Bat Shit Crazy.

I must live in the moment.

I don’t want to go back in hospital.

I just can’t.

I must live in the moment.

I must take deep breaths.

Think rational thoughts.

I must not freak out.

What can I hear if I close my eyes and take deep breaths?

Yes everything is ok.

I can hear the sound of Doodle licking his bollocks romantically in his bed next to me.

Over my ragged breath, I can also hear the clinky clanky tinkering of the Irish one fixing his bike in the kitchen (as you do) while muttering expletives under his breath and faintly, if I focus, I can hear my Barmy and adored, sweet smelling boy snoring, mouth wide open, in his bed.

All is as it should be.

Deep breaths.

Do not freak out.

It will not happen.

Don’t freak out don’t freak out don’t freak out.

I do not want to end up back in hospital.

It reared its violent head again on New Years Eve.

I went for a lie down at 8pm ‘to rest my eyes for five minutes’ after loving every moment of snuggling with Addison,  after telling stories of tractors who could talk and dogs who could fly.

I lay down peacefully, promising to rest for only five minutes.

What must have been hours later I found myself sitting bolt upright in bed, my heart hammering and dripping with hot tears and sweat.

I could hear gunshots.

‘Irish one!’ I screamed in to the darkness after reaching out to grab him and with a huge sense of dread realising he wasn’t there. ‘Oh my god, Irish one! Where are you?’

He burst through the bedroom door like a shocked and pajamad warrior.

‘Whats the matter?’ He shouted racing towards the bed in what I thought was panic and worry for me. (Turns out I was screaming like I was being stabbed and he was worried the neighbors may think he was bludgeoning me.) ‘Stop screaming!’

‘Are we at war?’  I whispered clutching his shoulder and grabbing the PlayStation remote from him in case I needed to brandish it as a weapon later on.

‘No you medicated idiot,’ he laughed, enveloping me in a hug and rocking me back and forth like you may do a child ‘it is midnight. It is fireworks you can hear. Happy New Year. Go back to sleep.’

As my heart began to slow , I kissed him, handed him back his remote and rolled over.

I was intending to go back to sleep grumbling about how If the fireworks woke the kid up, i’d go mad.

But I couldn’t sleep.

I knew it was back.

I felt as if I had invited it back.

Immediately I was disappointed in myself and anxious.

Don’t freak out.

Don’t freak out.

Something had crept in to bed behind me, and was now spooning with me, breathing its hot breath on to my neck, making all of my hair stand on end.

Psychosis.

Go away.

Please go away.

A feeling of dread so worrying, I am now, a week later, still struggling to function.

Calm down.

You are ok.

The world didn’t end.

I am getting married this year.

Nothing is like what it was.

It isn’t back.

You are imagining it.

Doodle is slowly starting to realise 5 years after emerging from his doggy mothers womb that outside is where he must poo and the rocky start I had at motherhood myself, is just starting to feel lovely, like deep down in my bones, awe inspiring, heart rupturing lovely.

Everything is ok.

Deep breaths.

It is only a new year.

Don’t freak out.

But no, I know it is there waiting for me, seeping in at my edges, the darkness, the paranoia, I can feel it, no matter how much I argue with myself.

It is there.

Has the Irish one spiked my tea?

He repeatedly denies it, his brow furrowing with worry and of course, then I laugh.

Set his mind at rest.

Before surreptitiously creeping in to the kitchen and pouring it down the sink.

I will make a new cup of tea, and I will keep my eyes on it.

He may be trying to spike me.

You never know.

Ok.

I think we have a problem.

Do those girls hate me really? Will they follow me back to my car and throw bricks at me?  Are they plotting to follow me home? Do they call me fat and see evil in me?

Are they planning to steal my baby? I must tell them I made my baby up. I must pretend he doesn’t exist.

No harm can come to my baby.

Ok.

I think we may have a problem.

And then I am lost.

The deep breathing hasn’t helped.

I know with certainty right now it will happen.

The moment I dread.

The moment I am pulled roughly from the serene moment I am resting my lips peacefully on my son’s forehead, or inhaling his sweet playful childishness as he smacks his lips together in his sleep, and everything will just… disappear.

I will blink myself from this life and find myself in a stark white room 30 years from now stinking to high heaven of hospitals and bleach, tethered to a bed with an old man leaning over me, his teeth yellowing and his complexion pale, begging me to come home and get better.

I will recognise nobody.

I won’t know what happened.

I was putting my son to bed and I blinked.

The old man will be the Irish one but of course, I wont recognise him, having only seen him three minutes before when he was swearing in the kitchen and leaving greasy oil prints everywhere.

Now.

I mean… just then!

What happened?

I want to go back.

‘Lexy,’ he will tenderly whisper in my ear, his salty old coffee breath gushing over my senses, ‘I am your husband we have been married 30 years today, Addison is  here to see you,  can you remember him? Are you lucid?’

‘You don’t like coffee’ I will whisper confused, ‘you can’t be him’ my eyes wide with fear, my heart exploding with every beat from my chest.

‘Mike wazaouski’ he will whisper our private joke playfully in my ear, and I will instantly know it is him and I will turn to ice.

‘Mum.’ I will hear his voice before I see him and I will sense his tears, his heartbreak at how his mother went Bat shit crazy  ‘Mum, it’s me, Addison. Are you lucid?’

I will turn slowly, my head a dead weight filled with fear and disbelief and I will look at the grown up man stood at the end of my bed.

My heart will catch in my throat.

Don’t freak out.

I missed it all.

I missed him growing up.

I missed it all.

No.

‘No!’ I will want to scream long and hard.

‘Mum’ he will whisper, his little lopsided smile and cracked baby teeth, long gone, his baby blue eyes once filled with vulnerability now replaced by life experience I haven’t witnessed, a life with his mother trapped in another world. A life where his mother abandoned him.

And I will howl in desperation, where is my son, where has his smell gone, his little play doh and yoghurt stained pyjamas? Where are our moments?

The man at the end of the bed cannot be my son, he just can’t, my son is 2 years old.

And I will black out.

Ok. 

I think we may have a problem. 

Don’t freak out.

Everything is ok.

Addison is asleep in his bed.

Concentrate on the now.

But will now be the moment it happens?

That my years will be violently stolen?

I am still in bed.

I can hear Doodle farting.

Concentrate on the now.

It is all ok.

The Irish one has come in.

He is shouting at me to calm down.

He sounds worried.

I must be freaking out.

I am trapped in my imaginary world.

Heart racing, panicked, mouth dry, the room swinging in and out of focus.

I must live in the moment.

I must not forget to take my medication.

I must not freak out.

I must not get too upset and angry when I hear people off handedly label others, with mental health issues, funny names.

They simply do not understand that this is an illness.

I must live in the moment.

A panic attack will only ever be a panic attack.

I am going to go and hug my baby.

I am bat shit crazy.

