Forgiveness, with Extra Cheese.

He punches me in the face repeatedly.

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

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

‘Shut up.’ He says firmly. ‘Shut up.’

I don’t matter.

****

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

It smells of last year. This makes me angry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

James coughs in to his balled up fist.

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

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

They are both waiting for me to speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘No’ I whisper. ‘I’m sorry.’

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

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

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

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

‘Try.’ James implores kindly.

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

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

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

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

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

She is beautiful and illuminated in her anger.

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

Two tears roll down my cheeks as I blink.

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

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

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

***

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

I matter.

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

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

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

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

You are my reason to fight.

You are perfect.

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

For the love of…

I am a good mummy. The best.

It’s a start.

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

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

What would you say to your bully? 

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

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

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

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

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

Today I will write. Today I will be honest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jamie’s words ring in my ears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But now look at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fair play to him.

If he can do it, maybe so can I.

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

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

The journey is long.

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

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

Thank you for all your support.

Merry Christmas.

Life in Slow Motion.

Shopping I must shop today, I need sponges and cloths, the one on the sink has been there since New Kids on the Block were at number 1. It is manky. Which reminds me I need to buy some drain un-blocker too. The plug is filled with hair. Gross. I wonder if I will ever stop malting, which reminds me I need to hoover the dog hair off the sofa before the Irish One gets home tomorrow night or he will go mad. Oh we need fish too. I must make Addison’s lunch from fresh tomorrow, he will eat fish, he always does, yes that is a good idea, it will need to be put on at eleven while he naps, or should that be half eleven, what if it goes cold while he is still asleep? You know people don’t like you right? They think you are a terrible mother.

Maybe I should just cook it when he wakes up? But what if he climbs on the TV stand while I am in the kitchen and knocks it over on himself? No I will cook it while he sleeps then wake him up and he can eat. If he is tired he could sleep again this afternoon while I do some writing. If they liked you, you would feel it. I am sure they call you things behind your back; it is because you are worthless.  

Shit, when will we go to the shops? I need sponges and cloths, oh and washing up liquid and nappies. Damn I will need to go to the bank first. Right so if I wake Addison up and give him is lunch then we can go to the bank and then I can go to the supermarket. Nobody will ever love you enough Lexy you are hard work.

Right but before all of that I need to make him breakfast and I need to wash up and let the dog out. What time is it? Oh. 3am. I really should get some sleep. Ok I will try and sleep. Don’t forget the sponges tomorrow. Maybe you should get out of bed and write it down in case you forget…you are pathetic.

Oh and drain un-blocker! Do not forget that, and make sure you hoover…shit the shopping! I went to Asda before! How did I forget that? Because you are an idiot…

It is happening again.

I am starting to run too hard, too fast and for too long.

When I say I am staring to run, I don’t mean in the literal sense because I do not run and never will. Occasionally I will jog, but only if I am jogging towards someone holding a chocolate bar, or maybe after the pizza deliveryman if he forgot the sweet chilli sauce, but running has never been my thing and I am not ashamed to admit it.

What I actually mean is, I can appreciate when I am making myself ill again by never stopping for breath, by driving through the Starbucks ‘Drive thru’, paying and leaving without the coffee, and forgetting to smile at the realisation.

I suffer with depression, this much is true but sometimes I forget I can do things to help myself.

I start to fall in to old behavioral patterns, and one by one I start leaving my marbles behind, losing them, leaving them and most disturbingly, abusing myself instead of coming to my own rescue.

A while back, when my sheets were starched white, a magpie was my best friend and a doctor would pop his head in on me to check I wasn’t dead every fifteen minutes, I learnt a lot about recognizing the signs of illness, and how to live in the moment.

‘Take one day at a time,’ is a phrase I have heard countless times over the last few months, from health professionals, friends and family. In fact I have heard it so often, I sometimes wonder if Addison will whisper it to me as his first full sentence.

And although I nod and murmur my agreement while shooting a Wallace and Grommit type grin back, I don’t really listen, when perhaps I should be doing.

