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.

Never mind halloween! Try motherhood.

Hot dog hot dog hot diggety dog is the theme tune of my life at the moment. Even when it is not playing out of the television, (which is rare) it is playing out of my Iphone, as it seems to be the only sound my son wants to hear. He wants to hear it when he is playing (Code for; Drooling.) When he is trying to sleep (Code for; Trumping.) When he is having a trump (Code for; Shitting his kecks) and most recently? When he is the bath. (See previous code. Unfortunately the bath also seems to loosen his bladder.) Hot dog works better than a dodi, Hot diggety dog, works better than a soother, and sadly for me, if you’ve got ears its time for cheers, at the moment works better than a cuddle. (Can I borrow a tiny violin?) Come what may, no matter what manner of mood my seven month old angel/monster is experiencing, the moment those opening bars ring out, he is in heaven. He goes quiet, his ears prick up, his thumb goes in his mouth and he is at peace. Hot dog hot dog hot diggety dog, is his drug of choice, if you will.

Meanwhile I am in hell. Actual hell.

Well, ok, not actual hell. But a little bit like hell. It’s not Brahms symphony is it? Which is what I hoped he would like! Which is what I expected him to like! Nor is it Kylie and Jason. (I have tried that too. I have also tried a bit of 90′s house. He clearly needs to be taught to appreciate good music….)

Hot dog hot dog hot diggety dog.. CAN YOU HEAR THAT??? I need to check the CD player in the spare room hang on…. Nope. Its off. Which can only mean one thing. I’m turning in to a full on mentalist. The house is at peace. The baby is finally asleep. And yet for some godforsaken reason, I can still hear THAT BLOODY SONG!

A friend of mine recently endured an extremely long labour, in which I have to say, she was a pillar of strength and tranquility. (I wasn’t there but if I imagine her like this I don’t have to shudder every two minutes in sympathy. Shuddering is knackering and god knows I am knackered enough!) While she was in labour, and I was checking her Facebook wall every 6 minutes for updates, it reminded me of my labour (cue multiple shuddering followed by a shot of brandy) and all of the expectations I had of motherhood, that looking back now, make the hot dog dance seem like small tomaytoes. (I think that is an American saying. Just go with me here. Ill get to the point in a minute I promise.) It reminded me how excited I was about these moments I had built up in my mind, moments only motherhood would bring, if you catch my drift. By the time my 65 hour labour started, I was already a mother. In my mind. I already had the perfect little boy. In my mind. I already knew it all and loved it all. In my mind.

•  Me and my little boy would wander through my maternity leave with ease. We would be a happy couple visiting the shops. (I would not faint with exhaustion in the Trafford center showing my fat arse to the world and wake up with a polo mint shoved in my mouth and clinging on to a random woman’s shoe. I apologise to this woman. I can see now how clinging on to your leg for dear life and laying my head on your boot and begging for ‘five more minutes sleep’ made you a little uncomfortable. I am also sorry for the drool. Mine. Not the baby’s.)
  

• Me and my little boy would be best friends. (If any of my best friends threw up on me as much as my little boy does I would be seriously considering calling either bulimics anonymous of Alcoholic anonymous. I would also be considering reducing the friend status from best friend to ‘If you are sick on me one more time I will take you out.’ As in, outside, for some air. Not with a shotgun.) But my little boy doesn’t need air. He just happily empties his guts all over my finery (new look’s best) and carries on having a look around.
  

• Motherhood would be a pleasure, my weight would drop off and each passer-by would gasp with delight at how beautiful he was and how positively skinny I was. (Have I ever told you about the five stitches in my arse? That certainly took the immediate shine off motherhood. Don’t get me wrong, I love being a mummy but I could have done without the ‘I’m just going to stick my fingers up your anus’ during my post birth happy haze phase. The shine was stripped from that particular moment fairly quickly let me tell you. Especially when I saw the glint in her eye. And yes, people do stop and stare, but unfortunately is it usually because I have a wet patch on my left tit. Or Addy has thrown up all over my face and his face, and somehow I haven’t noticed. (If I am in a shoe shop, he could probably throw up in my eye and I wouldn’t notice. Bad mother? You decide.)
  

• Although he was born with a willy, my son would love everything girly. Including Beauty and the Beast and The Little Mermaid. Which funnily enough are my favourites.(Look Addy, look! Tale as ooolllldddd as timmmmeee, Its princess Aurora, look Addy look!!WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!! Look Addy, look! Its Sebastian the crab, look isn’t he funny!!!!WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!! Look Addy look! Its Paddington bear! Mummy’s favourite! No Addy! No! Don’t eat the book! Addy please stop being sick on the book! Addy noooooooooooooooo! )

Mothers can still ski!!

 When I pick up my snowboard I feel empowered.

