Dory.

The Irish one has decided to start growing potatoes, on our kitchen windowsill.

I paused there so that the full horror of what I am telling you can sink in.

The man has ultimately thought about it long and hard, and has evidently come to the conclusion that growing potatoes, in an already crammed two bedroom flat in the middle of industrial Hell Manchester, is a sensible and normal thing to do.

And it’s not only potatoes.

It’s tomatoes too.

I, once again, am idealizing suicide.

Although the two events seemed to kick-start around the same time, I am almost sure they are not related.

Almost.

‘What in the hell is this on the windowsill?’

The windowsill, by the way, was the only surface in this godforsaken flat of Doom* that hadn’t already been taken up by some form of clutter.

(*If you are a potential buyer then I don’t mean any of this stuff I am saying by the way, it really is an upcoming area with great potential, filled with lovely people who only carry bricks because it looks cool,  and only look menacing because they are tired. Also this Apartment is genuinely in an ideal location for a single and semi blind person about town, who doesn’t mind the odd bit of Cancer, from the tiny industrial estate which really is further away than it smells, and also a small family who don’t tend to use their windowsills to START A FARM!)

My windowsill was glorious.

Half a meter of shiny white, varnished wood that on the one sunny day of the year would shine and glint, occasionally reminding me of sunsets in the Caribbean when I worked on the ships, of a life spent growing up in Spain free of the doldrums of this existence and occasionally in my darker moments, it would remind me of wood worm.

And then I would want to smash it to smithereens.

Because, seriously how can the very thought of a worm that eats wood just not freak you out?

It cannot be natural.

Does the worm go hard?

And if not?

HOW COME?

It is EATING WOOD!

“It’s Potatoes! Addy and I are starting a mini allotment! Isn’t it a great idea!’

I had been at work 4 hours.

This is how long it took  for an indoor allotment to be created in my kitchen.

Can you imagine what would happen if I left them to their own devices for longer than this?

Doodle would be sharing his bed with chickens, that is what would happen.

We are only one step away from chickens!

And I have a phobia of EGGS!

Anyway.

Are you bored with listening to me go on about my illness yet?

Blah blah blah, I want to hang myself, or suffocate myself, or maybe tie bricks to my feet and go for a swim in the Quays, blah blah blah… change the record.

I am bored of talking about it, but even more tired of feeling this way, of shuffling my dusty feet around and around in circles seemingly making absolutely no progress further than the occasional bout of euphoria, usually only caused by accidentally taking too much medication or perhaps spotting that Selfridges stock a new Marc Jacobs handbag.

I am sinking here, again.

I am so bored of sinking.

Of being.

So What the hell is he thinking?

Potatoes?

Is he trying to push me over the edge?

Our flat is tiny and already has four heartbeats crammed in to it.

8 if you count the Guppy fish we inherited from the neighbor who randomly moved to china in the middle of the night.

(*Seriously, LOVELY area.)

Do fish even have heartbeats?

Wouldn’t a heartbeat in something so tiny put them off their stroke?

Annoy them?

I am not going to be as predictable as to regale you with how I feel I can relate to those fish if I stare at them long enough, endlessly swimming around their prison, stuck, being able to see what life is like on the other side of the glass but never being able to reach it, with no hope, completely reliant on a small pair of bum smelling, 2 year old hands to provide their happiness, their sustenance.

But I will be honest.

Sometimes I think they may be communicating with me.

Boc Boc Boc Bo BOC BOC, basically means; ‘Kill us now you miserable bitch, or at the very least shave your damn legs and get off the Sofa.

(Boc Boc Boc is how fish talk. I am also aware chickens talk like this. DO you see a pattern emerging  here? BECAUSE I DO!)

But I can’t.

I have no energy left.

And the energy I do have I am certainly not going to waste on getting up off the sofa and shaving.

And now?

The Irish one is growing potatoes on the windowsill.

And most of my time is spent trying not to take an overdose.

Although the two may not be related, they definitely kicked off around the same time.

Oh.

And also, rather significantly, he recently told me he would never even consider moving to Spain.

And that,

May just be a Game changer.

Because if I don’t even have a hope of ever going home?

Never getting out of this fish tank?

Then really,

What is the point?

All I wanted was a tiny particle of hope.

The thought of one day going home, of heading back to everything i know? Well, as unrealistic as it may have been, it kept me going when things got very dark.