But you know?

I will get through it.

Happy New Year!

Banana’s in Pyjama’s. (Are not Actually that Rare!)

‘Can we get a man in?’

(OH NO SHE DIDN’T!)

I carefully and quietly murmur this, knowing that I will somehow have crossed the line between Venus and Mars, in an unforgivable way.

I immediately avoid eye contact as his head whips up, and look instead with feigned interest at the murky water slowly seeping up my pajama bottoms from my tired ankles, all the way up to my grazed knees.

Knees which have started to creek and click with such regularity I am wondering how much it would cost to trade them in for a bionic pair.

Not only would this help with my day-to-day endurance test, the endurance test I sometimes laughingly refer to as ‘life,’ but it would also mean I could actually call myself the Bionic Woman and mean it.

Ooo, now that would be so cool.

Plus I would then automatically qualify for my very own soundtrack meaning that I could run in slow motion whenever the fancy took me.

Running in slow motion is underrated considering how much fun it looks.

It’s a lot easier on the lungs too, although it does take a while to get anywhere.

Anyway.

As the water aims for my hairy thighs hiding beneath my once dry jammy bottoms, it dawns on me that not only am I living in the house that Jack built but I am also doing so, barely surviving in a body controlled by a brain that wont allow me to walk in a straight line without falling on my face, in the most horrific of circumstances.

A brain that lets me down so often, and stabs at my heart with such ferocity it is all I can do to not bend over and howl in pain the moment the sun creeps in through the crack in the badly fitted curtains. (Not a euphemism! Although in fairness if it was, it would be an accurate one. Anyway…)

He spins unsteadily on the water, like a terrible ice dancer filled with self belief auditioning for Britain’s got talent, from where he was stood staring agog, morning hair sticking up at all angles and eyes deeply hidden beneath two years of no sleep, staring in confusion at the dials on the machine that is supposed to wash our clothes.

A machine, which evidently can no longer be arsed to do the job, it was built for.

A machine, incidentally that I can totally relate to.

As he stumbles in his attempt to stay upright on the slippery floor and avoid an Irish broken tailbone, he propels a fan of water all over the child who, of course finds this absolutely hilarious and giggles loudly from where he is now sat, pounding his fists in to the soapy puddles and watching the ripples spread far and wide to every corner of the kitchen, with glee.

‘Maybe I should just bath him on the kitchen floor from now on, Seen as he wont let me bath him in the actual bath. Maybe that’s what Supernanny means when she talks about finding alternatives’ I think to myself with my 5am brain, cursing the moment we hit ‘2’ and the angel I gave birth to, developed a personality sent to me directly from crazyville Arizona.

Doodle as ever, is also in attendance, stood beside the child, an important input in to family goings on, he is now thigh deep in the water but seems unfazed by the commotion, simply nibbling at his bone shaped biscuits as they float past.

The Irish one roars at me without words, the dancing half-light of the early morning bouncing off the dampness of our situation creating a rainbow halo behind him.

‘No woman!’ he admonishes being careful not to fall on the child, and looking bizarrely, a lot like Jesus.

He needs to trim that beard, I think to myself again, as I picture myself bludgeoning him on to a cross in the name of my sanity.

We don’t have a free hammer though actually, and I think a hammer is an essential tool when one needs to bludgeon something, and as it is currently being used to prop the bed up that plan is a no go.

‘I can fix it! I fixed it myself last week, and I will do it again! Watch me Fecking fix it. AS LONG as I am the man in your life, no other  ‘man’ (he spits this word out, like it is herpes) ‘shall cross this threshold to fix any one thing. I am bloke! I am THE BLOKE! I am the one who sorts things, and therefore I am king of all things in this kingdom. I am THE FIX IT KING! And this is easily sortable. A man? Tish! what do we need a man for???’ His disgust is palpable.

God I love that mad bastard.

I sigh. Can’t bludgeon him today then. Not only is the hammer pre-disposed but also where would I get the wood?

I sigh again.

A deep sigh, belonging to a woman who woke up at 5am to find the ‘fixed’ washing machine had vomited its guts out on to the kitchen floor. Again.

I sigh.

A deep sigh, belonging to a woman, who for the last five months has been using a bent fork to close the washing machine and a length of rope ripped from an iPhone battery to open it.

I sigh.

A sigh belonging to a woman who for the last year has had to beg the light switch in the bedroom to work, trying over and over again to flick it from just the right angle, because of a; (and I quote)

‘A Dodgy electrician who fitted it in the first place who (clearly) cant be trusted to be called back in, because he has made it irreparable (of course he has) for a civilian not electrics trained (Irish) man and there for it is ‘fine’ if you flick it from this angle, I fixed it, look it will do!’ (No it wont blood do! ARGHHHHHHHHH)’

I sigh.

A sigh belonging to a woman who because of this ‘dodgy electrician’ has arrived at work on more than one occasion wearing navy blue tights coupled with a completely black ensemble… an occupational hazard of getting dressed in the dark, and as I am sure you will agree, wardrobe suicide.

I sigh.

A sigh belonging to a woman, who now has wet knees, ankles and thighs, who was forced to use the hoover to unblock the bath drain, and then got a bollocking from Dyson for doing so. (LIKE THE ONLY THING THAT WAS ACTUALLY FIXED GODDAMN IT!)

A sigh belonging to a woman who can no longer cope with a back door that has a pillow in front of it ‘to stop the rain’ seeping in and to prevent a community of ants seeking refuge from the stormy conditions outside.

A pillow, dear Irish one, may be a deterrent to a puddle, but it is almost certainly not a deterrent to a focused and motivated army of ants.

One day I seriously worry that I will go to sleep snuggled under my two duvets (-Because the boiler is temperamental, but ‘its ok Lexy, just put a jumper on!’) and will actually wake up 6 hours later (a full nights sleep these days) in the garden by the oak tree (who’s roots are now heading towards our bathroom causing the sewage to block up –and god help me he is about to buy a chain saw), the GOD DAMN ants having clubbed together and carried me outside in my sleep.

I will bang on the door in bitter regret as they sit on their ant bums on my sofa watching Living TV that I pay for, before one of them will get up and slide the broken curtains shut, my Starbucks mug in his claw, while shaking his antennas at me as if to say ‘you had your chance to exterminate us but you refused to get a man in, so therefor we now rule.’

Ant mutiny.

‘Just tell me what is happening on Grey’s anatomy’ I will shout in desperation ‘please!’

The Queen ant will ignore me from where she is stood in the middle of the living room shaking her behind and singing Beyoncé’s ‘to the left to the left’ wearing my new bikini.

I can picture it now, Addison will be brought up carrying five times his body weight by a colony of ants while Doodle will be saddled up and kept as a slave and used to carry particularly heavy stones for the ant pyramids.

It will be ant mutiny I tell thee! Ant mutiny at 23 Mental road.

