Wait… What?

Doodle the Poodle; at this very second has his bum hole hovering precariously close to my face.

(Hovering, not hoovering. Just to be clear, if Doodle’s pink and puckered bum hole was hoovering close to my face, that would be an entirely different situation all together. I would almost definitely move away at a faster pace in the hope of avoiding being sucked up. Ain’t nobody got time for that. Anyway shall we move on? I am very tired.)

I am not exaggerating either.

Right now, as I type this, I actually have a dog’s (pink and puckered bum hole – have I already mentioned it was pink and puckered? I am so very tired I cannot think straight) moving closer and closer towards my left eye ball.

Right eyeball.

Wait, what? Did I say Left?

Anyway.

I once had a friend who, when pregnant, avoided cats Faces like the plague.

On her first Dr’s visit while pregnant you see, he told her that Cats Faeces were terrible for unborn babies and could kill them, and she misheard him.

I am telling you this, just so that you know, that no matter how tired and utterly stupid you get as a side effect of said exhaustion, (because of that child of yours, working, washing, ironing, putting petrol in the car, school dinners, having to sex up your other half while meal planning for the next fortnight, (wait… what?) and all the other life stuff, you always know, you are not alone.

And hey! At least you never ran screaming from a cat’s face.

There is an army of us.

United in our exhaustion based stupidity.

All knackered, all wondering where it all went wrong, all leaving the house with our shirts on inside out, all trying to avoid fast food, and all, at the back of our minds, contemplating suing Durex for millions of pounds (because seriously how would they EVER know? And the money could be really well spent on a NIGHT NANNY.)

I can only assume, as he gyrates, spins, whimpers and shakes in front of me and on top of me (Doodle, not the Irish one), that he too has spotted the dock off great big and hairy, 8 legged house guest currently known as; OH MY GOD LOOK AT THE SIZE OF THAT SPIDER which is currently tap-tap-a- tapping its way slowly across the laminate floor towards the kitchen (probably to make itself a sandwich and grab a beer because lets face it, it has no kids and it won’t matter if it is a hung-over spider in the morning.)

Wait… what?

The fact that instead of pushing him off me (Doodle I mean, not the Irish one, because no matter HOW tired I am, I ALWAYS have the energy to NOT have sex) and I am instead just leaning around him, is pretty standard behaviour for me these days.

I self preserve where I can.

I can’t blame Doodle for his behaviour either; the spider is huge, but mostly? I have nothing left to give.

I literally have no energy left.

And I blame Addison. (And the inventors of Candy crush) because My three year old (and my Ipad mini) have sucked the life out of me. (Can anyone get past level 50? That Jelly is impossible!)

This isn’t what I was going to write about today either to be honest, but as I am right now having to peer around my dogs monkey bum hole to see the screen, I really feel like the post I was going to write, (a deep and meaningful about how making a mistake makes you human) seems a bit moot, so instead I have decided to give in to the delirium and write a competency based interview on the joys of motherhood.

Because, well, why not?

1) Can you give me an example of a time you have sneezed and either thought you were about to follow through or actually did? (But you saw this as more of an inconvenience than an embarrassment?)

2) Can you give me an example of when somebody you may have known (or in fact not known at all) inappropriately grabbed your stomach and uterus during pregnancy and behaved as if caressing you in public was something completely normal and appropriate?

3) Can you give me an example of a time you have sat through half an hour of Cbeebies even when the child was asleep because you couldn’t be arsed reaching for the remote?

4) Can you give me an example of a time you have had to spellcheck Cbebbeeies because it has the most ridiculous spelling ever?

5) Have you ever experienced complete memory loss? Like when, you are half way through telling a really brilliant story involving your other half or even your best friend and all of a sudden you can’t remember their name? (But incidentally can in fact name the entire cast of 300 trains from Thomas the tank engine.) And then have to laugh off the fact your work colleague had to remind you what your husband was called?

6) Have you ever wanted to punch someone just because you are tired and they are not?

7) Have you ever cried in to your pillow because you love your child so much, But if they get up One!

More!

Time!

You will be forced to trap your own head in between the door and the doorframe and SLAM over and over again in a bid to stay sane?

8) Can you give me an example of a time you tried to have a conversation with a friend, but kept getting distracted and then forgetting the end of what you were supposed to be….

Oh bloody hell, hang on, the child just woke up, I’ll be back in a minute…

Wait… What?

What was I doing again?

We. Are. Not. Alone.

…. Right?

A Million more minutes.

‘Tomorrow is my birthday.’

I can feel the sweat starting to form on the back of my neck as I wait for the lady in front of me to pay for her shopping.

We, my son and I, are appropriately dressed for the North Pole (or April in Manchester).

Hats, boots, scarves, body warmers and thick jeans hang off our every appendage, outside we were smugly toasty, laughing the baltic weather in the face, but it has to be said, now we are inside, I am starting to regret dressing us both in thermal undies.

Addison is heavy at the best of times, but having him hanging around my neck, his nearly three year old chunky limbs, which used to be so tiny, covered in thick wool and toggles, his lead snow boots kicking me in the thighs, well, I feel as if I may pass out.

And now, while he relaxes in my arms and I lose half my body weight in sweat and fluster, he has kindly struck up a conversation with the old bid behind us.

I turn to shoot a smile and roll my eyes at the old lady queueing behind us, the old lady, I notice immediately, that is only buying a loan loaf, a lonely bottle of milk and a single and sad looking bag of skittles, and instead I instantly admonish myself for calling her a bid, and thinking she wouldn’t be interested in him.

The smile on her face is wide.

She is beholding him as if he were a long lost relative.

I can tell he has managed it again.

Now i will roll my eyes and smile.

She is around his little finger, just like that.

This boy is such a player.

I am going to have to beat it out of him. (He will be still living with me when he is 40. He is never allowed to leave me. EVER.)

I smile, but even though his face is RIGHT next to mine, she barely notices me.

‘Is it really?’ she says bringing her gnarly, bent finger up to his soft, silk cheek and resting it lightly on the side of his face, absolute uncensored love and memories of her own, pouring from her smile.

Honestly, her memories are so vivid in her eyes, I feel as I stand in front of her, I can almost feel how her life has played out.

I can almost watch, touch and feel her experiences, as if she is playing a black and white movie to me in a heartbeat.

