Beauty and the Buffoon.

I guess you could say, I am not your average Disney princess.

If they ever do decide to make a musical fairytale however, about a self harming, suicidal, manic depressive and slightly paranoid flabby woman, with a penchant for tattoos and wearing fake eye lashes, who gets sectioned but fights hard to get better, finds a man, hates him, loves him, hates him, loves him and eventually agrees to marry him and walk off in to the sunset with him, joined by a crazy 2 year old and a dog with an explosive rectum– then I would be totally perfect for the part.

Until then though, I will keep trying to fit my square peg fantasy in to the Disney round hole.

I am all in a dither.

I guess I should mention that I no longer smoke (2 weeks without nicotine and the Irish one is lucky he still has both of his eyebrows, he is doing my head in!! But on the plus side – I can breathe and food never tasted so good, honestly! Chocolate tastes insane!) So, anyway- where as usually I would be puffing away right now, stressed as I am, I have instead inadvertently ended up stress eating mini jammy dodgers.

It’s ok though, these little coins of Jammy Gold won’t affect my wedding diet (the anti thigh rub diet, as it has come to be known) as everybody knows if no one sees you eating them the calories don’t count, and also I have my eyes closed in the hope my hips just won’t notice.

The thing is you see, (she says shoving another 4 in for good measure…) In precisely one hour my telephone is going to ring and I am going to have to pick it up and speak to a jolly American.

Now usually this wouldn’t be a bad thing, given that I love the American’s as much as I do… Actually, did I ever tell you the story about what happens whenever I get drunk?

Basically it goes like this- whenever I get drunk, I fake an American accent and tell everyone in hearing distance I am not from Eccles Manchester, but actually from Utah.

I have no idea why I pick Utah, I just always do, it seems to just roll easily of my drunken tongue, plus it sounds cool. I can picture myself being a cheerleader in Utah, or a rocker or something. Utttaaaahhhhh…. It’s just easy to ‘drawwwwl’ in an American accent.

Do you know what isn’t easy to say in an American accent? (while we are on the subject?)

‘Sugar puffs.’ Don’t ever try and say ‘Sugar puffs’ in an American accent, as you will blow your cover. Even Americans can’t say sugar puffs in an American accent.

Try it if you don’t believe me.

See? You sound like you need help don’t you?

But anyway, back to the point, usually a chat with a real life genuine American would ensure I would be counting down the moments until the shrieking and ‘Howdy and grits!’ and ‘y’all have a nice day’ began.

I LOVE THE AMERICANS.

I should have been American in my opinion.

I was simply born to say things like ‘Freeedommmm!’ and ‘Hey y’all, watch out for those ERBS on the SIDEWALK!’

But oh no, not today, today I am suffering with the regular old British anxiety.

Michelle is the American ringing me today, you see.

And not only is she American, she is Disney American.

Which means I am doubly in awe (and doubly jealous of her heritage and job) and therefore am unable to act like a normal person.

Michelle is my sugar sweet wedding coordinator (the wedding comes with one, it’s like they knew that if they didn’t organise it and plan it for me – it would be a disaster) and due to my immense nerves, excitement and an underlying need to be accepted by her as cool, for some reason, whenever we speak I turn in to a robot.

A robot stuck on ‘demo mode English accents.’

It’s almost as if her sweetness is my kryptonite.

As soon as I hear her friendly, Disneyfied and incredibly well-trained voice saying just the right thing at the right time, I immediately turn in to one of the street urchins from Oliver Twist.

My English accent becomes so prominent I either sounds like I am sucking on a plum or it randomly and without warning violently swing’s in to cockney gangster and I start throwing in words like ‘apples and pears’ and ‘Guvnor.’

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME!

I need this woman to like me; I need this woman to get me!

She is organizing my wedding for me for goodness sake!

My nerves have ruined every conversation we have ever had so far, and I am pretty sure she is regretting the day she accepted me as a client!

I don’t think she understood why me telling her I was in a mental institute was so important but it was, in my head.

I was trying to bond.

And also I felt the need to explain why I have chosen ‘The Mad Hatter’ theme and why absolute mentalness on the day is essential, to make me feel at home.

‘Being crazy means a lot to me you see madam. I was sectioned once in a loony bin, a crazy house if you will! So I totally get the Mad Hatter and how misunderstood he is init.’

‘So what wedding colours are you going for?’ She asked me in the awkward silence following my admission.