Before being admitted in to hospital I would say I didn’t understand or know how to ‘live in the moment’, I thought it was just an annoying cliché.

Since being hospitalized I would probably say I do know how to, but usually forget the importance and the need for doing so.

How can I only think about today when next Tuesday I am going to the dentist? (and we all know what happened last time!)

How can I only think of today when I have to find the money to pay nursery on Wednesday?

How can I only live in this moment right now, when I have to put Addison’s lunch on in the next hour?

I need to plan.

Life is too fast and too important; there are too many things to think about, to worry about, to fixate on, to only think of today, to only think of this moment right now.

There is no time to slow down.

Getting everything done matters more.

Doesn’t it?

On Monday evening I left my lifeline, my laptop, in it’s newly bought leather case, sat on the top of my car for two hours in the middle of Salford, while I took all my other belongings (my son and his paraphernalia) in to the house to commence the regimented bedtime routine.  I didn’t realise that this is where my life line, my laptop, had been sitting like a time bomb, waiting to be stolen until 8pm when I sat down to write and remembered with a minor heart attack the last time I had had it.

It was still there.

On Tuesday I left the gas on the hob, crackling and bursting away, turned on full for an hour after warming up ready brek. I only realised after I had started to feel drowsy and had wandered in to the kitchen to get a glass of water. After feeling my legs go weak with relief that I had caught it just in time, I ran with a pounding heart, and opened every window in the house.

Thank god Addison was in nursery.

On Wednesday I was so anxious about getting everything done I needed to get done, I was in Asda with my belongings (my son and all his paraphernalia) by 6.30 am. I woke him up to take him.

After no sleep.

On Thursday and Friday I forgot to eat. I wasn’t hungry. At least, I don’t remember feeling hungry.

I probably wasn’t.

On Saturday I dropped my belongings (my son and all his paraphernalia) off with my mum while I went to a wedding. My mum called not long after and said she wanted to take Addison to the on-call Dr again as his temperature was high again, but not to worry, it was just for her peace of mind. I raced there, in my dress, insisting they wait for me and I went with them.

Returning a couple of hours later, prescription in hand and wanting to get my exhausted belongings (my son and his paraphernalia) in to my own car, and go home, I couldn’t find my car keys. The car keys that also had my house keys attached to them. After an hour of searching and panicking, my mum reminded me ‘I saw you put them on top of the car when you strapped Addy in before we left for the Dr’s, did you pick them up again?’

No I hadn’t.

Miraculously though, they were still there, sat on top of her car, inexplicably wedged under the roof rack.  We had driven on the motorway, we had been to Wythenshaw hospital, got lost, taken at least four U turns, and we had driven home on the motorway and yet, there they still were. Heart pounding, knowing the Irish one was away with his keys and Doodle could have been imprisoned at home, I got in the car and thanked whoever it was, who was watching over me.

I also acknowledged that maybe; just maybe, it was time to slow down.

But didn’t…

On Sunday, struggling to function, the depression having seen it’s opening and thrust itself in, an uninvited guest at the party, I lost my cash card. And 2 credit cards. I shouted at Addison over nothing. I made him cry. Over nothing. I self harmed because I shouted at Addison over nothing and more so than ever before, I wanted to give up. I am a terrible mother, a failure. I researched brain tumors in my spare time while Addison slept, and convinced myself I had one. As if I wasn’t anxious enough. I thought a lot about dying. I hated everybody. We went to Asda and did a shop. A shop I only remembered was in the boot of my car at 3 o’clock this morning.

After eating nothing for dinner.

Again.

When I was first in hospital, I thought I wasn’t depressed because I got out of bed everyday and got on with my day. I kept telling the doctors I was just a drama queen. I can laugh. I can organize. I am not depressed.

‘You are depressed.’

‘No I am not!’

‘What makes you think you aren’t?’

‘I get out of bed everyday!’

‘Do you sometimes think about dying?’

‘Doesn’t everybody?’

‘No.’

‘Oh’

‘Do you ever stop?’

‘Not really.’

‘What do you enjoy doing?’

‘Not much.’

‘Do you ever stop?’