I see how maybe she used to be like me, she used to have a three year old adoring her, maybe more children, hanging off her neck, kissing her, driving her barmy, how she adored every minute and now; well now…

She has one bag of skittles.

Where is her three year old?

‘And how old will you be little one?’

She pulls her hand away and her eyes meet mine for a split second.

In that moment I confirm as only a mother can that she is ok to continue and I don’t mind in the slightest.

There is a part of me that wants to reach out and hug her, invite her to babysit maybe… (kidding.)

Usually I hate when people just randomly touch my son without asking.

It is one of my pet hates.

He is not a dog.

Stop petting him.

I think it stems from a family holiday we took to Morocco when I was eight.

Basically wherever we walked as a family, locals would wander up to me and begin touching and rubbing my hair.

I was like a magic lamp.

Honestly.

This actually happened!

I have since heard it is quite typical in Morocco, as I suppose they don’t, or they didn’t in the 80’s anyway, tend to see too many blonde, blue eyed, children.

I have to say at first I loved it.

It spoke to the eight-year-old diva in me, who even at that young and impressionable age was desperate for fame, fortune and a pop star status. (With possibly a few diamonds, a massive My Little Pony house and definitely a trampoline, thrown in for good measure…. And an eye patch. I always wanted an eye patch.)

My parents also seemed to be enjoying the hilarity and attention connected to market stall holders, waitresses, passing business people, randoms, men, women, and other mothers and fathers stopping in their tracks at the sight of their daughter.

I think if my mum could have, she would have happily yanked my hair off my head with her bare hands and worn it as a blonde wig herself. That is how much attention I seemed to be getting.

It was wonderful, for a while.

‘How many camels for your daughter? How many camels for your daughter??’

Yeah.

And then it wasn’t.

‘I give you three and a half camels!’

And while my dad pretended to barter for me, and people continued to yank at me, and my brother pissed himself laughing and my dad pretended to agree to two camels, and I didn’t realise he was joking, (and to be fair I don’t think the Moroccon man did at first either) everything kind of changed.

I have never been able to look at a camel since without questioning my worth.

But anyway, back to the old woman.

‘Three!’ he cracks her a wide smile.

I turn back to the queue, moving forward as the woman in front leaves, and as I always do, heaving Addison over on to the till and sitting him in the end, the silver tray bit with the bags, so I can bag, and he can help me – this always raises a smile out of the cash person, as if they cant quite believe I am doing it.

I am already miles away as I bag.

I am absentmindedly throwing cans of beans in on top of the bread, apple juice in with fresh chicken and tucking the Tena lady in behind the Pampers while I think of what we have to do next to be sure we are ready for tomorrow, when the old lady leans over the till and most unexpectedly presses a pound in to Addison’s hand.

Now even without suffering from a side effect of depression, aptly named ‘You will scrawk anytime something nice happens’ I am touched by this lovely and most random act of kindness.

Addy’s mouth is hanging open as he looks down at the coin resting in his sweaty palm.

‘Addy!’ I say, after thanking the lady profusely, feeling a little embarrassed, not quite knowing the social etiquette for something like this, so insisting quite brusquely she really didn’t need to, but thanking her anyway.

‘Addy! What do you say to the nice lady? She gave you a pound! Isn’t she a nice lady! What do you say?’

He looks at the coin in his hand, and I see it going through his mind before I hear it.

He thinks she is playing shop, like he does with mummy at home.

It is too late though.

I cannot stop what is about to happen.

‘Thank you lady.’ He says very nicely. ‘But have you got a fiver?’

I almost died.

***

*Dear Addison,

Today you turned 3 years old.

Happy birthday my incredible boy.

The love I feel for you is more powerful than any emotion I have ever felt in my entire life.

You astound me and surprise me everyday and the moments I share with you right now during these weeks; singing ‘we stick together like glue,’ from the back of the car, you touching my face as I read you bedtime stories and we lie together cuddled in your tiny bed. Our mammy and Addy day’s spent whittling away the hours just being us, the times you mortify me in public places by grabbing my boob, asking for money or shouting ‘Mummy that man is a Muppet!’ well, they are without a doubt, the very best days of my life, days I will cherish and never ever forget.

You cry when I cry, my sensitive little boy, you have taught me what love is, which is why, once again, I thank you for saving me, when no one else could.

I will always want a Million more minutes with you.

(Which, incidentally, is why you aren’t moving out until you are 40.)

X

Mammy.

Jennifer Anniston? I want my life back.

There was a moment, in which my tired and rung out mind tried to connect with what my eyes were actually seeing, and then when it did finally catch up, I experienced a physical shock as the realisation of what was about to happen went straight through me, as if I had been thumped hard in the groin.

I had turned my back for two minutes.

And now this.

Sometimes I do wonder if there has been some sort of mistake with the gods of fate, like maybe my ‘Life Menu’ and Jennifer Anniston’s ‘Life Menu’ got mixed up, and actually maybe it is her that should be cleaning runny toddler poo out of the dog’s bed, and it is I that should have been off having glamorous and rampant sex with Brad Pitt.

(And yes, I know it has been a while since they broke up…  ok. I will re-phrase that, I know it has been more than a while since they broke up, but I will just never get over it ok? I just NEVER WILL! THEY WERE PERFECT TOGETHER! What was he thinking?)

Sometimes, ESPECIALLY on days like today, I occasionally catch myself looking up to the heavens beseechingly, as if to ask the universe if it is enjoying watching me get no sleep, trip up, drop a pint of milk, nearly run my car in to a parking meter and finally, scoop poo out of Doodle’s cushioned fortress.

And then usually, ESPECIALLY, on days like today, it gives me it’s answer.

‘Mammy Mammy, wake up! It is light outside; it is time to get up! Mammy Mammy, I did a wee in my bed!’

Jennifer Anniston eat your heart out.

I prize my eyes open and stare at my bright eyed and bushy tailed son. He is holding his distinctly moist and clammy hand out and positioning it under my nose with a big grin on his face.

How? How? HOW?

How is it possible that after waking me up literally every twenty minutes in the night, to ask for all manner of crap, including but not limited to –

1am – He wanted a cheese and onion cement mixer.

2am – He could hear a mallard. (Not a duck, a ‘mallard!’)

3am – He needed to speak to me about, and I quote ‘borrowing a fiver.’