Sure you are bobbing for biscuits now Doodle, but you have no idea what is about to happen!

Bless him.

‘Ok’ I mumble, wondering if water skis are a sensible purchase at this point and seriously considering emigrating across the Mexican border without telling him and setting up shop in a shack with a heavily tanned, mustached handy man eating a burrito.

It’s because I love him that I don’t argue.

I don’t want to demasculinate him, or whatever the therapy word is.

But how the hell am I supposed to clean my knickers now?

Do you think perhaps I could get a man in and then pretend he has fixed it all? Drug him or something, and then tell him that it was he who fixed it?

‘Can you get me a crow bar please babe?’ he asks perched on his sodden knees, prying at the washer with his Irish fingertips.

I sigh stepping over the commotion, in to the dry and badly lit hallway (the bulbs need changing and he refuses to buy a ladder.)

It is the sigh of a woman who is deeply in love with a mad man, but who really needs some relationship advice, a new house and the number of a man who can work quietly and discreetly around a drugged up Irish man, and fix stuff!

Drugging is ok right? RIGHT?

I think it is, given the circumstances.

Postnatal Depression. (The Boomerang Effect.)

It has been 2 years to the day.

Years which have flown by like an airborne crisp packet sailing turbulently past the maternity hospital window.

‘Look! Prawn cocktail!’ I pointed from the delivery bed, ankles up around my ears, unable to grasp the severity of what was about to happen, as drugged up as a dancing tramp, calling The Irish One by my ex boyfriends name, thinking this was the funniest thing I had ever done, and genuinely confused by his lack of mirth. ‘No I won’t push! Get me some crisps. Look!’

2 years to the day since my son landed blue, and extremely annoyed and more than likely freezing and certainly confused, on to my empty bump in the cold, clinical delivery suite and grabbed hold of my finger in fear.

Look after me, he asked as I looked down at him in shock, the tears streaming down my face.

Protect me.

2 years to the day.

2 years of watching my son grow from a smooshy headed donut in to an inquisitive little creature that has no qualms about eating a spider.

And oh how I love him, with his head full of dreams and his belly full of hoops.

Sometimes I feel my heart could tear open and weep out the love.

Sometimes I wish love was a cure. 

2 beautiful years, the memories of which should ensure nothing but breath catching happiness, which are instead filled with silent tears and venom filled thoughts, with heartbreak and hate, with stolen kisses and watery smiles and eventually with love and quiet.

It is the quiet that I long for the most.

2 years, gone in a heartbeat, 2 years vanished like a deleted text, floating around in the ether.

It is the lost days that I crave to erase.

I yearn to rip them from the pages of my life story, to remove all evidence they ever happened, they ever existed.

The moments that I would beg to feel the love, let me feel anything, the times when the illness had eaten at my brain and I felt nothing.

A bottomless, airtight hole filled with… nothing positive.

Long spidery days splayed out in front of me like witch fingers, clutching me around the neck.

Hours filled with self hatred, wasted lost moments of self indulgent guilt and angry pointless self punishment while my son innocently played in front of me, his eyes questioning my emotionless warmth.

Numbness so acute, I could misplace a month without realisation.

An eternity in 12 hours, like a heavy suitcase filled with broken dreams being dragged behind me.

A sword through the heart that I am unable to fulfil my promise of protection, too exhausted from an invisible battle.

But I crossed the finish line, I raised my arms in the air and sailed through it, exhausted and out of breath but elated.

I made it.

I tentatively reached out

I grabbed hold of the light and I hugged it close to me unable to believe it was real.

I got cocky.

I was discharged.

I was proud.

I felt better.

I had conquered the demons.

I was living, really living, and loving.

I could play, finally I could play.

I could feel.

And then I woke up.

Now I am angry, and sad, and disappointed and panicked.

I didn’t win.

Once again I am broken.

Unable to connect.

I woke up happy, and sang Happy Birthday and from nowhere I was blind sided.

In an instant the light was extinguished.

My tears stinging like hot acid.

My fragile contentment, once again trampled on.

Doodle, my beautiful black dog, climbs on my knee and rests his head on my shattered heart.

He knows.

A car on the motorway, upside down, resting on the embankment

They know.

A dead bird, its beak smashed in, lying silently in front of a window.

It knows.

It is the quiet I long for.

I wish love was a cure.

Because the love I know is buried once again, could conquer all.

If I could just keep hold of it.

The fight goes on.

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.)

Level 10, Space 46. R2W

Thursday the 22^nd of September 2011 is a date which has been looming in front of me, taunting me with its ever so slow creeping arrival, ever since Tuesday the 13 of March 2010.

I had clambered slowly up the 12 flights of bitter cold, rock hard and dirty, concrete stairs heading towards my car for the final time, my breath freezing in front of me in heavy bursts.

Heavily pregnant and facing the very real possibility I would need a lung transplant by the time I reached the top, and wondering if there would ever be a time I would feel confident enough to tackle the lift on my own, I remained ecstatic.

My enormous, 80% KFC/20% baby belly bulging out in front of me, swinging from left to right, my arse protruding out from behind me, the sheer volume of my weight increase ensuring it was now so heavy it bumped each and every step on the way up, I stopped for a breather upon reaching my floor.

Leaning heavily against the grimy, dirt stained car park window looking down upon the work place, which had been the absolute center of my universe for the last 8 years, I felt nothing but pleasure.

I was free.

I had a whole year off to play, I was the center of everybody who cared about me’s attention, I had a full month before he arrived to eat as much as I wanted without guilt and then the most exciting moment of my life was going to occur.

I was going to have a baby.

Me, Lexy Ellis, was going to have a baby.

The world would never be the same again.

Labour would be a cinch.

Everybody said so.

It would be a drop in the ocean; nothing in comparison to the years of magical moments and everyday tenderness that would herald his arrival.

Yes I have put weight on, I thought to myself, heaving myself back in to the standing position, my center of equilibrium massively squew-wif, nearly toppling over as I picked up the numerous bags crammed with presents from my work friends, but that too will drop off in a jiffy, everyone said so, so let my 12 months of freedom begin.

I will miss work, but it will still be here in a year’s time, maybe six months if I can get things organized quickly enough.

I am free and am about to have the happiest 6/12 months of my life.

I cannot to wait to see his little face, I cannot wait to cherish his every breath, I cannot wait to hold this little angel in my arms and feel like the world finally makes sense.

He will be my all, and in my all I will find my true happiness.

This will be the best year of my whole damn life.

This will be the best year, although he may not remember it, I will, of my precious baby’s life.

Great expectations and all that.

This morning as I scrambled from my car and headed in to work for the first time in 19 months, a slender size 14, with my nervous system ensuring I was encased within a permanent aroma of bum, I remembered back to that day.

How full of hope I was at what was about to happen.

How excited I was over the coming months.

How happily overweight I was.

How content I felt that everybody seemed to like me, love me during that time.