‘Black, white and neon pink please darling.’ I said, adding the darling inadvertently, and ending up sounding like Edwina from Absolutely Fabulous. ‘I am not uptight or an idiot you know,’ I felt the need to clarify ‘I just speak like this when I get a bit squiffy.’

(SQUIFFY? I meant nervous!!!)

‘Huh?’ She smiled down the phone, in the way that only Disney employees can, smiling down the phone while signaling to her Disney colleague she has a weirdo on the line, no doubt.

‘Nothing alreeet ’I barked in a random Geordie accent while holding my head in my hands and despairing.

Utterly farcical.

Soon after this, we decided (I say we, but it was blatantly her who decided) it would probably best if she rang me back at a more ‘appropriate’ time to get down to the nitty gritty.

(I want some gas and air!)

It seems now is a more appropriate time.

In precisely one hour my wedding coordinator is ringing me for the nittiest of the gritty and I have no idea what I am going to say.

She is going to ask me my choice of song for walking down the aisle.

It is an important conversation!!

The Irish one has chosen his song.

He is walking down the aisle to, are you ready for this?

Eye of the Tiger.

He thinks this is hilariously original but when I told Michelle I am sure she groaned, but then tried to disguise it with a Disney like cough.

But he is adamant.

He says after all I have put him through, this is his victory dance.

He is limbering up for the rest of his life with me, like Rocky would.

The grandparents, kids and bridesmaids are coming down the aisle to Beauty and the beast, Tale as old as time.

That’s the romantic bit. (I really wish my bridesmaids would consider dressing up as the candlestick, the clock and the teapot – but alas, they won’t.)

And then it’s my turn, and here is my dilemma.

I want it to be a surprise, I want to enjoy the moment and I want to remember it forever!

But mostly I want it to be me.

A bit mad, a bit sad, a bit romantic, a bit idiotic but mostly, completely unexpected and random.

But so far my list just feels a bit crap!

None of my favourite songs seem to fit!

Hand on your heart (Kylie Minogue) – because it is brilliantly 80’s and I could do the headshake as the door opened and totally work it. And also it’s a great tune, you know it is. I could wear leggings under my dress!

I kissed a girl and I liked it (Katy Perry) Just cos I think it’ll be hilarious and also I always secretly dreamed of my own music video, and also it will be dramatic and unheard of. And lets face it, nobody would ever have expected it! And they will all be like ‘DID SHE? Did she kiss a girl???’

The sweetest thing (U2) – The lyrics are a bit depressing though, and this is the one-day I want no depression, not one ounce of it! Plus I am not a brown -eyed girl. I have blue eyes, and well… I just don’t know, is it not a bit cheesy? A bit plinky plonky?

Mama do the hump. You know the one! Mama do the hump, mama mama do the hump! Mama do the hump hump! My dad and I could totally jive, catwalk and prance down the long aisle – It’s inspired! We could do a few turns! It’s not very romantic though. Plus mama doesn’t do the hump anymore. Not really.

Resurrection. – Because I love Ian brown.

Please Don’t Leave Me – (Pink) Because I don’t want him to leave me, basically.

Sex on fire – it isn’t, but you know, it used to be, before we had the kid, and my body was ripped in two and the nights got shorter and we got SKY TV. The sex used to be on fire. SO maybe we could re-ignite the flame!! Saying that though I don’t fancy walking down the aisle next to my dad while the kings of Leon moan and groan and The Irish one looks at me like I’ve lost my mind…. again.

And then there is all the music we love and listen to together.

Walking in Memphis has a great opening, Arizona by kings of Leon I adore, but then what about ABC by the Jackson five? That is Addison’s favourite tune! Ignition by R kelly! On a ragga tip by SL2! or Paradise by Coldplay. Or the Romeo and Juliet fish tank song!

Or I know! I know! What about The Peppa Pig theme tune! It’s what we listen to the most!

I just don’t know!

I need to pick something more romantic don’t I?

The very thought of that makes me incredibly uncomfortable!!

I may just have to turn my phone off for a little while and get one of the bridesmaids to pretend to be me so she thinks I am normal. Let her pick.

I need to take my medication.

I need Michelle to like me.

I need a drink!

I need to pick a darn song y’all!

I need to be from UTAHHHHHHH.

Help!

Oo Oo!

Or what about ‘They tried to make me go to rehab but I said no, no, no…. ‘ (Or is that just too darn obvious?)

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!

Betrayal. (You want to know what it feels like?)