4am – He needed to ask me if I remembered a specific episode of Ben and Holly where Nanny Plum lost her magic license and they all…. who cares?

5am- I could hear him singing Lady Gaga ‘telephone.’

That he is now this bright eyed and bushy tailed?

The stench of baby wee is overpowering.

I need coffee.

I am a bad mummy.

I get him changed but I do not brush his teeth.

I need proper coffee.

I put his shoes on but I do not brush my hair or his.

I fling on my coat over my pyjamas and grab my sunglasses.

If I am to get through today I need a Starbucks a hell of a lot more than I need a shower.

I am a bad mummy.

I don’t feed him before we go.

‘We will just quickly dash through the drive through’ I mumble as I haul him in to his car seat and he happily tells me about his favourite yellow digger ‘then we will come home and start the day’ I interrupt him.

He sings all the way there, in between asking me every random question known to man.

What is that birdie doing up there?

Where are the clouds?

Is there a man in that van?

Does he like diggers?

Where is that ambulance going?

I spend the journey answering his onslaught as best as I can, given that I am operating on limited battery life.

I don’t know.

No idea.

Maybe.

Possibly.

Somewhere far away…

The end is in sight.

But of course, the universe knows I haven’t brushed his teeth, that I am still in my pyjamas, and that I do not clearly deserve a break, and the bitch is going to make me pay.

DRIVE THRU* CLOSED.

‘Come on baby’ I smile through gritted teeth pulling the car in to the disabled space, looking up to the heavens and grimacing, refusing to be beaten ‘GAME ON universe!

‘We will run in and out, it is too early, no one else is here, no one will see us, quick, quick, quick!’

I lean my full weight on the heavy glass door and push it open, half carrying half dragging the toddler behind me, and oh the release! Oh the heavenly smell of Starbucks!

The intense and entirely intoxicating aroma of coffee immediately envelope’s me in a big fat hug and I am at one. I can feel my heartbeat returning to normal, it doesn’t matter that my morning breath could strip paint, it doesn’t matter that one side of my hair is stuck to my head and the other is kinked and greasy. It doesn’t matter that I have mascara smudged under my eyes, and that I have had no sleep.

I am relaxing. Soon I shall have coffee, the world is just how it should be.

‘Everything will be ok now.’ I smile at Addy like a druggy high on glue and cake ‘They have caffeine in this place. Mummy will be ok now.’

As he looks back up at me, he senses his moment and asks me for the ridiculously overpriced pancakes that I would usually say no to, but at that moment, lost in the saviour scent of my Mecca,  I just nod and smile and think ‘baby you can have whatever you want now we are here.’

Oh and how the universe laughed.

Because of course, who then trundled in behind us?

My ex-boyfriend.

Of course! 

But not only my ex boyfriend, oh no.

That wouldn’t have been awful enough.

NO, in walked MY ex boyfriend and the girl he cheated on me with, his now wife. 

And they were both immaculately dressed and ready for work, smiling secret smiles and laughing between themselves.

They saw me.

I saw them.

And then of course, we all had to make small talk.

AWWWKWAAAARRRD.

And as if that wasn’t bad enough, because quite clearly, the universe by this point wanted to finish me off completely, Addison decided at that very moment to start straining.

Did I mention we are trying to get him out of nappies, but he hasn’t quite got the hang of it yet?

‘Mammy! I am pooing!’

(And of course I had nothing with me. So he had to travel home with a naked bum. But it was ok, because my red face kept him warm.)

And that was my morning.

So now, if you don’t mind, while Addison is crashed out in bed, I am going to go and dig a very deep hole, and bury myself in it with what remains of my self-esteem.

Jennifer Anniston? I want my life back.

*I am aware Thru is not the correct spelling of Through. Just so you are aware.

Kiss the Rain. (Hello? Can you hear me?)

I see all these amazing mums, doing all these amazing things, like baking cakes, making chickens out of paper cups using only snot and lipstick, getting their kids to eat vegetables without an epic discussion or fight before every mouthful and I always stop and think… WOW! I should get them to do some stuff for me.

My best friend throws her head back and laughs heartily.

‘You are an amazing mum Lex, look what a happy boy he is! Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘I don’t bake though Jules. We once made Peppa Pig ready-bake cakes and I managed to smash a pan lid to smithereens. He cut his feet, I sliced my hand, and they came out burnt and stinking of death.’

‘Yeah but…’

‘And we weren’t even using a pan!’ I interrupt her passionately ‘We were using a baking tray! I’m ridiculous. Also, I’m scared of eggs. What kind of mother is scared of eggs? It’s ridiculous!’

‘You don’t have to be able to bake you know, and so what if you are scared of eggs, I am scared of beans, as long as they feel loved, that’s what kids remember…’ she falls in to silence as she notices I have become instantly distracted.

‘Did you hear that?’ I ask her, my eyes wide, my head up like a deranged Meer cat as I peer through the Cafe crowds at soft play.

I am both hunted and hunting, ‘someone called my name.’

‘No,’ she picks up another chip, and continues to remind me of why although we are both not perfect, we are good enough… but I am lost.

I am haunted.

Someone is calling my name.

An hour before this conversation took place I was in a jam packed, bursting to the rafters H&M trying to purchase my toddler some new jeans.

The Creature that God Sent to Test Me, as I have now taken to calling him (we are potty training) was following me around moaning about wanting to go on the ‘tunnel slide’ and leaving behind him a trail of ice cream and muck so distinct, Hansel and Gretel would have been proud to call it their own.

I was too hot, harassed and tired and I needed a wee. My bag felt like a dead weight on my back and we had been there, traipsing around for far, far, far too long. (6 minutes.)

Nevertheless, there was a light at the end of the tunnel, if I could only find the boy a much needed pair of jeans (ones that grow with him ideally and are made of durable denim, or perhaps tear resistant steel) we could leave and head happily off to the soft play Centre (of doom.)

So on I continued with my courageous battle through the tightly packed rails of H&M children’s wear, trying to gallantly locate a pair of trousers for him that weren’t either 8 inches too long in the leg or had a girth that would fit a midget father Christmas.

I may write a letter to all children clothes shops, actually.

Dear (Stupid, stupid unhelpful) People who Make Kids Clothes,

Just because my son has long legs does not mean he is as fat as a pregnant Umpalumpa. Tall kids are generally not fat waisted, and short kids are generally not super skinny OR fat waisted. Please sort your heads out. Kids come in all different sizes and shapes.