It was hope.

But now he is happily growing potatoes on the Windowsill,

And I don’t feel so lucky that I have something so precious to me, that he makes saying goodbye feel so much harder, than being forced to stay.

Even if his hands do smell of Bum.

So for now,

I will Just Keep Swimming and pray I don’t come home to poultry.

Boc Boc.

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!

Scars.

‘My foundation was rocked. My tried and true way to deal was to vanish, my departures were old, I stood in the room, shaking in my boots. At that particular time, love had challenged me to stay.’ – Alanis Morissette.  

I woke up in my single bed on that afternoon, stretching and yawning, feeling entitled to my extended and indulgent morning of sleep like only a teenager could.

It was only as I turned over and the knife-edge soared through my right arm with such ferocity it robbed me of my breath, that I was reminded of the night previous.

The first genuine smile I had expressed in a number of months lit up my heart, I was relieved.

I felt alive.

The throbbing damage done, radiating outwards like the only ripple in a stagnant and forgotten millpond.

There is no beauty here.

In agony I now trusted.

A belief.

It couldn’t let me down.

It would never leave.

A blanket of pain wrapping around me like a hug, waking me up, wiping away my tears, consoling my cracked heart, listening to my fears, supporting my askew beliefs and allowing me to indulge in my sweet new friend, self-punishment.

The glint of the knife skims my skin again and I see my determined and gritty eyes looking back up at me from it’s tilted reflection.

It is a relief when the corrugated edge stops jiggling, jumping and bouncing over my skin as if in protest, and does the job it was made to do.

Harder, much harder.

Again and again, with grim resolve I drag it over my arms.

My mind clears with heavenly nothingness as the blood pops up in joyous celebration at being freed, ready to caress, soothe and mollify my anger.

The sweet release of tangible pain.

The feel of it gifting me with the same sort of relief,  you may feel when you remove your biting bra at the end of a long day.

The high is like cocaine. (So I hear) but all too soon it is replaced with a crushing shame.

A shame that disables me.

I hurt myself to remove the hurt.

I hurt myself as punishment for the choices I have made, that I can’t go back and change.

I hurt myself because the pain takes away my past, and that is worth it, even if it is only for a few moments.

I do not hurt myself for attention.

I hurt myself because I deserve to be hurt.

A faceless stranger sits in front of me, shaking with anger, her eyes filled with confusion and hurt, wet with the tears waiting in the wings.

‘She is a bloody attention seeker, my little girl. She was my baby only yesterday, running around in a nappy and oh how I adored her; we would play the days away, my best friend.’ She pauses with a ragged breath.

I stare at the floor, immobilised.

‘It is like she has been kidnapped. She cuts and she cuts… I just want my little girl back, but right now I hate her. I hate her.’

Her hair has a grey tinge and the light from the window behind her casts a shadow on me, plunging me back in to the dark.

She lifts her hands to her face in a jerky and surprised motion and sobs.

‘I don’t hate her. I just can’t save her. She wont let me save her. But save her from what? She has a great life!’

She stamps her foot, removes her hands from her face, brutally wipes her escaped tears away and fixes on to her face, a resigned and steely glare.

I carry this woman with me a lot.

She has become a part of my life.

She sits on the mantelpiece of my misery, her legs swinging off and her smile hopeful as I try to leave the house without her.

If she were a dog, her tail would be wagging.

Can I join you today Lexy? Can I? Can I? Can I?

Like I have a choice.

She usually jumps in for the kill, just after I have grabbed my overpriced handbag that I bought trying to fill the void in me, my happy pills, and all manner of crap my two year old, still in nappies, is insistent he ‘needs’ for a day at his cousins. (Like a bucket of stones, the top of a pink plastic shark, it’s bottom discarded in the slush pile of toys, 8 dummies but not the red one, one truck with a wheel missing and his Mr. Happy fork.)

I have named this woman.

She is called Madame. Guilt.

And you’ll be pleased to know she has friends too, so she doesn’t get lonely.

They are unsurprisingly named Senor. Regret and Ms. Victoria You cant change the Past so stop trying you twat, you are a Failure and only have yourself to Blame.

They weigh my baggage down.

Usually I find them unexpectedly, while I am busy searching for the red dummy my son is insistent he brought with him, and will simply be heartbroken if he doesn’t get immediately.