After all the stones have been hurled, after all the damage has been done, after she has uncontrollably smashed and broken and torn and scraped and fought and thrashed and punched the wall and grabbed and yanked at his heart like he has hers, after she has sworn and shouted and collapsed to her knees, after she has jumped back up in overwhelming fury to release what is left of the tornado and only after witnessing him truly suffering for his indiscretion, does she finally thunder through the front door, in a whirlwind of passionate distress, banging it firmly and with disgust behind her.

The hurt she has left behind, the pain she has caused, she can sense it in her rotten and decaying heart, it will be hanging thickly in the air between her little boy, sat rigid and silent holding a truck on the floor, frozen by fear, where until moments before he had been innocent to all this and happy, and HIM, the person with poisoned intentions, who purposely set out to break her, sitting with his head in his hands on the sofa behind him.

He may be sorry, she thought, as she paused on the street momentarily, her feet willing her to run, but sorry will never be enough.

Not now.

The hot tears stream down her face, she wants to turn back, she wants to creep back in over the broken scene and scoop her beautiful little boy up in her arms, she wants to undo what has been done, protect them both, she wants to unravel the memories and start over.

They need her, she needs to be there, but it is too late.

All that was, has been stamped on.

It is lost.

Nothing can ever be the same again.

The pathway is muddy and sodden from too many futile attempts.

Not this time.

There can be no turning back.

She is propelled by an overpowering hurt, and she flees to the car.

After she has slammed her car door shut and sat for a moment, completely still.

After it has hit her all over again and she has exhausted herself by punching and head butting the cold hard steering wheel, after she has slammed her shins against the lower dash hard enough to make her cry out in pain, after she has screamed her frustration out in to a million air particles around her, after she has tried to pull out her own hair and gauge out her own eyes with shame she slowly begins to bury it again.

And she stills.

Again.

She sits and she stares for a while, through her life.

Through her moments of happiness, through the successes, through the victories that now, in this moment, after all of this, mean nothing.

Through the memories of cherished laughter and love and confluence, that now, after what he has done, after how she has reacted, all mean nothing.

The car is put in to gear, but she cannot be sure it is her who does this.

How could he do this to her?

When will this all end?

What will she do now?

Does he no longer love her?

The lights at the crossing turn red and she waits, but she is not sure what for.

How could he put her through this, again?

The sky is dark grey and the rain starts to blur out the windscreen.

She feels it building once again.

‘Just change!’ she mutters under her breath, trying to avoid making eye contact with the empty car seat filled to the brim with guilt reflected in her mirror, is she talking about the light?

‘I can’t do this!’ she bites her bottom lip hard, forcefully swiping in self loathing frustration at the trash strewn in the mucky seat, beside her.

A seat filled with failure.

A seat filled with chocolate wrappers and cigarette papers, a seat filled with debilitating insecurity and crushing loss. A seat filled with egotistical selfishness and worthlessness and negativity and exhaustion.

The light’s glow green above her and she slams her foot on the accelerator in a rush to reach… somewhere.

In a rush to arrive nowhere, anywhere, wherever.

She is desperate to quieten her mind of his betrayal and get truly lost from herself.

What she want’s, is it important?

Has it ever been important?

She needs to drive the past week away, she wants to drive the past two years away, and re – live it without the pain.

What she wants.

It can never be.

She wants to go where nobody knows her, where she can get lost and perhaps die without causing pain.

She wants to scream out for help and have people ignore her.

She wants to be allowed to end it.

She wants to kill, quieten but also ignite the pain, the pain she has spent the last year learning to barely feel.

She wants to feel it.

She wants it to take her.

The pain that has been hiding, and waiting and plotting silently in the wings.

Life is worth living…life is worth living.

No, she can no longer kid herself.

Her face is hot as the resentment returns in waves, over and over again, followed by acute disappointment and guilt.

Why is he so unreasonable?

Why does has he purposely done this?

Does he hate me?

Why does he want to hurt me?

Why am I such an awful person?

He is so weak.

I am so weak. 

He will hurt me.

I hurt me. 

Her face is hot and dirty.

The mascara streaked down her cheeks mapping out her spiraling demise.

She considers running her car off the road.

She considers high tailing in to the bridge.

She considers jumping.

But he knows.

She winces as she recalls the things she screamed about him.

But he cares.

She shifts in discomfort as she remembers the innocent face of her son, frozen.

From somewhere within, the steely and gritty resolve is born once again.