How bloody deluded I was about the weight falling off.

And how optimistic I was about my shared future.

I leant against that same window this morning, feeling melancholy, and looked out at the work place which had once been the be all and end all of my life, and which now, most unexpectedly seemed like an intimidating and daunting structure, and I thought back to the day I had left, arms filled with dreams and my heart filled with hope.

And I cried.

I did not cry the tears of a victim who does not want to return to work.

I did not cry the tears of a hard done to child who wants her own way.

I cried because I wanted to rewind the clock.

I cried, because I felt I had every right to feel that way, and yet still, there was nothing I could do about it.

I wanted to snatch back the moments I was supposed to have felt, the moments I was meant to have enjoyed. The moment when he first grabbed my finger and I had felt nothing, the moment when he first said ‘Mammy’ and I had shouted that I didn’t care, the moment when he handed me my first mothers day card and I had run to the kitchen in search of a knife to cut away the pain, the moment when he would come for a hug and I would run away as fast I could, and the many moments of hidden tenderness between a mother and her new born that I heard so much about but could not find or feel.

I sobbed because looking out of that filthy window on the world I was now heading back in to, I wanted to snatch back the moments, which post-natal depression stole so brutally from out under me, that I could never re-claim.

I sobbed because the journey I have actually been on, is not the journey I so desperately craved, felt I deserved and had longed for since I was a little girl walking around with my dolly dressed in dungarees.

I grieved for the person I once was, who still lay dormant inside of me, but of whom I had to let go.

19 months ago I was a girl on a mission to enjoy becoming the perfect mother.

Today I am a woman who has been broken, fixed, broken some more and glued back together, for the interim, while she still tries to find a few missing pieces.

I have to let go of the loss of my dreams, I have to let go of the person I was, and I need to release the guilt I have harbored for the little boy, who arrived in this world bursting with love, but who received nothing, from the one person who was desperate to give it to him.

I have to build new dreams, be the person I am now, and replace the guilt with contentment.

At some point I am sure I will be able to do all of these things.

After spending a few moments cleaning up the gunk now splattered across my face, the mascara from below my mouth and the snot from all over my hands, I turned my back on the window and began to totter unsteadily down the same unforgiving stairs I had fought so hard to climb up 18 months ago.

Still not brave enough to take the lift.

‘Hey Lexy.’ My boss had greeted me kindly. ‘ You look great, how are you feeling? Within a few hours, it will be like you have never been away.’

I couldn’t help but think, as I waited for my new gate pass, that it will never in one hundred years, feel like I have never been away, this I can guarantee.

How am I feeling?

Frightened, scared, anxious…. But ready for the next chapter of my life.

The one where my only expectation is to take every day as it comes, and to forgive myself for ‘my year off.’

It was not my fault.

They say, don’t they?

The first chapter of a book draws you in, but the second is where you find the real depth.

I am back in my office, and although my son is in nursery now, he is actually right here with me, engraved in my heart, so being back in work seems small fry.

I hate it yes, but in 3 hours I will see my son.

And once again, I am filled with hope.

And who knows?

Maybe tomorrow,  I will be brave enough to tackle the lift.

*This post was brought to you by Post Natal Depression, 1 last shove away from being gone. I hope.

Ann Glummers.

What does one pack to stay in a lunatic asylum?

The answer all though you may think simple is actually a recipe for disaster.

Let us examine the evidence.

Your head is west, your soul east, your mind north, and your boobs, as always… pointing south.

Couple this with having to put ones case together in the dark to avoid waking and therefore sobbing all over a small boy you are not sure you should leave, not actually wanting to go, a hefty amount of denial that anything is wrong with you in the first place (other than being a drama queen) and you quite literally have created a situation that I would have to liken to letting go of a social hand grenade in a heavily populated crazy house.

Also, let us not forget you are still two stone heavier than you believe you are and the climate has been temperamental to say the least.

Are you dying to know what I brought?

I honestly was.

I had absolutely no recollection of packing at all and was shocked to see the sheer volume of luggage waiting for me, piled dangerously on the single bed when I arrived in to my room.

2 heaving pale pink mucky rucksacks, one snowboard sized (body bag felt a little inappropriate an adjective here) sports bag, a bursting glittery river island ‘hand bag’ (Aka cargo carrier) and the age old and ever present plastic Aldi bag (you can take the girl out of Eccles…) were all sat anticipating my arrival.

‘Are these the bags you packed Lexy?’

I walk towards them slowly trying to banish thoughts of running home and back in to the arms of the Irish one and Baby Woo. This is too strange a place. My head is too strange a place. I do not live here. I do not know if these are the bags I packed.

But I must have done.

‘I think so yes’ I whisper, moving over to the window and looking outside. Completely lost and yet feeling a little bit found.

‘Ok honey,’ the young nurse continues kindly from behind me ‘are you ready for your bag search?’

‘Bag search?’ I gasp turning around, my breath catching in my throat, my heart beginning to hammer in my chest.

‘Yes, we have to check your bags to ensure you have brought only relevant items, this may seem a little over the top but I am sure you can understand’ she declares snapping on a pair of plastic gloves and looking nervously at the mountain of crap still piled precariously on the bed.

Flashbacks of the night previous scream through my subconscious mingled in with movie stills from Sandra Bullock in 28 days. (Jeremiah was a bullfrog….)

What the hell did I pack??

I am struggling to separate the two mangled thought patterns when a single memory pushes to the forefront of my mind and my bowels audibly turn over in a fit of horror.

Jesus Christ.

Please tell me that in my fog induced state, I haven’t packed my dildo.

Wading through my muddy memory banks trying to recall the last time I saw my neon pink rampant rabbit, a man walks in to the room and I almost pass out.

‘I hope it is ok Lexy but I need to be here to process everything too, it shouldn’t take long and then we can leave you to make yourself at home…’ Nick the ward manager fiddles with his handle bar tash and feels out behind him for a chair.

‘Ok, no problem’ I whisper praying my bowels don’t release all over the floor and hopping from one foot to the next.

There is a lot to be said for ‘living in the moment’ but to be honest at this point; dying in the moment seems more applicable.

Trying to vanquish thoughts of Nick in leather chaps from my mind (it’s the tash, I keep wanting to call him Kenneth,) I turn towards the window, leaving my back to the room. My very own metaphorical escape attempt, and believe me, this is the kind of room, led to by a deserted and lonely corridor, you would really want to escape from at the best of times nevermind when you have the cast of ‘carry on the crazy’ stuffed in there struggling for breathe with you.

My home for the foreseeable future is a cramped and murky cream carpeted quadrangular room tagged on to the end of an eating disorder unit on the upstairs ward of the hospital. It has an adjoining triangular bathroom off to the right, which can be accessed through a heavy and vicious swinging door.