I find them slotted in beside my fear of being a failure as a mother, my anxiety that somehow I will accidentally kill my son with undercooked sausages, and the yellow file marked ‘stuff you will remember you have forgotten, but only when you get to the car park outside your location, and your son vomits all over you. Stuff like wipes, money for petrol, your passport and your ability to function without tearing your hair out…’

They surely are an addictive bunch reaching their arms out in focused and determined desperation towards me, from in between the hopeful and happy days, intent on getting a handful, and when they do,  pulling and stretching me until I tear.

I am a self-harmer.

They visit me in the dead of night, waking me up and covering me in sweat, screaming to be heard even when I have my face pressed in to my pillow begging for them to go away and let me sleep.

Let me look to the future.

And when I cant silence them?

When I can take no more?

I creep barefoot like a child on Christmas eve, full of excitement and anticipation to find out whether father Christmas has been yet, to the kitchen draw, to unwrap my present of silence, or sometimes, if I don’t feel I deserve the honeyed relief of blood, I tip toe to the hair straighteners, where I will patiently await the double beep, heart pounding.

And then I will burn. And burn. And burn.

You bastard.

This is the only love you deserve.

This is love.

Feel this pain.

Feel the momentary relief.

And I relish it.

I am a self-harmer.

It has been 4 months since I last self harmed.

My longest abstinence yet, since the tender age of 14,  and onwards, without indulging, I trudge.

I am writing instead.

I am fighting.

It isn’t a walk in the park.

I am a self-harmer.

My scars tell my story.

And there she is, swinging her dangling legs, off my mantelpiece.

‘At that particular time love encouraged me to leave, at that particular moment, I knew that staying with you meant deserting me, that particular month was harder than you would believe, but I still left, at that particular time.’ – Alanis Morissette.

It is an Illness, and I am not ashamed. 

Is this the light? (Hope.)

I am in shock.

It is 2012 and I am 32 years old.

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

I just woke up.

2001 was 11 years ago,

I am in shock.

1999 was 13 years ago.

I am sad.

Where have I been?

I have been lost, without even realising.

How could I have not realised I was missing?

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

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

Ashamed. Always ashamed.

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

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

I am grieving for my lost years.

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

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

The pretence.

My broken eyes.

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

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

I remember my first meeting with James.

‘You are severely depressed’

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

I remember the slap in the face.

‘Are they?’

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

Where has the time gone?

How am I 32?

Why did I resist help for so long?

How could I be so comfortable feeling so undeserving?

Why did I resist medication for so long?

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

I am grieving for the 17 year old me.

But I am also,

I am also welcoming back the 17 year old me.

Ooo and she has a twinkle in her eye.

I like her.

We have some catching up to do.

It feels exciting.

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

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

I like the ‘right now.’

Do they still sell Diamond White?

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

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

Do I get a second chance?

I am only 32.

I hope so.

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.*

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.

Hold On To The Crazy. The Crazy Spurs You On.

I know it is in there.

I can run at force, and lunge my shoulder in to the door. I can rattle the decaying and stained gold handle and scream, pound and shout through my tears. Let me in, goddamn it let me in.

I can sink to my threadbare knees in front of the bastard armor of thick brown wood, which blocks me from entering and claw at my face with my nails and shout please please, make it stop, just please make it stop.

I can lie down beside it, heaving sobs at midnight, beaten. The cold of the night, the slap of the concrete floor, laying claim to my wet face.

I can get up before the sun rises and plaster on my heavy smile.

A smile plastered on to a face, which is becoming more manufactured with every passing day.

I even have fake eyelashes now you know.

My own eye lashes, you see, weren’t long enough or battery enough to protect me from my own self depreciating thoughts or the preying eyes of vultures trying to catch a glimpse at the crazy woman with the cuts on her arms inside of me.

I just changed Crazy girl, to crazy woman.

Because I am no longer a girl am I.

It is a fact.

I should grow up, I should shut up, I should get a grip, I should… get Botox.

Or fillers!!!

Anyway,

I know it is fucking in there.

I just can’t get to it.

I can visualize it oh so clearly in my minds eye, I feel that if I could only grab a coat hanger, I could shove it under the door and coach it out with a gentle puff and huff, like one does a mini dinosaur.

Or car.

Or chip.

I know what it looks like.

I can almost certainly remember what it feels like, and I can all too easily reminisce about the way it would positively mold itself around me, like a python, ensuring every bone in my body would fill with a fulfilling tingle, a glow, an honest to god fantastic inner smile.