Overpowering the guilt.

Stop this now.

For him.

She sits for hours.

Or maybe seconds.

And she knows.

She has to go back.

For him too.

They need her.

She doesn’t deserve them.

She doesn’t check her reflection as she carelessly heads back towards her front door; she knows all she will see is evil.

Tonight she will harm herself.

She will burn in what she deserves, because he only treats her with care.

She will gift herself with the immense pain she has caused him.

She will teach her no good self, a lesson.

She creeps back in to the house, exhausted and in shock.

And as always he is there to hug her.

As she knew he would be.

She doesn’t want his hug.

Oh, but she does.

She longs to allow herself to feel it.

But she doesn’t feel, she deserves it.

‘I am sorry I forgot the milk.’ He whispers in her ear as he pulls her tight, never wanting to let her go.

And she hangs her head in shame.

The most evil part of her darkness has returned.

The self humiliating, sinister and uncontrollable, overwhelming and frightening, overpowering and devastating, unexpected and uninvited, destructive and crushing self destroying, anger, fear, loss, hurt and shame.

I am not a ‘Drama Queen.’

Do not tell me I had a ‘mood swing’ and to ‘pull myself together.’

He forgot the milk, and I was tortured so cruelly by myself, that I felt dying would be the easier way out.

This is an illness.

Not a Joke.

And never a Choice.

I want, I want, I want… (A Tantruming therapy Meme.)

‘Why is he screaming so bloody loud?’

The Irish one is finally home from work and I feel like hurling myself on to the floor and licking his £12.99 Reebok specials in appreciation.

‘He wants me to jump out of the window like next door’s cat did,’ I howl over the tantrum taking place beneath me, dodging kicks, smacks and tiny claws trying to scratch the skin off my ankles.

‘And because I don’t want to, clearly I am being very unreasonable and selfish!’

The Irish one smiles at me indulgently.

And I feel like smacking him around the face.

I sigh and grab my crotch as a size 4 heel connects with my pelvic bone.

‘He has been making ridiculous requests all bloody day!! And when I won’t for example, let him throw potatoes at the dog, at full force!!!! He has been throwing an absolute wobbler!!’

He throws me an ‘Alright calm down he’s only a 2 year old’ look and gets down on to his knees to address the feral beast my child has evolved in to.

‘Addison mummy can’t jump out of the window baby; mummy needs her legs not to be broken today. Come on now, stop crying, I know it would be funny to see mummy plunge to her death from the window* but we don’t always get what we want, calm down now.’

‘But I asked nicely!’ Addison responds before pounding the floor and shaking his fists at the unfairness of the world again.

Much later, after I had jumped out of the window (willingly) and he was in bed, it got me thinking.

He did ask me to break both of my legs for his entertainment, very politely.

Hmmm…

2 year olds, or at least mine, see the world in black and white; they do not see anything wrong in asking for what they want.

They do not feel shame, or guilt, or fear of judgment, or anxiety over feeling silly for asking, they simply ask, and sometimes they get what they want and at other times they have a tantrum.

So simple right?

‘What do you want Lexy?’  A common question Jamie asks me in therapy.

A question I never answer truthfully.

Through the tears and the shame, I usually sniffle out that I don’t know.

And sometimes I don’t.

But sometimes, what I want, is so meticulously buried below a layered trifle of negative, self depreciating emotions, I wouldn’t be able to ask even if I did know.

So, with this in mind, I am going to try really hard to take a leaf out of Addison’s book.

I’m going to ask for what I want.

I am going to ignore the shame, push the guilt over being selfish away, snub the embarrassment over how petty I may be when others have real problems, blank the potential judgment that I may be shallow in asking for some stuff and mostly, stamp out the fear of asking.

I am going to damn well ask.

And if I don’t get the things I want?

Well then I may have a tantrum and I may punch the Irish one in the crotch (why not?) or I may just feel better for getting it off my chest.

SO here goes…

I want…

• A lie in without being woken up by feelings of guilt and anxiety that there aren’t enough hours in the day and that I should be up cleaning, playing, washing, working…

• A 22 inch waist with no stretch marks, just so I can wander around Selfridges in a crop top eating a huge piece of almond and chocolate cake while shooting superior looks to all the snotty sales girls who think that they are better than everyone just because they are tall and thin. (You are 19! Wait till you have kids!!!)