(Mental note to self; when desperate for a wee, do not PULL door out towards you, walk in to the bathroom and then grapple for the light switch back on the outside of the wall as this will clearly leave your arm exposed to the down right sinister and hit man-esque rebounding door. The pain you will feel as it crushes your radius (posh word for arm bone) is in no way similar to self-harm. It is just ruddy painful and you could really do without it. Follow this process dick head, and you should be fine. Flick light switch, PUSH door in and then wee. Simples.)

There are two bay windows beside the single bed which look out on to the communal garden (occupied with nutters lounging around on bean bags – I should fit right in) which give the room a light and airy feel even though the room itself, even without me in it, is quite cluttered with stuff.

A giant mahogany wardrobe, a matching wooden and outsized desk fitted with lockable draws, a slightly bigger than single bed and two large bedside tables have also been crammed in to the room, along with a hardback desk chair and a deceptively comfortable (but not at all) armchair by the door, which Nick himself is now perched in, flip board balanced on his crossed knee, and pen poised and awaiting instruction.

Hopping from foot to foot in the corner, and trying not to make eye contact with either of my unwelcomed guests I attempt to open the window.

Unfortunately, as I then find out, the windows do not open very wide; presumably to stop you from committing dildo induced Harry Carry.

‘Ok, here we go. Nick, if you can make a list, I will start with the first bag.’

From behind me, I hear her as she unzips the full length of my horribly kitsch bursting at the seams hold all and is accosted by an explosion of fabric. She takes a deep breath and dives in.

• 1 long cardigan. Beige. I think what she meant was; could have once been described as white but now resembles the colour Dulux would probably label ‘Ingrained dirt.’
• 1 pair of trousers, size 10 she looks up at me dubiously before continuing Navy blue. Half a powdery white tablet in the pocket.

My heart stops beating.

‘Lexy, I am hoping this is a Paracetamol but either way’ she sighs, turning it over for examination ‘it will be confiscated and put in clinical waste’

‘Umhum.’ I reply, returning back to watching the mentalists out of the window while beads of sweat congregate at the base of my spine. ‘It will have been a Paracetamol, I don’t do drugs. Not anymore anyway, I used to but only recreational, not like…’

‘Stop talking.’ She interrupts. ‘You don’t have to explain.’

‘Yet.’ I panic to myself, while enduring visions of her pulling out a swirling whirling mechanical cock from the bag and saying deadpan,

• One penis. Hardly used. Size Large.

I turn back to the window and concentrate on breathing. The stomach clenching torture continuing from behind me.

• One pair of jeans. Size 12, light blue. Ripped.  Scruffy bitch.
• One high-heeled shoe. Size 5. Green. Yes, just one.
• One hooded jumper. Red. That stinks of vomit.
• Another high-heeled shoe. Size 5. Blue. Eh?
• One seemingly ancient teddy bear with one eye missing. Wearing a dinosaur print baby-gro. That’s fat-tum. My childhood bear. *Cringe*
• One packet of fragrance free Asda brand baby wipes. Huh?
• One pair of leggings. Black. Gusset torn. Oh god I brought the old ones.
• Two packets of new Asda knickers size 8. Seriously? Size 8? For the love of god! What planet was I on? Wedgie.com! FFS!
• One make up bag containing a shit load of powder covered crap. She may not have said these exact words but everybody in the room was thinking it. Even fat-tum. (Who was probably also a bit pissed off to be wearing a baby gro. He is 31.)
• 2 wonder bra’s, one black one white. Shhh! The secret is out. I no longer have boobs but used condoms hanging from my breastplate. Ahhh the magic of motherhood. Never mind empty nest syndrome. I have empty breast syndrome.
• A single and lonely croc. Red. I’ve lost the other one but I love them.
• A laptop.
• 5 Pamper’s size 4 nappies. 2 things are wrong with this picture. Why the hell have I bought nappies? And Addy is in size 5’s anyway… Go figure.
• More Asda own baby wipes. We never have wipes at home? Where have these all come from? Poor Irish one, he is in charge of a child and has been left wipeless. I’ll pray for no gastro issues.
• A hairbrush, hidden under a wigs worth of dead hair. Gross. But… fuck off. It’s motherhood. Not my fault I am now the proud owner of a mullet.
• A pair of black Ugg boots. Size 6. Prized possession. At least I brought something right. She thinks, sweating in a t-shirt.
• 3 t-shirts with various designs on them. All dirty.
• One little black dress. What night is vodka night?
• One pair of GHD hair straighteners’ held together with gaffa tape.
• One pair of glasses held together with gaffa tape.
• One sports sock.
• One black sock.
• A mobile charger held together with gaffa tape.
• A hairdryer held together with gaffa tape.

‘And that’s it Lexy, so we will leave you to it…’

I turn around incredulously and stare at the empty bags. ‘Is that all?’ I stutter? ‘2 odd shoes, knickers that are going to stop the circulation to my upper body, but no willy? Thank god for no gaffa taped willy! There is No Way that would have passed the Pat test!’

I am too overjoyed with the outcome to realise what I have just spluttered.

She laughs and winks at me as Nick shuffles out of the room coughing and spitting in disbelief. (What? I’m crazy! Your bum hangs out of leather pants at the weekends! I’m almost sure of it! Sod off.)

‘There are a few articles we will need to take with us to be pat tested, I would imagine that most of your appliances held together with gaffa tape will not be returned until the end of your stay here, as they may accidentally set the building on fire. Please try and get some rest now honey, as your therapy will start in the morning. If you need anything just shout.’ She quietly closes the door behind her and I am completely and miserably alone for the first time in 15 months.

‘There is nothing I want to do more now or need to do more now, than go home.’ I whisper to fat-tum silently. ‘I want to go home.’

Post- natal depression should not hold stigma.

It is a living hell. One that needs to be taken more seriously.

It is robbing me and millions of women of thier lives, loves and glitter.

I think about my son and how I won’t see him for weeks before picking up my heavy heart and heading for the mystic garden.

Surely I am not the only Glum Mum in the village…

The Mosquito effect.

It was while I was driving to McDonalds for a sneaky Drifter Mcflurry at 8ocklock on Tuesday evening that I decided I would probably hold off on the whole killing myself thing.

I hadn’t put much thought in to the actual event other than thinking perhaps I would leave a note describing how I would like people to behave and what I would like people to wear at my funeral (big shades and lots of random dramatic hysterical sobbing please. And then a disco that goes on all night.) And yes, ok. Maybe I had thought a little about how I would do it, but I hadn’t set a date or anything.

The very idea of it was tiny. It was just a little niggling mosquito at the very back of my head that would occasionally flap it’s wings, buzz and fanny around. At first it would annoy the hell out of me and I would fight tooth and nail to swat it away.

I have to admit though, there were times during the worst Post natal depression days when I had become so lethargic in both mood and physicality that I would allow it to bounce around joyfully and my struggle to wave it away would become very lacklustre, preferring instead to lie back and watch.