‘No. There is no time to.’

‘It is critical that you stop.’

Like plunging head first in to very cold water, I am reminded once again of those words.

My illness is one I have fought long and hard with.

So why am I giving up now? Why am I ignoring all the advice now?

I am not. I will not.

It is time to slow down again.

Before something catastrophic happens.

When I am playing with my son, I have to put my phone down, remind myself that in an hour, I will deal with that hour, but right now, we are playing. The fish will cook. The day will go on.

When I am making dinner I have to be making dinner.

When I am meant to be sleeping I need to be sleeping.

The days will take care of themselves.

No more multitasking for now.

It is too dangerous, for my belongings (my son and all his paraphernalia) and for my mental health.

And that includes you, voice in my head.

(Voice, not voices!)

No more multi-tasking for now.

One thing at a time.

But what about picking the Irish one up from the airport, you need petrol, you’ll need to put your foot down, you’ll be ok doing 80, make sure you pick Addison up, you need to feed the dog, and have a shower, you need to wash, the Irish One will think you are stinky, nobody likes you stinky…

Shut up.

*And whoever you are, that has been looking after and out for me up there, as if I didn’t know; I am listening, and I owe you one. I am listening. I love you and miss you everyday. A hundred times, thank you. x

Level 10, Space 46. R2W

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

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

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

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

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

I was free.

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

I was going to have a baby.

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

The world would never be the same again.

Labour would be a cinch.

Everybody said so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Great expectations and all that.

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

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

How excited I was over the coming months.

How happily overweight I was.

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

How bloody deluded I was about the weight falling off.

And how optimistic I was about my shared future.

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

And I cried.

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

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

I cried because I wanted to rewind the clock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still not brave enough to take the lift.

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

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

How am I feeling?

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

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

It was not my fault.

They say, don’t they?

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

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

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

And once again, I am filled with hope.

And who knows?

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

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

I’m going to steal everybody’s left shoe.

When the instant finally arrived, hurtling towards me like a ton of concrete bricks I had spent 17 months evading, my heart began thrashing and kicking, screaming for me to escape. My chest became so tightly knotted I found myself forgetting to breathe and against my will my eyes started releasing tears brimming with pure anguish that seemed to burn tracks of hatred down my face.

It was at this point, with James staring in to my soul, and an audience of six strangers, that I found myself unable to fight any longer.

All it had taken was the sheer terror, hiding behind some heavily carved distraction techniques, to be glimpsed at, for the briefest of moments and my carefully painted masquerade, filled with dancing clowns, cotton candy and merry go rounds, came thundering down, landing around my battered and tired feet, before shattering in to a hundred tiny, finger cutting, soul destroying shards of malevolence.

In this moment, the risk of not sharing my pain, by far outweighed the fear of not knowing what would happen to me if I did.

This became my element of freedom.

Which incidentally is also the name of Alicia Keyes’ last album.

And fair play to her. It is a great name, and a great album.

However, as I have not been blessed with a figure that allows me to confidently carry off shoulder pads on a regular basis (I always end up looking like I am about to play American football) am unable to wear hot pants without Greenpeace showing up with a huge net and a shit load of placards (Blubber is not fashionable, leave it to the whales!!) and am so tone deaf, that even singing Happy Birthday sets off the neighborhood dogs howling to the moon and running around in manic circles frothing at the mouth, can we just pretend, just for a heartbeat that I came up with that last line all by myself, and that Alicia is ok with this?

Thank you.

I think at the very least, under the circumstances, she owes me that.

Interestingly though I have visited the concrete jungle, so in fairness we do have that in common. I climbed up the Empire State Building in 1996 (not in the same way King Kong did, just to be clear. Although I do own a gorilla suit. I am not sure why I feel this is relevant. I wasn’t wearing it or anything… but anyway.)

Addison’s godmother and I took the stairs, as petulantly at the time, I refused to get in the lift. I am claustrophobic see, or at least I thought I was, but according to my therapist James (the one with the eyes that can tear through your soul like heat seeking missiles) I am not.