• I want to never have suffered with depression, no overwhelming sadness, no constant anxiety, no relentless intrusive thoughts, and i want for all depression sufferers in the world to be legally allowed to head butt non sufferers when they mistakenly offer friendly advice such as  ‘Just smile more.’

• My boobs to be bouncy and full of life again, instead of hanging from my chest like two used condoms off a coat hanger.

• Free Starbucks all of the time.

• A star trek transporter door thing, so I could say ‘Addy where do you want to go today?’ and I wouldn’t have worry about paying for petrol.

• More cuddles off my other half that don’t necessarily lead to erections. I just want a cuddle. For the love of god. Why does every cuddle end in him grabbing my boob, or my bum and shouting ‘Honk Honk!’? Do men actually think this is a turn on? Do you think it is appropriate? I am crying!!! Stop feeling me up!!! I just want a cuddle!

• Someone to buy my flat so we can live somewhere with more space and POSSIBLY think about having more children without having to worry about where we will all fit.

• To be able to have more children without having to have sex. (I just wanted a cuddle!!!!!)

• Consistent support from those around me and not to feel like a victim and hate it, when I need help.

• A week or two on Necker island with my boys, including Doodle the poodle, so we can experience luxury and create family memories.

• Calorie free square crisps.

• To fly first class somewhere on a Monday morning, just once, just to see what it is like. With champagne. And paparazzi chasing me, looking fabulous, instead of heading to work looking like something the dog just sicked up.

• My best friend to not live hours and hours and hours away, but to move in to my castle which also has a Starbucks in it and a heated pool and sexy lifeguard who only has eyes for me, but I am not interested.

• My little boy to eat properly and not be frightened of food. For my little boy never ever to get poorly again and have an amazing healthy life where all his dreams are fulfilled.

• For there to be no stigma attached to poor mental health.

• To go skiing, the way it used to be, just one more time.

• To be able to sing like an angel. To hit the high notes, and the low ones when I am feeling like a rock star in the car, instead of feeling like a rock star but sounding like someone is giving a cat a lobotomy.

• My big brother not to be dead. For it to have been a massive and unfunny practical joke. For him to walk back in to my life and apologise for such cruelty while I instantly forgive him and cry with relief, hug him and spend all night laughing and joking and most importantly living with him.

• To have endless patience to deal with my 2 year olds tantrums and to never forget that I love him more than myself, and that he has saved my life on more than one occasion and that his smile lights up my heart, my soul and my life, like a torch shining in a dark room.

• To tell my son I love him, every day.

• To never forget that thinking of myself doesn’t make me selfish, that occasionally lusting after material things doesn’t make me materialistic, that expressing an emotion doesn’t make me a drama queen and that no matter how many times a day I tell myself the opposite, that I am in fact worth something.

• To have the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to fight for the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

And that is it.

I do kind of feel better, and that was fun!!!

What about you? I am nosy, I want to know what you would tantrum for, or maybe just ask for?

What would you ask for if you could see life like a two year old and there were no limitations? No anxiety over coming across shallow? No consequences? No fear?

The floor is yours…

I tag @theboyandme who’s friendship I am incredibly thankful for, every time we speak, laugh and share a good moan! And who’s blog is precious. What do you want missis?

@ lotsofspermies who I want to cuddle, but who deserves the chance to get to ask for what she wants and get it, more than anyone I know. Get asking!

@the_moiderer who inspires me every day and who has helped me more than she will ever know. What would you want?

@_katie_bailey who makes me laugh, and who’s virtual hugs and endless support has kept me going on many occasion. Tell us woman! What do you want?

@eliza_do_lots who is utterly bonkers and quite possibly the funniest female i have ever had the pleasure of meeting. I know she will have me howling and will take part because if she doesn’t I will hunt her down and poke her with an aubergine.

and @mrsceeeceee because, I love your work too! What would one like?

and finally @AdamPlum my bran spanking new twitter budster who has shown me such kindness recently even in the midst of his own troubles. What do you want Adam? If you could have anything at all?

Anyone else want to have a go? Just please link me back in so I can see them… and tag others!

*He may not have actually said this…

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. 

The Voices in My Head.

A year ago today, and I am certain of this because I remember the upcoming Father’s day being a giant pain in the arse inconvenience to my plan, I found myself, sitting isolated in my little cloud of doom, in a room filled with happiness and laughter, family and loved ones.