It was during these lonely and hidden moments, filled with self loathing and internal sadness that, I suppose, if I am truly honest, I thought perhaps it might be a good idea.

That the world would be a better place without me in it.

I also spent an inordinate amount of time planning the disco for my funeral.

There was going to be a disco ball and vodka fountain, where instead of dipping fudge in chocolate you dipped lemon in vodka. Fabulous Drag queens would belt out a load of sad tunes but with a glittery and marvellous twist and once all the old fogeys had retired to their own homes and just the giggly girls were left, I would organize some sort of hilariously naughty camp ra ra show involving Sinita singing a whole host of 80’s tunes in a Hula skirt bonanza.

It was during my second week at therapy in a moment of madness, I admitted I had been planning to jump off a train platform.

I surprised myself by knowing which station.

So it turns out I had put some thought in to it after all, without even realising.

Enjoying the peacefulness of sitting alone in the car, swirling cheap half melted ice cream and liquid gold around a big white plastic spoon, while staring out at the grimy grey tower block in front of me and above it at the almost translucent yellow, orange and pink, tranquil and yet somehow angry, sky, I finally swatted the mosquito and allowed myself to consciously acknowledge what was going on.

Those thoughts aren’t healthy to entertain even on a subconscious level and if I was planning anything of the sort then why the hell bother putting myself through all the therapy in the hope of getting better? Surely putting oneself through hours of torturous ruminating and reminiscing over some quite traumatic events would be totally futile if the end result would be me; dead.

I have an illness. The priory hospital has helped me understand this. It is an illness just like any physical illness except it is in my brain.

It is not my fault, it does not make me a bad person or a terrible mother. It does not make me disgusting or ugly or evil, or even unworthy.

It is not my fault. 

The illness is Post-natal depression and I am not going to let it beat me.

I have a support network of friends and family, and it is time to come clean and fess up, thus allowing them to help, however hard that may be.

And most importantly I have my beautiful, angelic, gorgeous, tottering, wobbling, giggling, slobbering son who I bloody brought in to this world, and who needs me just as much as I need him.

He is my fucking everything, and even though this ‘chemical imbalance’  has robbed me of some of the most precious moments in his first year and is still attempting to steal each and every positive emotion from me I will not let it win the war.

The occasional battle maybe, but never the war.

Did I tell you about my Drifter Mcflurry?

The machine was broken so the guy made it by hand. It was my idea of heaven in a cup. Far too much topping and not enough ice cream. I still feel all warm and gooey thinking about it now.

It was one of those once in a lifetime events.

It’s funny how sometimes a tiny action made by a complete stranger, an accidental flick of the wrist, allowing too much sugar to fill up a cup, can effectively change somebody else’s life path forever, without either of them even ever realising.

Last night a Mcflurry saved my life. (The lesser known In Deep song.)

Oh and, FYI– if I ever get married, one day (cough cough, M-A-R-R-I-E-D Irish One, that thing where one person gets down on one knee and then you go to church and profess your love for one another….) my reception is going to be bloody brilliant!!!

How do I get hold of Sinita?

The quiet before the storm. (Cert 18.)

There comes a certain point in a woman’s life where she has to break the silence.

The past few weeks, in and out of the priory more times than Amy Winehouse during the drug years (and with very similar hair, much to my disappointment) has left me feeling locked inside my head with no escape.

Alcatraz holds nothing in comparison to the self-imposed confines of my radio silence let me tell you. Swimming through all types of nauseatingly smelly and putrid mud that even the likes of (that wimp) Andy Dufraine never experienced has been a regular occurrence as of late and has left me feeling both emotionally drained and exhausted as well as suffering from a pretty horrific stomach bug.

Therapy is hard, there is no two ways about it, but what is harder? Not being able to break the silence when one desperately needs to.

My fight to break the silence came to an abrupt and shocking end at approximately 8pm on Saturday night. I had just received a text from a friend requesting my company at the local pub.

‘The mums are out partying, we are at the cinema, we miss you. Where are you?’

I felt;

‘I am currently trying not to poo while violently throwing up, enjoy the film.’ 

would probably have been a slight over share on my part, and more than likely would have put the girls right off their half pints and chocolate raisins, so I chose instead to not respond, and direct my full attention and maximum focus to the task at hand.

The task being emptying ones stomach without opening ones bladder against ones will, while moaning erratically each and every time the wave of nausea crescendo’s up in to my throat, as well as, at the same time groaning ‘I’ve been siiiiiiiiiick’ at a volume the entire neighborhood can hear in a bid to ensure each and every person in the vicinity has a full understanding of what I am having to endure and can completely agree and attest to the fact that I, Lexy Ellis am a brave little soldier who is being poorly but really should win an award for her blatant courageous vomiting.

The sweat was rolling down my forehead, my stomach was cramping, convulsing and contracting and I was doing my damnest to hold on to consciousness while at the same time cleaning up the rim of the loo with a wet wipe (is there anything worse than sick on the loo rim? See? Even in times of trouble, mother nature calls to me, singing words of wisdom… hang on sorry, that’s not what I meant, I am clearly still delirious…I am still conscientious of others that’s what I meant!) When like a demon of stupidity whispering in my overworked and underpaid ear, from behind the bathroom door came a little voice, filled with fear.

‘Darling, I am sorry to trouble you, but the dog has shit everywhere and Addison has been sick all over the sofa, do you know how long you will be? I could really do with some help out here.’

I honestly think that this simply horrifying and nightmarish experience deserves a moment’s silence. I really do.  We should totally give it the respect it deserves.

But to be honest, having had enough silence over the last 3 weeks, this was the prick that broke the camels back, the cherry on the ball shaped cake, the stone being thrown in the big glass house and the icing on a big hairy poodle shaped turd.

My silence has been broken.

Can you hear me screaming?

I cleaned up dog poo while running to the toilet to be sick, Addison has a tummy bug and The Irish one was amazingly helpful but I had to clean up doggy doo doo while wiping a nappy one can only describe as a swimming pool of murky green poo and then had to be sick myself and there were bits of sweetcorn everywhere but nobody even ate any sweetcorn and why did I think that eating a bag of salt and vinegar Disco’s would settle my stomach when the all  they did was take what was remaining on the roof of my mouth off with their vinegary torture!?!? Why the hell do I have to catch everything Addison catches and then Why the HELL does doodle have to catch everything I catch? I had to clean up poo while cleaning my own sick up! Weeing when you sneeze is one thing but following through when you vomit? That isn’t funny at all! Not at all. It may have scarred me for life! Doodle witnessed it! He will never be the same again. Ever. Motherhood isn’t magical! It is tragic. Tragic. My friends were the cinema and meanwhile I was stuck in the little flat of horrors. There was no need for a talking plant or a woman with bouncy red hair, I had a dog with gastroenteritis and a baby who in between all the vomiting and wet farting, thought it was fun to try and lick a glass window, resulting in more bruises on his forehead and more screams of anguish than you would see on the hills have eyes. If you wanted to play connect the dots on Addison’s forehead now you totally could and you know what you would spell? THE HORROR THE HORROR.