Please consider making some trousers with skinny waists and long legs. OR at the very least offer us a plethora of belts.

Also, Have you any idea how annoying it is that you don’t all use a generic sizing chart when making your clothes?

Asda George, you seem to think a 3 year old is the size of a small widowed Spanish grandma and your Newborn sized Onesie’s could potentially fit the Irish one! You do realise we aren’t a nation of giants, right? How big do you think a birth canal is??

Where as H&M! You seem to think 3 year olds don’t even exist?? You size your clothes age 2-4. THAT IS A BIG YEAR TO MISS OUT UNDER THE MISGUIDED ASSUMPTION THEY STAY THE SAME SIZE!! Think about it H&M, nobody ever mistakes a 2 year old for a four year old do they??? SORT IT OUT!

Yours truly,

Lexy Ellis.

Anyway.

Eventually, after he had lost patience and started playing up in protest, I had asked him to stand still 26 times, dangled him by his limp arm in an attempt to keep him upright and he, insisting it was time to lie down, had spun from my upheld hand like a Christmas tree decoration, after I had chased him out of the shop and back in 11 times, apologised to a man who had been inadvertently head butted in the scrotum (not by me, by the toddler) in the ensuing kafuffle, he finally gave up, and so did I.

He wanted to lie down on the floor and sing The Wheels on the Bus and I needed to buy jeans, so in the end I decided we should both just do what we needed to do, to get the job done.

So we did.

‘THE WHEELS ON THE BUS GO BANG! BANG, BANG BANG BANG POO!’

Eventually I almost euphorically, located some jeans I thought might fit and decided it was probably high time I put a stop to the Wheels on the Bus Remix which was emanating from below the Skinny leggings and Sock shelf.

It was at this exact moment, while turning to wrestle Addison off the ground, with three prim and proper good mothers staring at me with barely hidden judgment from behind their pristine prams, one 16 year old sales assistant tutting about my apparent lack of parenting skills, and the man whose balls were clearly still stinging, singing a high-pitched solo in the corner, it happened.

“Lexy? OH MY GOD!”

I whipped my head around to see whom it was, and rather frighteningly was met, by nobody.

Have you ever met a person who freely admits to hearing voices?

Like real voices in their head?

Not thought voices.

Not the ones I assume we all experience, those that whisper to us from inside our mind, sometimes telling us we are useless, or maybe sometimes amazing, or perhaps we will win but maybe we won’t. The thought voices, reminding us of things, that sometimes we speak out loud. (Right? we all hear those right? RIGHT?)

Not those voices.

They are just our thoughts aren’t they?

I mean actual voices.

You probably don’t think you have ever met anyone who is that shit on the bed mental crazy before.

I am not sure we are supposed to talk about it.

Us bat shit poorly crazy ones.

I think we are meant to be ashamed, embarrassed, too frightened to share.

But I want to.

I am not weird. (Well, I may be a bit bonkers, but according to the Mad Hatter, all the best people are.)

I am normal, I laugh, I joke, I cry, I am a mum, I change nappies, I eat, I watch telly, I let the dog out, I eat cake, I do a weekly shop, I get on with my life, I am planning a wedding, I am looking forward to this year.

I hear voices.

Maybe if I talk about them, the voices, maybe if I explain them, explain what it is like to hear them, I will feel less alone, less frightened.

‘Radio Chorley!! Coming in your ears.’

That is what it is like.

They are in my ears, not in my head.

SO real.

Just. THERE.

‘Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!’

His shouting wakes me with a shot of electricity straight to my heart.

I jump out of bed, stub my toe and sprint, hop and curse to his bedroom, where I expect to find him in the throes of a terrible nightmare.

The house is in darkness, nobody has stirred, not even the dog.

As I lean over his little body, physically shaking from the shock of the noise, the urgency in his voice, poised and ready to pick him up, hug him to me and soothe him from his bad dreams, I pause.

His breathing is long and measured.

He is fast asleep.

I have a great sense of unease as I crawl back in to bed and try and get my toe in my mouth to suck it better. (Don’t tell me you never considered trying to suck your toe when you’ve stubbed it, even the mere thought of sucking it eases the pain, right? RIGHT?)

‘What’s up with you?’ The Irish one turns over and dumps his arm over me, in an attempt at sleepy Irish tenderness, that instead nearly knocks me out cold.

‘I heard Addison shouting.’

I am bent over, clinging to my toe, rocking back and forth.

(So don’t look mental at all.)

‘I didn’t hear a thing.’ He snuffles and falls back in to a comfortable and cosy sleep.

I lie there staring at the ceiling terrified to my core, for a long time before I succumb again to peace.

I am in that beautiful place between awake and sleep.

I am floating peacefully about to drop off,  I am a literary genius, I have just thought of an amazing blog post I can write (which I blatantly won’t remember tomorrow) and I am as light as a feather, I am almost asleep.

‘LEXY IT’S GONE, IT’S GONE!’ the shriek is right next to my head, down deep in to my ear canal.

I physically jump four feet in the air.

I switch the light on and start to shake.

‘Huh? What is gone?’

I am frightened.

It’s hard enough being a half decent mother who plays trains but doesn’t cook, reads books but doesn’t sing lullabies, eats dinner with him but not vegetables, stares miserably at an empty potty while changing another nappy, soothes her baby’s tears and fixes bumps and bruises but doesn’t know how to make cupcakes, without the added worry of hearing voices.

They have started laughing too.

Sometimes I just hear laughter.

They are happy.

I smile with them sometimes before I remember nobody is in the house except me and nothing is funny.

It’s coming in my ears.

I hear someone calling my name a lot, but no one is there.

I am perfecting the deranged Meer cat look. Someone must have called my name! Who said that?

I hear dogs barking, right next to me, in the office. (I do not work in a veterinary surgery either, just to be clear.)

It isn’t a conversation.

It’s not like I can blame them for making me eat cake.

They don’t tell me to eat cake.

Lord knows I don’t need to hear voices to do that.

I hear words.

I hear made up conversations.

And it isn’t all of the time.

It’s enough though.

I don’t answer them.

Then I would be crazy, right?

I need to focus on what is real.

On the voices that aren’t part of my mental illness.

My illness that started innocently enough, by just having a baby.

‘You are an amazing mummy.’