A taste of hope.

If I could just get to it, if I could just find a way.

The problem with medication, one of the problems with medication, should I say, other than the obvious ‘unusual’ side effects;

Included but not limited to,

• Excessive sweating;

Which of course causes me to smell like an old tea bag minutes after I arrive, bounding and false, in to the office gates, only to find the air conditioning ‘has gone down’ and I, of course, am wearing the skin cut from a thousand sheep, (who are all now stood shivering, cursing my name, on the moors.)

• Occasional bouts of Nausea;

Just as I walk in to a full nursery room, stinking of small children, wearing sagging and sloshy nappies and locate my child biting a beetle in half, (YES A BEETLE!) causing me to unceremoniously dump the contents of my stomach in to my new handbag on the way home, while Addy insect chomper wiggly tongue in the back, sings the theme tune to Ghostbusters. AGAIN.

• Increased sex drive;

Before I go in to how truly magnificent The Irish One is finding this particular side effect, let me move swiftly to the next one.

• A loss of orgasm;

Forget ‘it’s like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife’ for Irony. Alanis Morisette, take note.

My orgasm, however, is not what I have been searching furiously for. (When would I find the time, in between all the stomping around pretending to be happy? And besides that, Doodle is always staring at me, it is very off putting.)

No, what I have been searching for, is me.

My inspiration, my laughter, my hope, my happy vision for the future , the dreams I used to nurture.

My very sense of bloody me.

I know that behind that door.

That gate.

That grotty window that I have my nose pressed up against, struggling to see through the grime, lays a dusty and dampened room filled with boxes upon boxes of regrets. Crates filled with drunken memories I hurriedly discarded and sometimes even hid behind the screw pile labeled – CRINGE.

I know I will also have to bat away the numbers flying around the room, the numbers that of course never add up.

My virginity too, will be hidden somewhere in there. Ashamed and cross with me for throwing it away on the wrong man. A man with a crappy name and not my first love, the first love who I wanted to give it to but couldn’t.

I will also find my orgasm, smirking at me.

I will also no doubt find all the things I used to enjoy. Reading magazines, singing, dancing, cooking, drinking with friends, getting dressed up and going out, chatting, hugging, a good book, a film.

When did I even lose these things?

And of course, packed in there somewhere neatly, will be my ability to write without using brackets. (God damn brackets.)

Me.

Me.

I am in there somewhere.

Regrets, warts, awful memories, but also hope, and kindness, and hope, hope, hope.

I think I could fly through those boxes now, if I was just given the chance.

I am not proud of who I was, but I can be proud of who I can become… right?

Give me back my heart. Give back my mind. Give me back my fun.

I want to take back my life. I want to take back my heart, I know I can hold it together.

And that’s what matters.

If only I could get through the doors and… feel.

With medication I am alive.

But.

Numb.

Without medication,

I want to die.

But if I could just get in that room…

Then surely…

I could stay on the medication AND swallow myself whole again.

Give me back my heart. Give me back my life. I know I can hold it together.

I don’t know.

There just has to be a way in.

Doesn’t there?

Isn’t that where the light switch to the end of this tunnel is kept?

It just all feels so pointless.

I’m back on my knees.

Will somebody please bring me a Krispy Kreme?

This concrete floor is awfully cold.

What time should I expect you?

From what I hear, we don’t have to do this alone.

Forgiveness, with Extra Cheese.

He punches me in the face repeatedly.

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

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

‘Shut up.’ He says firmly. ‘Shut up.’

I don’t matter.

****

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

It smells of last year. This makes me angry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

James coughs in to his balled up fist.

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

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

They are both waiting for me to speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘No’ I whisper. ‘I’m sorry.’

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

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

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

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

‘Try.’ James implores kindly.

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

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

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

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

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

She is beautiful and illuminated in her anger.

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

Two tears roll down my cheeks as I blink.

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

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

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

***

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

I matter.

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

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

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

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

You are my reason to fight.

You are perfect.

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

For the love of…

I am a good mummy. The best.

It’s a start.

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

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

What would you say to your bully? 

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

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

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

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

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

Today I will write. Today I will be honest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jamie’s words ring in my ears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But now look at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fair play to him.

If he can do it, maybe so can I.

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

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

The journey is long.

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

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

Thank you for all your support.

Merry Christmas.

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.