In the background, behind the obvious and flamboyant sounds of Thomas the tank engine coming from the telly, Addison trying to squeeze out a hard poo and the voice of the Irish one singing loudly while he cooked sausages for our breakfast, from behind the sound of my own deceitful laughter and forced enjoyment at what really should have felt like a genuinely happy scene playing out around me, however, was a malicious and spiteful undertone.

Only I knew this of course, but I wasn’t aware of it.

An undertone in the form of a significantly ‘heard’ voice, that came from deep down inside of me, extensively and intricately trained to remind me at my most fragile of points, that I was irresponsible, disgusting and a pitiful excuse for a woman.

An accomplished and incredibly proficient opinion of myself that reminded me relentlessly with every task I attempted, I was thoughtless, and weak and could never succeed. I was over sensitive and rash, dumb, and I hurt people without even realising. I was spoilt and a nightmare to be around, and everybody knew it so I may as well accept it. I should be ashamed of needing comfort for I didn’t deserve it, I should feel embarrassed of not being happy when I had so much to be happy about and I should feel incredibly guilty too, because so many people had problems worse than my own.  So many people had real illnesses, and real problems and mine were no more than vain and self-indulgent dramatics. It barked at me that I was lazy and ungrateful and hated. I was a failure as a mother and I was ugly and fat and a let down. I was ugly inside. Everything about me was ugly.

It was so loud, and proud, and so convincing and had gone on for so long, that the truth is, I didn’t even hear it anymore, or realise it was even talking. It had just become part of me, hence not being aware of it.

I had started therapy and I needed to get better. I owed it to everybody. The pressure to succeed at ‘getting better’ was immense. If I couldn’t ‘get better’ I deserved to be dead. ‘Better’ from what though, I would ask myself with ferocious disdain? THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH YOU.

The voice constantly reminded me of the need to be absolutely perfect all of the time, so failing? Even if it was only the voice in my head advising me I was failing? That meant I was. It was a fact.

Trying to come to terms with being a terrible mother? Even when the Irish one would assure me I was in fact the opposite, and that I was loved and beautiful, I knew he would never understand the truth. Nothing I did would ever match up to the expectations, I set for myself, and my inner voice was only too happy to remind of that. I was a failure. It was a fact.

Trying to hide my disappointment at who I should be but was unable to be, behind laughter? Was exhausting. Especially when my inner voice was laughing too. At me, all the while calling me pathetic and evil, and obnoxious and worthless. All facts.

Addison tried a banana for the first time that morning, as the sun shone through the double windows and we made plans to go to the park. The Irish one collapsed in to giggles at his 1 year old expression upon tasting it, as did I, as his mouth curled and he expressed his disgust like only a 1 year old could.

It had been a year of hospital visits, and allergies and arguments and for me? A year of failing my son and failing at life.

A banana was a big deal, and I should have felt elated.

But I was too selfish. Also a fact.

The three of us laughing, normal and happy, well, it was a family photograph of a memory, like so many others that have been taken since, but the difference on that day, was the ever present and intensely secretive threat of murder which had been lurking just behind my watery grin for a while, was now about to come to fruition.

It was making plans.

As we got dressed and the happy family park day played out, as I pushed Addison down a slide grinning from ear to ear, as I skipped off to buy ice cream, as the Irish one hugged me and told me he loved me and I kissed him back, as I shrieked and clapped and loafed about putting on the best show I could, the last show of my life, the finale, I was silently plotting, I was wordlessly preparing and I was busy considering, what the best time to take an overdose, so as to not be saved, and so as to cause as little commotion to those left behind as possible, would be.

I was going to commit murder.

It wasn’t a cry for help. I wanted me dead.

I wanted to die as I put my baby to bed. What kind of mother thinks that? My inner voice screamed. You should be filled with love, you selfish useless cunt.

I wanted to die as I broke open the packet and hesitated, my inner voice whispering sinisterly, that I was a cowardly insect. Grime.

It was relentless.

I was stuck in a cube of cement with an inner voice that was certainly not guiding me with love. And I didn’t even realise or believe that I was broken. Not really.

I had refused medication, for I didn’t trust it.

Medication for what? This isn’t an illness, I would cry, I am just selfish.

I ignored help, because how could anybody help me, there was nothing wrong with me, other than being pathetic.

Even when I was taken in to hospital, I still didn’t see it.

I am just a drama queen. I am not ill. I am too pathetic to even kill myself properly and look how many people I have hurt now.

Only a year ago, it feels like a lifetime.