My best friends voice is the one I am trying to hold on to now.

I am doing my best.

The jeans I bought him don’t fit.

But I love him so much it hurts.

Is it ok to tie your son’s jeans around his waist with rope?

Please don’t make fun of me.

Or treat me any different.

I am frightened, and I am trying to break the stigma.

But I am normal.

Did you just hear that?

Of course you didn’t.

Nobody is there.

Actual Social Suicide.

I didn’t see it coming.

I was trying to play it cool while carrying my tote bag, my handbag, Addison’s toys and a large red box in one hand, and the wriggling chocolate covered, sticky fingered juvenile himself in the other.

‘Can I just leave this here with you?’ I stoutly questioned the security guard on our way out of reception while fumbling in my pocket for the phone I had found on the three-story dismount from my office.

It’s a shame I am unable to step in a lift as if I could, none of this would have ever happened.

It would certainly make my life easier too, but alas, my fear of being stuck in a tiny unmoving box with a two and a half-year old, in the dark, ensures we always climb the stairs.

Up and down.

Up being no easier than down.

It adds an extra twenty minutes to my commute.

Addison comes in to work with me now, you see, at my brilliant new job for Elite magazine.

Unfortunately though, the office is on the third floor.

Which is great if you aren’t a two-year old who seems to believe stairs are magical concrete boxes which give you powers of aviation, so that usually ‘taking the stairs’ means mummy having to have the emergency services on speed dial, or mummy dislocating her shoulder and his wrist as she dangles him mid-air from each step in a bid to get him to ‘JUST BLOODY WALK PROPERLY!’

Sweating slightly as I keep one of the bags aloft with my teeth, I hand the phone over  ‘I found it on the stairs.’

‘Thanks.’ comes the gruff voice.

As I reposition the bag in to my hand and shift Addison’s weight on to my hip and place the phone down in front of him, all jute bag and rustling, I look up. ‘Is that ok?’ I squeak.

He is a lovely looking lad with blue-green eyes and incredibly white teeth.

He looks a bit like Harry Styles.

I am instantly hit with how carefree he seems to be, it is oozing off him from behind the desk.

Young, carefree, maybe a little hung-over and definitely relaxed.

As oppose to me.

Old, laden with crap, stinking of a night squidged in to a cot bed with a sticky two-year old and so rigid, I’d make a ruler jealous.

‘Yeah.’ He responds cockily, sliding the phone towards himself and then frowning in barely masked disbelief as Addison decides at that very moment to stick his tongue on my eye-ball and I yelp like a mauled mongrel.

I must appear to be the most harassed, overloaded, red-faced and agitated, carrying a huge stuffed finding Nemo plush under one arm, out of breath ‘associate’ in a suit, anyone has ever seen in this posh office building.

I smile back, after pushing my son’s face away a little and acknowledge I look a bit weird with a wink. Yeah I am weird and have responsibility but yeah, I am cool yeah? I can still be ‘down with the kids yeah.’ I can manage all of this, and still pull off sexy, calm, collected and cool yeah?

He smiles a little oddly at me so I decide it is time we move on.

I am probably coming across like a mental patient.

I huff like an elephant as I begin re positioning the weight of our belongings and start marching in the general direction of the exit.

And then everything happens at once.

As I turn to leave the busy reception area and get away from the crowds of young people, my phone starts to vibrate against my leg distracting me, I notice it is raining heavily outside, the clock on the wall tells me we are running very late for job number 2 so I speed up, and for some unknown godly reason Addison decides to stick his finger right up my nose.

I didn’t see it coming.

I was extracting a sticky knuckle from probing the depths of my inner face cavities and I was in a rush.

I heard the panicked shouts of ‘NOoooooo!’ from a few people in reception before I actually felt the pain, but by that point it was too late.

I, rather embarrassingly, strode in to very clean, squeaky clean some may say, Glass bastard wall.

I witnessed actual stars popping about my head cartoon like as I was tumbling backwards on my boots, boxes and bags, tampons and toy trains exploding from different parts of my person, in to the air around me before thudding to the floor and screeching across the classy marble in every direction.

I may have shouted an expletive in to the ether before hitting the deck and trying to stop Addison head butting me on the way down.

I may have shouted something a long the lines of someone’s mother being a fucker as my nose started to bleed and the stunned silence was slowly replaced by gasps of horror from all around us.

I could taste my embarrassment in the audible silence before I tasted the blood.

I didn’t know what to do.

It was too late to brush anything off.

I couldn’t limp off pretending it hadn’t happened.

It will probably appear on You’ve been Framed or You Tube at some point!

I couldn’t even open my eyes properly to locate my son, my god the pain was unbelievable.

Mortification and actual pain.

My face felt like it was sliding off my chin.

And the Silence was only serving to magnify my injured grunting and moaning, that oddly I was aware did sound a little sexual. (Very random.)

And then somebody sniggered.

I snapped my head to the left, holding my nose together, to peep through the tears at who the perpetrator was.

It was Addison.

He was rolling around on the floor grasping for his trains and trying to open my tampons in barely concealed delight.

‘MUMMY ALWAYS LOOK WHERE YOU ARE WALKING!! SWEETIES!!!’

And then he started properly laughing, the little sod.

And then the tittering from the rest of the room started.

So I just lay back on the floor staring at the ceiling as strangers passed me back my tampons and the security guard got me some tissues for my bleeding nose.

Me and my black eye are working from home from now on.

I used to be cool.

Honest.

The MAD Blog Awards 2012 (Squirm.)

I think in the end I had to promise him I wouldn’t get drunk.

‘You will though!’ he had huffily called through from the bedroom where he was busy slamming down his work bag and heavy handedly taking out his frustration at me, on the bedroom fittings, opening windows making sure they banged and clattered loudly.

It was his own special passive aggressive way of letting me know just how annoyed he was that I had a social life and I intended to use it (whatever!)

‘You always say you won’t get drunk, but you always do, and Lexy, I am sick to death of having to pick up the pieces the next day!’ he said, padding barefoot in to the kitchen behind me.

During this unnecessary (completely necessary) and totally unfair (so fair) tirade I had slowly and carefully, so I didn’t miss a single word, taken two slices of bread out of the toaster and placed them on the counter.

‘You are irresponsible and out of control once you have had a drink Lex ’ he continued from behind me with a heavy sigh.