I am, in fact, Agro phobic (aren’t we bloody all!)

Which isn’t a fear of wide-open spaces as I thought it was, but a fear of not being able to escape. So although we both have a love of New York, Alicia and me, I wouldn’t have been able to wax lyrical about it as she did, while I was there, as after mounting 186 floors (in a gorilla suit) I was too busy coughing up a lung, to sing anything. (Much to the relief of New York pet lovers anonymous.)

So…

My favourite Disney film is Lilo and Stitch.

Yes I am aware that was a very tenuous link but really, if you can link Alicia Keys and a tiny blue, four handed alien that burps the Kauain national anthem better than that, then please let me know, and I will add it in here, and claim it as my own… I seem to be doing that a lot today.

Ohana Means Family and Family means nobody gets left behind.

Five years ago this small sentence said by a mongrel experimental alien life form (that isn’t even available in HD) would have either reduced me to tears or sent me in to a fit of anger that would have resulted in me shouting at the television and branding the shit out of my arm with my hair straighteners.

Utter bollocks I would have thought. Family brings nothing but pain, rejection, loss and hurt.

So in that moment, taken unawares, with my circus tent falling to its knees, in a room filled with tortured souls, luke-warm tea and stale biscuits, I took a deep shaky breath, and I faced it.

And it hurt.

It hurt like hell.

And in many ways, it still does.

As I sit here munching on my waffle (seriously. If you poke me, I oink) I am still feeling an underlying sensation of vulnerability and acute sadness but, and there is always a butt (and mine is huge) the fear of feeling this way was actually a million times worse, and more anxiety inducing, than actually the way I am feeling right now.

Sometimes the dread of the feelings we may feel, is actually worse than the actual feelings that follow from tackling the unknown, and the fear of the unknown.

I was terrified I was going to break, but actually I was already broken, and sometimes the only way to fix things is to remove all the jagged edges, and piece them back together part by part.

Yesterday, following on from a moment of utter carnage, during which my pet poodle Doodle had a horrifically wet runny poo while sitting on my neighbors knee in the garden (I honestly couldn’t make this shit up, is it any wonder I ended up in a mental institute?) and following on from the ensuing screams of delight from Addison, who had found a worm and was presenting it to me at the same time as me trying to find wet wipes that could not only wipe the soggy doggy squit off my neighbors jogging bottoms but also from his memory, I caught sight of the Lilo and Stitch DVD peeping out from behind an old box of Ski gear sat in the hallway (long story. Cold summer. Not enough meat on my bones…Yeah right) and thought, after 5 years of avoiding it, maybe now (not at that exact moment per say, as my neighbor was still sat in his deck chair retching manically at this point but soon) would be a good time, to process the past while looking to the future in the hope of creating some new family memories.

Ohana means family and family means nobody gets left behind.

Two hours later with the neighbor back in his own house no doubt showering in bleach and scrubbing at his knee with a wire brush, Doodle wearing one of Addison’s nappies, the Irish one wearing most of Addison’s dinner and me, wearing galoshes and moon boots, all sat down together (under duress) on our manky old sofa and prepared to create a loving family memory I would no doubt cherish for years to come, with no anger involved!

Great expectations and all that.

Turns out, making perfect memories is a certified nightmare.

The film was only on for 15 minutes before the Irish one fell asleep, Addison was repeatedly biting my leg and squealing for Toy Story and Doodle was shaking, panting and making some decidedly squelchy noises.

I could feel myself becoming upset.

I wanted a happy memory for god sake!!!! How hard could it be???

Why could things never go according to plan???

I shook the Irish one awake and bellowed in his face.

‘CAN YOU JUST BLOODY TRY TO STAY AWAKE LONG ENOUGH FOR ME TO MAKE A NICE FAMILY MEMORY PLEASE? IT SHOULDN’T BE THIS HARD!!’

He jerked awake with a look of shock, wiped the dribble from his mouth, (he will love me for that – serves him right) and smiled openly.

‘I think today’s memory’s will last a lifetime for all of us Lex, let alone next door. I love you. Now please let Addison get down before we all go deaf, open the door for Doodle before his bum explodes and lets go for a walk in the garden and enjoy the sunshine.’