‘‘You wont be able to silence it immediately,’ My therapist carefully and quietly whispered to me this afternoon from his side of the room, after I had I spoken of how disappointed in myself I was, as that voice, that overpowering voice was once again, becoming louder.

‘You can’t expect yourself to be able to just turn it off, that voice is old and wise and strong. It has been around a lot longer than the knowledge that you can inject a new voice. But you can learn to turn it down.’ He went on. ‘This new voice telling you that you are ok, and a good mum, and deserve care, well it is young. It isn’t strong yet, it is new, the important thing to remember is that it is there, and that you are trying.’

‘Whatever.’ I mumbled petulantly back in response,  like a teenager refusing to take on that I wasn’t pathetic and a failure. It felt oddly comfortable to be insulting myself again.

‘Falling back in to old patterns is what we do when we find ourselves vulnerable and fragile. This doesn’t mean we have ‘relapsed.’ Only that we are learning to recognise the difference between then and now.’

‘Alright.’ I carried on. ‘What time is it? Can I go yet?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’ I asked trying not to stamp my foot.

‘You have ten minutes left. Have you moved on in the last year do you think?’ He asks silencing me with a question he knew I would have to think about.

Have I moved on?

As I pick up the building blocks and listen to my son trying to get to sleep singing a song about ‘big trumps and boobs’ this evening and find myself genuinely laughing, I know that I have, but I also know, I still have a long way to go.

There are two voices now, that’s true, but it is still one hell of a battle.

When things get difficult and I feel like I can’t cope and am to blame (like getting suspended from work for making a terrible mistake) she shouts loud and clear about how pathetic and evil I am for long periods of time, and sometimes I hear her, and I listen and I struggle for a while, I get paranoid that everyone hates me again and I spiral.

And at other times when I drop a bollock, (like letting Addison eat Play Doh… it is ok to let them eat it, isn’t it? I don’t mean as a main meal, I just mean, if he swallowed some when I had my back turned that doesn’t make me a bad mum does it?) I find the strength from god knows where, with the help of medication, because I deserve to be helped, to tell her that not everybody hates me and actually I’m not as bad she thinks I am. (So take that bitch!- I’ll work on my fighting talk as time goes on i suppose. Baby steps and all that.)

Right now I am fighting. (Cos I’m awesome. – cringe!!!)

I have learnt a lot off James this year. (Why am I so god damn mean to him??)

Including that it is ok to be a victim sometimes, and that those thoughts your inner voice tells you – well they aren’t fact.

They are just thoughts, and thoughts can be changed.

Thoughts aren’t facts.

‘What would you say to your best friend Lexy, if she felt weak and pathetic and was constantly beating herself up? What would you say to her? Think about how you would react to her, then do the same for yourself.’

‘It isn’t as easy as that James’ I bite back at him (for no reason whatsoever?!?! He is lovely to me and all I do is stomp around acting like he just told me my skirt was too short!) ‘But to quote pink, I’d probably say;

‘Change the voices in your head, make them like you instead! Cos your perfect, your fuckin perfect!’ and with him rolling his eyes and laughing, I stormed out.

(I really don’t know why.)

I wonder, how I will be, a year from now?

One of the voices in my head just answered very quietly.

It said;

I hope I win.

Just Say Yes… (Exceptions.)

So apparently, and I only found this out recently, so if anyone asks where you heard this from, you absolutely didn’t hear it from me ok? I will totally deny all knowledge of ever telling you this should it come up in court ok?

Can you keep a secret?

So apparently if you call an ambulance and you happen to say you are in a lot of pain, they give you gas and air.

Now.

You all know me well enough by now to know I would never waste ambulance time and jokingly make a farce of somebody else’s funding (Irish one’s funding excluded because his funding doesn’t count – I needed that dress) especially the funding of the NHS, as in the past they have saved my life… twice.

Addison thanks them for that.

I thank them for that. No longer begrudgingly.

And I’m pretty sure the Irish one thanked them for that (right before he looked at his bank statement and wondered whether he just shouldn’t have perverted the course of nature, and that way he could have claimed it all back on the life insurance.)

(I’m not saying he wished me dead, It’s just I probably should have warned him that I’d popped to Selfridges with his card, right before he dialed 999. And I would have done you know, if I had been conscious.)

Anyway, back to topic.

I would never hoax the ambulance service for gas and air, as, as well as the above, I’m also you know, not a druggie (wine doesn’t count) and I’m not an idiot (falling off tram stops sober doesn’t count) and I am absolutely not a time waster (21 pregnancy tests the day after my period doesn’t count) and I am not irresponsible (getting pregnant 7 months in to a relationship and having no money, not withstanding.)