I placed the butter knife down, closed my eyes and counted to ten, trying to keep my temper in check.

I hated it when he behaved like a geriatric!

Why must he be so boring?

‘Anyone would think you needed alcohol to have a good time, but then you never do, you are always sick, usually all over me and then you cry for hours on end and blah blah blah. I mean I am sure if blah blah blah it would be a danger and I blah blah blah…’

It was once I had picked the knife back up and was busy buttering my bread and ramming the ham on top of it, as if the pig itself had personally done me an injustice, that I eventually could not bite my tongue any longer.

“You’ve gone too far!!! Screw you Irish one!’ I eventually exploded turning to face him angrily, in a whirl of butter knife, bread and hair. “If you don’t like being with me, then how about you hit the road! We aren’t married! I am an adult you loser, and you are not my sodding dad! I have enough people …”

‘Fuck off Lexy. One day maybe I will.’

And that had been the end of it.

We finally did make up, we made up the way we always made up, the tried and tested way.

We made up by Successfully ignoring each other for the rest of the night and eventually letting 9 hours of unbroken sleep clear the air.

I must pause here at the mention of 9 hours unbroken sleep,

I need a minute’s silence for the death of the 9 hours unbroken sleep.

May the 9 hours unbroken sleep rest in peace.

I was 28.

We had been together 6 months.

He had moved in.

(I am still thinking about 9 hours unbroken sleep.)

He was trying to control me (he wasn’t) and I was sick of it.

I wanted to go out, and ok, so I promised eventually that I wouldn’t drink so he would stop having a go at me but how Dare he try to suggest I couldn’t even go to a concert with a colleague without getting raging drunk and making a fool of myself (I couldn’t) in the first place?

How dare he moan at having to look after me! That’s what he was there to do!

That’s what a REL-ATION-SHIP was!

And really! I mean I hardly ever got drunk (on a Tuesday) anyway! SO who the hell was he to try and tell me what to do?

I do not remember much from that fateful evening as it happens, but my colleague told me 3 days later, when I dared to show my face in work again, that there had been a giant elephant and the band of my youth, who I had been so desperate to see, had all climbed on, and they had indeed played my favourite track and that yes I had been there and had sang along.

‘I sang along? How can I not remember that?’ I asked as Bev recounted the concert and I sat shaking my head slightly in the cafeteria, picking at a salad with my fork and trying to avoid the Irish one’s glare from over by the coffee stand (we had broken up again on the back of me vomiting all over him.)

‘Yes.’  Beverley replied with a glint in her eye ‘you did. Surely you must remember, because That babes, was right after you wet yourself.’

I coughed on a particularly spiky morsel of salad and inadvertently spat a full cherry tomato back on to her plate, where it plopped in to her spaghetti Carbonara with some force, and caused a little back splash of gloopy sauce to splat on to her nearly neon pink shirt.

As she picked my half chewed tomato from her plate with a look of amused disgust on her face and popped it in to my white plastic drinking cup, I coughed and spluttered and died a little, in the chair opposite her.

Eventually silence resumed and I sat, aghast for a jolly good while.

She said nothing, letting the full meaning of what she had told me sink in.

‘I wet myself?’ I asked in whispered tones, leaning in to her now, pushing my plate away, my appetite having completely vanished, and glancing over at the Irish one on the other side of the cafeteria still shooting me evils, in case he had developed super sonic hearing and could actually radio in on the extent of my bad behaviour ‘oh my god.’

Although there is the mystery of my wet jeans solved, I thought to myself, resting my forehead on the damp Formica table, not caring now, who saw me.

‘Yes you did.’ Bev’s voice continued from above me, ‘That was right after you told the ten year old standing next to you that you saw dead people and hated it when they woke you up at night.’ She paused for dramatic effect and I groaned in response.

‘I was busy arguing with her mother trying to defend you and what you have been through and when I turned around you announced you had peed and you were soaked.’

‘Oh my god. I am so ashamed. Why didn’t I go to the toilet?’ I asked lifting my head up only slightly so I could make eye contact with her. Begging her silently to tell me none of this had happened.

‘You said it made sense to wee where you were standing, as no one would notice and you really didn’t want to miss your childhood song.’

I squirmed in my seat.

I was this girl’s manager.

Did I forget to mention that?

Yes.

At the time of the concert I was Bev’s manager.

She had invited me and I probably shouldn’t have gone.

But as I mentioned earlier, my intention was not to drink.

‘Then you showed me your nipple.’

My head hit the Formica table once more as she howled with laughter above me.

‘Oh Bev. I can’t believe it. Did it end there? Tell me it ended there! In fact, Can we just forget it ever happened?’ I begged this from below the table, staring at my thighs and wondering if it was too late to invent a time machine.

She tore off a tiny piece of garlic bread and as I brought myself upright once more, glancing towards the Irish one who was now staring over, Puce, she fixed me with an evil grin.

‘Nope’ she said as she popped the bread in her mouth and methodically began to chew. She was enjoying this. ‘I feel it would be cruel if I didn’t inform you of your complete goings on during the tram journey home.’

‘Oh please don’t!’ I semi laughed, trying to win back some humility by pretending I was ok with how I had behaved and not absolutely dying of shame inside.

‘But it was very exciting. You decided you needed a wee urgently this time, so you crept in to a bunch of trees. I stood on the road waiting for you and after a while you emerged informing me, and all the other people leaving the concert that you had just been fingered by a bush.’

I just stared at her.

‘At the top of your voice.’ You then repeated this, numerous times on the tram, and rang your dad to tell him, and then you rang the Irish one.’

That explains radio Silence off my dad then.

I may have been sat there for an hour, or it may have been 3 weeks. But I just sat and let this all sink in, while she grinned at me.

A bush fingered me? I was fingered by a bush?

Oh my god.

It’s like a truly awful version of Dirty dancing.

No carrying a watermelon for me though, this wasn’t Hollywood!

Just a porno bush.

‘I hand delivered you to the Irish one practically in a coma.’ She finished, throwing her napkin on her plate ‘you were brilliant. Hands down Lexy, you are the best manager I’ve ever had.’

If it wasn’t for the cafeteria closing, I honestly think I would still be sat there now, just staring off in to the deep cavern of my shame!