 It’s quite similar, I guess, to when you hear a song, or smell a familiar scent (of the perfume, fresh cut grass, and barbecue variety! Not the nasty, ‘for the love of god I’m about to have a bath!’ variety!) and as if by magic you are transported somewhere on a mystical, melancholy, tour through the inner corridors of your mind. You begin frantically opening doors and up turning dusty boxes, searching for the moment this fragrance or melody, first entered your sub-conscience. You know it is there somewhere!! If only you could find it!! And of course on other occasions, you arrive at the right door, the right dusty old box, your ‘memory destination’ if you will, before you even know you were on a mental trip in the first place! The destination, once reached will no doubt wash over you like a huge wave,  you will stop what you are doing, if only for an instant (unless you are driving/doing open heart surgery/wiping your arse. I hope) and you will be immersed in the moment, smiling to yourself like a lunatic, lost to a magical memory, if only for a few seconds, of a time or moment once experienced but long forgotten.

 For instance; I can be walking around Morrison’s trying to remember where they keep the coriander (cough cough microwave meal cough cough) with an unreachable itch just below my shoulder blade and a stone in my boot (don’t you just hate that!!) feeling frustrated (old people with trolleys annoy me, Im sorry, they just do! Must you stop in the walkway to discuss with Vera the price of bacon?! There is a traffic jam forming!) and the next thing I know I’m 22 again, playing air guitar on a beach in Barcelona with 5 of my oldest friends. I can actually feel the sun on my back, the sand beneath my toes and I can remember like yesterday the feeling of complete freedom, no responsibility and nights spent laughing and dancing under the stars.(Starship – We built this city.) Or alternatively I can be sat in the car, stuck in traffic, trying to console a screaming Addy while pacifying a howling Doodle while refusing to admit to a grumpy Other half, that he was right, I shouldn’t have come this way, when in an instant, I am 24, sat in the car with my older brother and my nieces, singing at the top of our voices, laughing our heads off, on our way to Blackpool. (Lynard Skynard- Sweet home Alabama. That song will forever belong to my beloved brother. May he rest in peace.)

It has been a very long time since I have been on my snowboard. Almost two years. Which when you think, in that time, I have conceived, been pregnant, thrown up a gazillion times, gained four stone in weight, given birth, had stitches in my anus (there is no way of sugar coating that, the saying I mean, not my anus. I tried. It is what it is, I apologise to those faint at heart) breastfed and failed, hugged a screaming baby, played with a happy baby, lost 3 stone, shopped a million times for a million different things, torn my stitches, been re-stitched, learnt how to multitask like a professional and slept for only an hour max, it feels like a lot longer. I am a different person now. In the last two years I have lived a lifetime. Does that make sense?

 So after feeling a little lost, a little down and a little overwhelmed, my other half (angel that he is – usually) bought me a lift pass, as a gift to Chill Factore. This, he said, was an attempt to remind me, that even though I am a mummy, I can still be the fun loving girl I once was, before my dignity was wheeled out on a stretcher for the entire world to see! At the time I had groaned internally. I couldn’t snowboard anymore. I wasn’t that person anymore. I was a mother! Mothers don’t do things like that! They knit! They sit in on Saturday night watching Strictly and growing love handles! They nag! (They also get millions of smiles, give a million hugs and kisses and have the best job in the world but that’s another blog.) Mothers don’t ski!!

After much deliberation, which included a full nights worth of thought bubbles (baa!) and no sleep. I thought ‘what the hell I’ll do it!’ I frantically opened doors, and upturned wardrobes and located my long forgotten, baby blue and shiny, trusty Nidecker stead, and squidged most unladylike- like in to my once baggy outfit. (I was skinny for a short time prior to ‘babygate 2009’) I was nervous, to say the least.
And then the oddest thing happened. The minute I unzipped my board from its bag and slung it under my arm, I was instantly in another time. I was instantly in another place. My head shot up like a rocket on bonfire night, (up, not off!), my shoulders forced themselves back, back, back and (Im mortified by this now!) I cockily swaggered towards the car!  I even smirked, like only a teenager knows how, at a man getting in to his car outside my house. (He shot me a look of confusion, and looking back now he must have thought I was a lunatic. ‘Not much snow in Eccles in October love!’) But I was woman with board; I was woman who could take on the world! I was confident again. I was passionate, I was excited and most of all I felt like me. I haven’t felt like me in such a long time.

 What a bloody fantastic afternoon! I forgot I’d had no sleep. I forgot about the bills, the looming return to work, my creaky knees, my flappy skinned, stretch marked tummy and my achy breaky back and I was 25 again! I was powerful. I was passionate and exhilarated. I was walking around the place and zipping down the slope, like I owned it. I was smiling, grinning and eventually laughing as I began to regain my mojo. I probably looked like a complete knob! A middle aged woman on an artificial slope attached to a board, dressed in an outfit 2 sizes to small and surrounded by 19 year olds with ‘tudes!’ but I did not care! I could snowboard better than they could. I was faster, I was more experienced and I was, most importantly, having an absolute ball! I was woman! Hear me roar!!

 It makes me see so clearly now, how I have gotten used to questioning myself, feeling inadequate, unsure and doubting my own ability. I have grown comfortable with constantly learning and am used to feeling like a stranger in my own mind. I forgot I could be this confident person. Being reminded, by simply taking an hour out for me and me alone, was enlightening. I can be a confident woman. I was a confident girl. I can be a confident mother! And it has nothing to do with that extra stone I need to shift! I will be a confident mother!

 All I need to do is find a changing bag big enough to fit a snowboard, and we are good to go!