So I hope you understand I am telling you this in deepest confidence (and you are not to tell anyone else) for you know, hypothetical reasons only.

On Wikipedia, Baby Centre and Scoredrugsnow.com (that last one may not be the best example) it clearly states that Gas and air or Entonox as it also commonly referred to, is to be used only in emergency treatment, labour and childbirth to alleviate the common and excruciating symptoms of ‘pain’.

Well I think the government need to add to that list, and so I came up with some exceptions to the rule where I think gas and air should be administered immediately, or at the very least be made available for when people aren’t necessarily in labour, or in pain. (Define – ‘Pain.’)

I think this would have a very positive impact on NHS funding and you know, loads of other political reasons that ill have a think about later. I may even speak to the queen.

A home supply for every mother, father, and clumsy human being, I think, would be ideal.

So, I made a list.

My list is handily called;

Exceptions to the rule. 

• I have run out of wine.  I deserve gas and air.

• My son just ate bird poo. Hand it over.

• A huge wasp just flew near my head.  I screamed and ran around the garden but the little bastard followed me. It was terrifying. (Also – while I’m on this point – how quickly must they be able to three point turn to reverse the sting in to you? Sting or not that shit is impressive.) Give me gas and air.

• Doodle just shat all over my neighbor, as he was sat on his knee, and it was runny. Now please, a mask would be good.

• The Irish one left the used toilet roll on the side again. RIGHT BY THE BIN! Three gulps should do it.

• I noticed my Iphone bobbing about, at the bottom of the toilet, as I stood up to flush!!!  AND I have the stomach flu. Thank you Addison. Hand mummy that canister.

• Addison’s new favourite song ‘BOOBIES, BOOBIES, POO POO AND BIG BOOBIES, MAMMY’S SMELLY BOTTOM BOOBIES’ was just sung at full volume in the queue at the post office. I need a spare bottle for the car. Hand it me. Now.

• Grandma is on her way around. Give me some. Just in case.

• The Word ‘mine.’ Just anytime that word comes out of my son’s mouth. Just to prepare me for the upcoming onslaught of drama when I try to explain that a cucumber will never play music and that I need it, to make dinner. Hand it over.

• Potty training. You better bring a few mouthpieces, as I think I may accidentally end up with the majority of them lodged in my lung. DON’T COCK YOUR LEG, ONLY DOODLE IS ALLOWED TO DO THAT!!! (In a crowded park… against a tree.) NOW ENTONOX NOW.

• Grey’s anatomy. Every. Single. Episode. Gas and air at mine y’all.

• I think I may be pregnant. Oh dear god. Yes I know I am still sat on the loo, and I may not be, but the very thought alone…  Hand it over.

• 6 AM Monday morning? ‘Mammy, I poo poo on pillow.’  All proud of himself. Happy new week. Puff puff. Oh god it’s in his ears.

• What’s that in your mouth honey? What are you chewing? OH MY GOD IT’S A DECAPITATED SPIDER. Mine. Canister. Now.

• Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. FOR THE LOVE OF … Entonox.

• I just stood on the cast and crew of Thomas the tank engine. I now have a Toby shaped hole in the sole of my foot. Gas and air thank you pleeeaase. Ow ow ow ow ow Mother FUCCCCC…

• Clean the garage Saturday yes? Clean the garage Saturday yes? Clean the garage Saturday yes? Clean the garage Saturday yes? Clean the garage Saturday yes? Clean the garage Saturday yes? Clean the garage Saturday yes? Clean the garage Saturday yes? Did he clean the BASTARD garage? NO! HE WATCHED FOOTBALL. I swear to god if you don’t pass me that bottle right now…

Like I say. Exceptions need to be made.

The humans need the gas and air. It is our god given right.

Please add more. Can you think of any more? I am sure you can!

I’m thinking of starting a petition.

*If gas and air makes you sick or you didn’t like it during labour, I have another option. It is called – morphine.

*It says on one of those websites that if you have psychological problems then you probably shouldn’t have gas and air but Pah! What do they know? And anyway… Define- ‘problems.’ I’m being made to listen to Chris De burgh for god sake! I NEED SOME.

*Gas and air is only to be shared with your spouse in extreme circumstances. Like at the arrival of the credit card statement, or when you want to hit him, really hard, but don’t want him to remember.

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.*