That was the same night I had laid on my back after apparently unsuccessfully convincing the Irish one I wasn’t drunk and hadn’t been drinking at all! Honest! And had then gone on to nearly choke to death in my sleep but instead had just vomited all over him and me (and the dog – he just shouted this from the kitchen) in the middle of our king size bed.

A month later, as I hadn’t left the house, I got pregnant. (Make up sex.)

And we all know what happened then.

To this day, I am unable to listen to Take That without cringing.

Thankfully Bev is now one of my best friends and I no longer manage her.

But this kind of explains why I have been absent since… well since the awards.

I have been suffering with an illness commonly known as ‘mortification.’

A mortification of Take That! Sized proportions.

You know that filter thing that most people have that stops them talking to Myleene Klass about vaginal discharge and scabies? Yeah…Well although I have spent a lot of money in therapy searching for mine, well, it turns out- I don’t have one.

I am really sorry Myleene. *Cringe*

You know that voice in your head that says ‘smile nicely’ when you see a camera, don’t lie down and fake depression and definitely don’t try and cram a whole cake in your mouth, give people the V’s or show people your bottom? Well that voice was comatose by booze.

I think in my acceptance speech I may have called the Irish one annoying and said that my little boy wasn’t the point of my existence but that actually twitter was.

I absolutely don’t mean that. (Much.)

(Apart from the Irish one being annoying, bit.)

My little boy is the reason I am still here. He is definitely the point in my existence ok? (Oh the shame!)

I think what I meant to say when I drunkenly stumbled on to that podium to accept my award was;

Thank you for your countless support, for carrying me through the hard times and for enjoying the good times with me. My readers, my friends and my family, I couldn’t have done it without you, my little boy and, really, the Irish one isn’t that annoying (on a Tuesday.)

I also should have Thanked Sally, because the thought of this event did keep me going during some tough times over the summer.

Thank you.

I won’t be back here until I can talk about the evening without cringing.

So it may be a while.

On the plus side though I learnt a valuable lesson.

I can’t hold my Vodka. (And now it is not only Take That, which makes me cringe, but looking at my award does too!)

I’d also like to thank The Boy and Me for being brilliant and sharing a room with me and for not laughing when I did a million embarrassing things. She is wonderful. Truly precious. I’d also like to thank her for educating me on what frost bite feels like and teaching me to appreciate Central heating.

I’d also like to thank the Sainsbury’s lady for the Ipad and also apologise to the Sainsbury’s lady for pretending to grab her boob in the acceptance photo, and thinking this would be funny.

It wasn’t big and it wasn’t clever.

As far as nights go though, it was wonderful. ( I wasn’t sick on anyone as far as I am aware!!! RESULT! (Especially for the Boy and Me.)

Thank you to everyone who voted for me and who has written me in to follow up blogs and not mentioned I was paralytic and at one point managed to nearly rugby tackle Myleene. (Sorry Myleene – you are fabulous. Sorry for swearing. But seriously, who is Caitlin Moran?) I am sorry if I upset, annoyed or irritated anyone (so so sorry Sonia!) when my paranoia got out of hand…

I  loved every second. I think, from what I remember…

Wanna see my nipple now?

Marbles. Scattered. Everywhere…

My therapist behaved like a goat today.

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

It isn’t a metaphor.

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

The past few weeks there have been issues.

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

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

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

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

That is a metaphor. Obviously.

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

But do you understand what I mean?

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

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

He was baaing at me.

Like a goat.

Again.

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

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

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

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

Like I say, I can’t remember.

I don’t remember much at the moment.

It worries me.

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

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

No.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Its Fucking Dave, you moron!’

Oh the shame.

I am a moron.

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

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

The word depression is really starting to scare me.

In a big way.

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

It is frightening me.

It is just so foreboding and intimidating.

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

The sensible thing to do.

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

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

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

Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.

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

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

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

‘What?’ I whisper.

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

‘What?’ By now I am alarmed.

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

It was at this point I started to cry.

It was as if a damn had burst.

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

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

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

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

I shake with guilt and fear.

He waits until I have finished.

And.

Then.

The bastard… BAA’S AT ME AGAIN!!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am a mother.

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

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

MMMM cake.

Anyway, what was I saying?

Oh that’s right!

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

Maybe he has the Ebola virus.*

*Or tiny mexican worms in his ears.

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

Another baby!!! (Really??)

What is wrong with people?

It is like a mental assault on a daily basis.

When did mugging someone’s privacy become conventional in idle chitchat?

It is happening at the moment, All. Of. The. Damn. Time!

Example.

Picture the scene.

I’m stood in the lift, it is 7am and I am busy minding my own business.

I am bleary eyed and trying to re-focus my mind before the day ahead.

I am barely awake myself but being a mother, even at this early hour, I feel like I have already lived a full day of emotions, having just abandoned a distraught baby at nursery, nearly ran over a woman at the bus stop while screaming at the baby in the back to stop hitting himself, spilling coffee all over my only work shirt because I’m now wobbly on sky scraper heels that seemed like a good idea pre child but now I am precariously tottering on, like a hippo on stilts, all the while clutching on to the remains of said coffee like a 2 year old to an Ice pop wrapper that used to be an airplane. (?!)

And in they come, one by one.

My tormentors.

Which one will it be today?

I try to avoid eye contact.

Stare at the floor. Stare at the floor.

Nope never works.

‘Morning Lexy! How are you?’

(Obligatory head cock of course if they know I went stark raving mental, and in a normal chirpy voice with no head tilt if they don’t.)

‘I haven’t seen you in ages!!! How old is your little one now? What is his name again?’

‘Oh, Hi person I have spoken to 3 times in my entire life and only in the lift’  I will respond politely  ‘Nice to see you too. Wow it is so early!’ (HINT – Stop talking to me!) ‘He is 2. Addison.’

The lift by now has began to fill up, the doors refusing to close as more people press the PING BUTTON (official name) just as we are about to depart upwards, thus ensuring we have now been joined by an uncomfortable audience of morning zombies trying to stifle yawns and checking their watches, and we are inadvertently shoved backward and pressed against the wall.

‘Wow 2!’ the person will expectedly gawp head bent at an awkward angle so they can continue the conversation over the top of another strangers head. ‘WOW! That has flown by!’

I of course, respond by sticking a slight smile on my face and widening my eyes obediently before nodding back as if I cant quite believe it myself.

Which FYI?

