was asking me when he wasn’t, he was blatantly telling me, while he just wanted me to say I wouldn’t go. Which I never would because I totally understood his point, but he didn’t hear me and just kept repeating his reasons for not wanting me to go, which I understood and never would have gone, but I just wanted him to stop saying… You know what?

Men just don’t get it. (Ahem.) It doesn’t matter.

Shall we move on?

‘Are you ever going to wash up again?’ he had mumbled from under his breath as the argument drizzled off because I had a mouth full of pig sandwich ‘or has James told you that by washing up I am somehow controlling your underlying need to be a complete pain in the arse…’

I swallowed hard (on my sarnie, this isn’t a porno) and was on the precipice of behaving just as sanctimoniously back, when from behind the window came the most god almighty bright flash of light, illuminating us both in our tedium from the outside in, immediately followed by the loudest crack and tumble I have ever heard in my life.

It literally sounded like the hospital across the road was blowing up.

It sounded like a bomb.

And the moment seemed to go on for ages, because within, what in reality could have only been a couple of seconds of sheer terror and panic, the following thoughts went through my head.

Oh my god what the hell is that noise.

Oh my god is the building coming down on us?

What the hell is that flashing light outside?

Has somebody let off a gun?

Are we blowing up?

Why can’t I see anything?

Oh yeah open your eyes!

If the Irish one doesn’t look scared then I don’t need to either.

Shit the Irish one looks scared.

I can’t believe he got the last word!

Where the hell is Addison?

He is bed, is the world coming to an end?

I need to get him out of his bed.

Has somebody targeted Salford hospital?

Why would somebody target Salford hospital?

I know it isn’t the best but blowing it up seems a bit much!

Oh my god where is my phone?

What underwear am I wearing?

I can’t die in a g string.

I should have put a wash on.

Oh my god it is the end of the world.

I think I just weed a little bit in fright.

Is it 2012 yet?

This shouldn’t be happening yet

Where is Doodle?

Is this happening?

I should have eaten the rest of that Twirl this morning.

Never save chocolate.

What was I thinking?

We need to get outside.

I will grab Addison and my chocolate and he can grab Doodle.

Can Doodle swim?

I need to get to my boy and my poodle.

We need to make a makeshift arc.

I need a cuddle.

I am scared.

I want that chocolate.

I think a bit more wee just escaped.

Heart pounding and knees threatening to give way beneath me (and seriously trying not to poo) I looked at the Irish one, now turned towards the window, both hands dripping wet and looking decidedly worried (from behind anyway) and screeched.

‘What was that?’

‘I don’t know’ he replied quickly, as I was running out of the room to check on my beautiful son. ‘But calm down, it isn’t the end of the world!’

But how does he know that?

Why are my feet wet?

The floods are coming I just know it.

It’s the miner’s prophecy, or something.

Oh my god why did I buy a ground floor flat?

Where did I put Addy’s swimwear?

Why are my feet wet?

Turns out it was lightening.

It had hit the chimneystack above our flats and caused quite a bit of chaos.

So not the end of the world, actually.

Turns out my feet were wet because Doodle had also been a little shocked by the horrifically loud noice and had immediately and unintentionally released his bladder in the hallway.  (I am just thankful he wasn’t lying on my bed. Like last time.)

The neighbor (the one that Doodle pood on that one time at band camp) called by shortly after moaning that he too, had released his bladder with the shock of it all and then went on to ask if I was I aware, that if the chemical factory down the road blew up there was no evacuation plan for our flats as we were too close and would die instantly.

Cheery bunch this lot.

Anyway, this morning following on from this near death experience;

I put a wash on.

Bought some more chocolate and ate the lot.

Didn’t go to the zoo,

And mostly sat around feeling happy (ish) to be alive, but a little bored.

I have come to this conclusion though,

Life is too short to leave chocolate in the cupboard.

(And I really hope the chemical plant doesn’t blow up.)