I could go on, I really could, but I want to save some for the next and long overdue moaning bitch club! It wasn’t only my weekend that got me here, it was last week too! My bag got nicked, My phone screen smashed, my car got a flat tire… the list is fecking endless!

Today at the priory I intend to talk a lot.

Just woe betide, the person who politely asks how my weekend went.

A Donut is as a Donut does.

For a split second as I was shaking vanilla powder on to my Extra skinny Extra hot Extra shot Starbucks Cappuccino, my heart jumped up in to my throat, the unexpected adrenalin thudded painfully throughout my entire body and the sound of me gasping sent a shockwave through my previously silent mind.

The above statement basically explains perfectly where my headspace is currently residing. For a split second I had thought it might be salt.

Not gun powder, not a bomb, not the end of the world, as we know it, just salt.

Why I thought, in that moment as the ground opened up and I fell in a hole I struggled to climb out of, that Starbucks would have a jar of salt stood proud as punch next to the chocolate and other coffee flavored memorabilia, I cannot tell you.

I am confused, I am exhausted from deep within, and I am one big twisted, angry, bitter, irritable, anxious, sad, hysterical, surprised, ashamed, unhappy knot.

My head is so far up my arse today; I am surprised the happy, spritely girls (who I want to punch) stood by the Krispy Kreme stand at Selfridges didn’t mistake me for an anxiety filled donut. (I would definitely be in the alternate, summer collection, squeezed in between Mentalist mango and Phsyco Surprise….)

The silence in my mind is actually not silence at all, it is white noise caused by too many thoughts jostling for position and assaulting each other in their attempt to be heard, with complete disregard for the damage they are causing to their surroundings, deep within my physic. (SURPRISE!!!… sorry. I’m losing the plot.)

‘Did you change the water in the Sterilizer?’
Maybe I should swerve the car while doing 60.

‘Why don’t you give Addison a kiss, he has missed you.’
Maybe I should just slice at my stomach where nobody will see.

Physical pain is easier than mental. Physical pain I can handle.

Is that too deep for a tuesday morning? I am sorry. Here, have a biscuit.

Group therapy is like being given a donut laced with arsenic. (You just put the biscuit down didn’t you?)

I am desperate to feel the light, delicious powdered piece of heaven on my taste buds but am terrified of the horrific, gritty powdery badness and how it will affect me, which it is surrounded by.

Inside good. Outside bad. My choice.

My choice.

I was stood in the courtyard, after having marched out of my first ever group session in a fit of defiance and a cloud of rather pathetic, weak arse drama that I made the decision.

Every part of my being was resisiting this change.

Sent in to fight or flight mode at the first inkling of trouble, all the thoughts, negativity and resistance to accept change, that had been nestled safely and comfortably inside me for so long, began to rise up in an angry panic towards the surface.

I became a walking talking cliché (a movie version of crazy) and a sitting duck all in the space of an hour.

My feet were tapping, I was picking at my fingers, my eyes were darting from the door to the window and back again, my back was killing causing me to jerk randomly, and very slowly my agitation building, and my mannerisms and quirks now out of control, it became all too much for my heart and brain to handle.

‘Lexy, please tell the group about your trauma.’

I refused to look at him, like a stubborn child refusing food, I turned my face away from him. I knew what I was doing and I didn’t want to, but the teenage me had taken over, I had no choice.

‘I don’t have any.’ I stropped.

‘Yes you do.’
‘No I don’t.’

‘Yes you do.’
‘Fuck off.’  an explosion of agitation, and I ran.

Stood in that courtyard, the sun too hot on my arms, my face burning and the realisation that nobody was going to come after me dawning, I cried the first real tears I have cried in over ten years.

No drama, no present circumstances. These tears were for me, from deep within me.

Who the hell, was I fighting against?

I did have a choice, and at that exact moment, I made it.

In my second session, defying my defiance, and telling the teenager and silent army of insolence and denial to be brave, I opened up.

I will be going back Thursday.

I am no longer intrigued to see what group therapy is about, It isn’t something I am doing for material, or just because I can, or for the experience, It is something I am choosing to do for me.

And as I sit here (in bloody Starbucks!) with tears rolling down my face and my heart on a plate in front of me for anybody to have a stab at, it finally dawns on me.

[In the words of Chandler Bing] Could I beeeeeee anymore scared?

Romeo Oh Romeo, pass me that Spade…

Relationships are hard.

That much is obvious, but can I ask a question here?

Why do none of the pregnancy and ‘let us prepare you for motherhood and the ensuing torture’ bibles, warn you about the fact that at some point you will no doubt find yourself, in the misty haze of after birth glory, wanting to maim your other half with a blunt object, over the head. Several times. Repeatedly. Again and again…..and just once more for good measure.

At no time during my experience of gobbling up ‘what to expect when you are expecting’ or ‘the best friends guide to the end of your life as you know it’  do I remember reading or even touching upon a chapter which explained to me, that post-birth, not only would my relationship change indescribably overnight, but that on a day-to-day basis I would be using the restraint of a saint, to not go down for murder and enjoy the peace and quiet of a life sentence. (They have telly’s you know! And some one cooks for you!!)

Sitting in a family venue this afternoon watching Addison excitedly lap up his favourite TV characters dancing around on stage, I found myself distracted by the couple sat next to us.

‘You are a lazy bastard’ she whispered venomously at her other half, as Makka Pakka dropped his sponge, and she turned her changing bag upside down and began searching for something manically, her breath coming out in gasps. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t put it in! How hard can it be, to just follow simple instructions? You are an idiot and I hate you. I really do! You don’t listen!!’

I glanced to the left surreptitiously to get a quick look, I couldn’t help myself. It was like listening to a recording of me and The Irish one from back in the early days, and sure enough, as well as an empty changing bag, she also had a tiny baby wriggling on her knee. Her hair was upside down and her crumpled features spoke of many a sleepless night and a whole heap of misheard, ignored and unhelpful situations between her and the man who gave her his sperm and therefore, in a way, I suppose, helped her create her child.

‘Stop shouting at me.’ Came the angry, badly whispered reply, as Iggle Piggle mounted the Ninky Nonk.  ‘I can’t be bothered listening to you anymore! Give me my son, you boring cow’

It took all of my strength not to slap him for her. Boring? Does he know what she is going through??? Outrageous!! (Ahem. I could have done with some plinky plonk. See what I did there?)

This discussion between them went on for the entirety of the show, and by the end I have to say, as awful as it sounds, I was just glad that what we had been like, seemed to be the norm. (I was also thankful that the nobbly nok woo noos had finally stopped screeching and appearing, as every time they did Addison would lurch forward, and my arms were killing. Ear wigging while holding a toddler is HARD WORK y’all!)