I totally fucking can. I haven’t slept in 728 nights.  (I just had to do 2 x 364 on my calculator to work that out! Before realising there are actually 365 days in a year and having to re-calculate!! That’s how tired I am!)

But of course, ever the people pleaser in case someone decides they don’t like me, or considers me rude (my worst nightmare), I will nod in agreement as I am supposed to, and maybe murmur a non committal ‘Mmmm’ or sometimes depending on which number coffee I am on, if I am buzzing my boobs off ‘Oh it really has! LIKE TOTALLY!! SO NICE TO SEE YOU!!!’

I do this in a usually failed attempt to avoid, escape or drown out the inevitable next question which always, always, feels like a massive intrusion of my privacy.

‘So, are you trying for anymore?’

‘So, do you think you will have another?’

‘OOOO shall we expect number 2 soon then?

And then the cheeky bastards ALWAYS glance down at my uterus, as if checking to make sure it is still there, and then I ALWAYS end up briefly sucking my stomach in and firing off a warning look, just in case they think I already am up the duff and have the audacity to ask when I am due.

At this point, after we have jumped the hurdle of my uterus never fully retracting (that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it!) I usually sigh internally and wish I had the balls to be more like Roxy. My evil twin.

(I just TOTALLY decided I totally need an evil twin!!)

‘Yes actually,’ Roxy would respond for me ‘in fact the Irish one and I just had sex this morning but unfortunately the sperm splurted and glooped down my leg in the shower not long after. I’m devastated of course! But what is a girl to do? I said a little prayer.’

Ok, maybe an evil twin is a bad idea.

But come on!! Surely unless you are engaging in a full conversation with somebody you are relatively good friends with, then this question is a little personal, no?

What is the best policy for answering?

Honestly?

IS honesty always the best policy?

‘Look I just don’t fucking know ok? The thing is actually, my vagina is still pretty sore from the episiotomy I endured after a 68 hour labour, just over 2 years ago. I’m a little bit worried sex will always be painful now, and of course, what with all that nasty business of me being sectioned and almost going mad and killing  myself, I am just not sure if I am ready yet you know?’

Pause to get my breath.

‘The thing is, person in the lift, and 4 other strangers in the lift wishing they could shove their breakfast butty’s in their ears, the Thing is, we are only having sex at the moment on a Sunday, because the rest of the time I’m just too damn busy trying to sleep, and also really, cos I’m still trying to figure out how to work the pelvic floor muscles pregnancy left behind and to be honest, I only have sex at all on a Sunday cos I feel guilty that if I don’t, he will go mad over the credit card bill or start expecting blow jobs.. yeah, like that is ever gonna happen again! Haha!So another baby? Jaysus. I just don’t know.’

Pause for breath.

‘Also, Addison is a handful. He just started saying ‘For fucks sake!’ a lot, and very loud. I mean, I know it’s not funny but it’s hard not to laugh, could I put up with that in stereo and not lose my marbles again? What do you think I should do stranger in the lift? What are you going to do? Yes, what about you semi stranger? Have you abandoned condoms yet? How are your pelvic floor muscles? Husband’s swimmers ok? Does he like blow jobs? What is your sunday schedule?’

It’s just too long an answer for a lift ride. Isn’t it?

Yes, that’s whats wrong with that answer. Its too long.

But you know why I really really hate this question more than anything?

Because, I don’t actually have an answer to be honest.

(Ok. We do have sex more than on a Sunday…. Honest. (He told me to put that in here as a slight amenddendadum. Yeah I can’t spell it, but you know what I mean. Notice there is no amendadedendam on the blowys. Ahem.)

It is just all so complicated.

I just don’t know.

If I won the lottery, yeah I would be barefoot and pregnant constantly somewhere across the Atlantic taking my brood on fabulous holidays all the time, and I’d have all their names tattooed on my toes, but in reality? I’m not sure we could afford it.

I don’t mean that just from a money perspective either, although that obviously does massively come in to it , what I  also mean is, we can’t really afford it from an Irish perspective.

‘What if you go freaking mental again?’ He will balk when I bring the subject up. ‘Then I’d be responsible for a feet shuffling, god mumbling, suicidal pill popping wife, a ferocious 2 year old and a baby! Anyway why are we discussing this now?’

‘Some woman in the lift wants to know.’ I will respond munching on square crisps and swatting the child away ‘’Wait, hang on… Wife? I’ll be your wife? WHEN? You know I want a square diamond right?’

And that is usually as far as we get before he heaves himself off the sofa and wanders off muttering about priorities and medication.

What if the minute the sperm made contact with the egg I lost the plot again?

What if I wanted to die again?

What if I couldn’t afford square crisps?

What if my belly flopped back down to my ankles?

What if I can’t get pregnant?

What if I deserve to be punished because I tried to die when my baby was relying on me, and I die during labour and never get to see Addison grow up?

What if one day I want to die again and never get to cuddle Addison again or the new baby? What if the illness grabs me again and tears my soul out and I lose my little boy again, the baby, and myself, but forever?

What if I end up in hospital again and miss out on all the bits I yearned to feel the first time around?

What if my heart breaks open again?

Why am I even thinking of this?

I am happy at the moment!!

Oh yeah that’s right, it’s the seemingly dangerous after effects of idle chitchat with semi zombie stranger’s!!!!

I think on Monday I will respond;

‘Another one? No I couldn’t you see because, basically my vagina was so badly torn with Addison, right from chuff to anus..’

At which point I will bend over and show them a cutting hand movement from front to back, for effect.

‘So I had this gaping, flapping hole where my bits should have been, for ages!’

At which point I will pause again, and proceed to mime a gaping, wide flapping hole that lives between my legs.

I may even add in a ‘swoosh’ and an echo for affect.

‘So basically when the doctor eventually did get round to stitching it back up again, which took hours by the way, he ended up having to re route my birth canal out of my arse, so essentially if I do get pregnant again, i’d have to poo the baby out while squatting. That scares me a bit to be honest. Big poo’s hurt.’

At which point I may or may not imitate a giving birth squat, depending on my mood and the time of day.

Then, just as the lift doors open, I will stand up and grin before strutting out with a fabulous Timotei toss of my hair.

‘Have a great day!” I will shout.  ‘Enjoy your bagel!’

Bloody intrusive lift folk.

Another baby indeed.

Like it is that simple!

It is true though, my gaping hole is none of their business.

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. 

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.*