If it isn’t the norm then please don’t tell me. I like feeling normal on occasion.

As it is, I am sure things will get easier for Mrs.Boring and Nagging and Mr.Lazy and annoying, but I really do feel their pain at what they are currently enduring.

The Beginning is  SO HARD! And nobody tells you to expect this!!

A friend of mine, who I had not seen for years visited me back in the early days, and during a tour of my flat (which took all of 30 seconds) I remember her gasping as I opened the bedroom door. Thinking she was physically appalled by the cot bed shoved up against the bed, the wardrobes overflowing with unwashed clothes and 15 cold and stagnating cups of tea slowly fermenting on the windowsill I hurridley tried to shut the door in her face, before the state of my bedroom stamped out the human race forever.

‘Aww’ she cooed instead, to my surprise. ‘It’s so romantic.’ and a funny smile spread across her face and her eyes glazed over. I looked down to see her hand absent mindedly rubbing her uterus.

‘NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’ I SCREAMED ‘ DON’T DO IT!!!! IT’S HORRENDOUS!!!!’

Ok not really.

But romantic?

Romantic was not how I would have described the faint smell of puke and baby trumps coupled with the lingering aroma of man sweat and stale formula. (No smells from me. I am perfect.)

Romantic?

Can she not sense the atmosphere in the place? It is foggy with disgarded anger.

The last event to take place in the bedroom that morning was about as far away from romantic as you can possibly imagine. World War 512, had errupted out of nowhere, or maybe World War 513, there were so many. I can’t remember.

Who knows what started it?!  During those early days, it didn’t really matter.

All I do know is; he was a complete and utter selfish arsehole who thought I was fat and had ruined my life and I was a paranoid, lazy bitch who was ungrateful, miserable and childish.

It may have been because there were no bottles clean, or something equally as monumental.

There are SO MANY BOOKS about babies and birth; I just can’t fathom why women aren’t warned about this impact on your relationship in detail! I am sure it would have helped me and the Irish One, to know that the turbulence was all part of learning to live as a three.

We wasted so much time over analysing the failure we thought our relationship was, when we could have been asleep!

Ok. I wasted so much time over analysing the failure I thought our relationship was when I could have joined him, and been asleep too.

So this is why I am sharing.

If you are in the midst of year one; Put down the spade. Take a deep breath and walk away.

You are normal. (All men are always wrong the first year. You are a saint for putting up with him. Ahem.)

Of course, if you are in year 2 and beyond and If your story was totally different from this and your romance lasted well after the baby was born and on into the first nappy change, first washing up debate and first ‘get out of bed please the baby has been screaming for 11 hours and I may be going deaf’ then, lucky you!

By that point I was plotting murder.

Needless to say, a year on, things are improving. Slowly. And I am here to tell you how.

I have been absent recently and for this I apologise. Let me explain.

I have been working on myself, my relationship, my figure and (hok puh!) my health.

No NO NO! Don’t stop reading! I am still me. I just couldn’t carry on the way I was. Something had to give. I hit make or break. We hit make or break. Everything hit make or break. The dog may now be named make or break. (Not really.)

So where have I been the last few weeks?

• We went to Spain for a family get away.

I nearly killed him on a sweltering beach at midday for letting Addison eat sand, but managed to bury my head in the suspiciously smelly gravel and scream out Spanish expletives’ to calm myself instead.

‘Me cago en la Mierda!’ – is a popular one round there, it means ‘I poo on the shit!’

I quite like this to be honest and may use it in Morrison’s to shock the geriatrics out of the way of the door, which seems to be a popular meeting point. ‘I POO ON THE SHIT, WHY MUST YOU STAND HERE FOR A CHAT!! MOVE BEFORE I RAM THEE WITH MY THIGHS!!’ – Yes. I like it.

We had a nice time in Spain. (She says through gritted teeth) but this is what I noticed;

Is there a points system in place between men and women that nobody told me about?  I had a lie in so what? Now you get the whole day to watch football and lie in the sun? And if I ask you to help in some way, you are allowed to remind me you earnt 10 points this morning while I slept?

And if this is the case, when do I get my points??

• We had a family day out.

I don’t want to talk about it. I wore a skirt. The Irish One suggested leggings. I went mad as I thought he was suggesting my cellulite was disgusting. I did not wear leggings, as a silent protest. It was very windy.  Addison wore dungarees and I forgot to pack spare pants during the commotion of thunder thigh-gate meaning that obviously Addison shat up his back, down his leg and in my hair and of course half of Blackpool saw my arse. (And my cellulite!)  

This was clearly all my fault as The Irish One had told me so.

Except, he didn’t actually say that. He wouldn’t have dared.   

• I started my diet.  

I won’t go in to huge detail about this just yet, as it really deserves a post of its own. This is how ridiculous it is! But I will say this; why do men insist on buying crap but extremely tasty food when they know you are dieting??  Not once in the last year has he brought a cream cake in to this house!

In fact, in the whole time I have known him I can honestly say I don’t think I have ever seen him eat anything other than pork and potatoes! SO WHY NOW?

Why now, when I am on a 500 kcal a day (and the rest- but if no one sees you eat it, it doesn’t count) diet, does he insist on bringing chocolate, crisps, donuts, pizza and Mc flurries in to my humble and podgy aboud?

Can I maim him yet?

• We pledged to spend at least one night a month without child in an attempt to stay young (and have a conversation without venom.)

Which means that on the 19^th of this month Addison will spend his first night in a hotel alone.

Joking. He is staying with his grandma. I am nervous. He hasn’t got a clue. My mother is nervous, although she isn’t letting on, and the kings of Leon should be nervous too. As this is where the Irish One and I are headed for the evening’s entertainment.

I apologise now if any of you are also attending the concert and you struggle to hear the music over the sound of me wringing his neck.

The night will be fun, but you and I both know, that at some point we will argue. There is just too much pressure for the night to be perfect. We are already arguing about it!

But it is a start. We are going out together. For the first time in a year. It will help. (But oh my god what will we talk about??)

I have just trawled through my well worn copy of ‘what to expect when you are fat and naive’  to check, and nowhere does it mention relationships, other than the token phrase;

‘Having a baby changes your life and may put pressure on your relationship.’

Pressure???

I am sorry Judge, please don’t send me down! (No really. Please don’t!) It was just a lot of pressure on my relationship.  I didnt mean to flatten his head with that high chair tray. It just sort of happened. ***

Is that what they are calling it these days? Pressure.

Good job we don’t have a porch.*

Or he’d be under it. **

*thing do get easier.

**apparently.

*** This is not to say I don’t love the Irish One. Of course I do. He is the light of my life, the ying to my yang and all that Jazz.

It is getting better. It is getting easier. I never stopped loving him.

Etc.

Honest.