‘What?’ I shouted back

‘Lexy, take off your ear muffs if you can’t hear me’

‘Oh right yeah. What?’

‘I said’ he sighs getting ready to repeat himself before stopping, smiling a secret smile and adopting his know-it-all face  ‘I said, lets take the stick away.’

So we did.

(Smug sod. Ahem…)

And even though I had to let go of making the ‘perfect memory’ we actually had a lovely afternoon.

But don’t think they got away with it. Even if I have to drug them, we will all sit down and watch Lilo and stich together at some point.

That’s how I’ll mark my progress!!

*This post was sponsored by Post Natal depression. Balancing out the better, with a little bit of Psychopath. OHANA MEANS BLOODY FAMILY!!! AND FAMILY MEANS… YOU WILL DO WHAT I SAY… MWAHAHAHAHAHA.

Give me your shoe.

The Mosquito effect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I surprised myself by knowing which station.

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

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

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

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

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

It is not my fault. 

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

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

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

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

The occasional battle maybe, but never the war.

Did I tell you about my Drifter Mcflurry?

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

It was one of those once in a lifetime events.

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

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

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

How do I get hold of Sinita?

Live fast, die young…

Sometimes when I wake up in the morning,
For a split second,
I forget.
If I hear the theme tune for the sopranos,
For a split second,
I forget.
When I see a motorbike zooming past,
For a split second,
I forget.

When I hear a voice in a crowd that sounds like you,
For a split second,
I am hopeful.
Every now and again I hear you laughing,
For a split second,
My heart soars.
Sometimes I see your face in a stranger,
For a split second,
The pain is gone.

When I look at my son and I know how much he would have loved you,
For a split second,
I am angry.
When I drive past your old house and feel the need to talk,
For a split second,
I am overcome.
When I see your name still in my phone,
For a split second,
I am crushed. 

When I think of growing up without you,
For a split second,
I hate you.
When I think of the years gone by and the fun we had,
For a split second,
I love you.
When I remember the times you held my hand,
For a split second,
I feel safe.
When I remember all you meant to me,
For a split second,
I am proud.

After all of these years, when my heart is still screaming,
For a split second,
I feel your hugs.
When I look at your photos, my face all stained,
For a split second, 
You are here.

If you could return to me just once,
For a split second,
I’d shout at you!
And when I’d finished giving you grief,
As is my job as your sister,
I would tell you how lucky we were to have you,
In our lives,
Even for a split second.

I love you Jason.
I will miss you forever.
Wherever you are now, pull out a barstool for me.
But this time, you are right,  I won’t have a Guinness.
I will have a hug.

Not for a split second, but forever,
Proud to be your little sister.  

The thing about post natal depression, it just kicks your arse completely.

If you had told me a year ago that following the happiest and most enjoyed (and most  painful don’t forget most painful!) moment of my life I would suffer with the most awful and foggiest, low and self depreciating feelings I have ever experienced, I would have told you in no uncertain terms to ‘jog on’. There is no doubt about it. I just would have told you that people like me don’t get depression. I am a positive, happy and focused type person. (Copied directly from my CV.) Positive, happy and focused people don’t suffer with depression. (Make sure you spit this word out as if you would the word ‘lazy‘) Because of the person I was capable of being, I believed I was untouchable. My ‘easy go lucky shield’ would bat off any sad, lonely or blue feelings, immediately. I was the happiness superhero! Sponsored by Smirnoff.

 Don’t get me wrong. Ive not had a perfect life, but then who has? Ive not had the type of life that incurred no heartache and no sadness. I have had my fair share, in my opinion, of thunder and lightning. Examples? Ok. I’ll give you a few. I have been on the other side of the world from all my family and friends and have been robbed and dumped by someone I trusted all on the same day. (Don’t get the violin out just yet!), I have had my heart carelessly discarded by countless lying, cheating, (do you need a pair of tweezers to get that little thing out?) immature little boys, playing at being men. I have been treated horrendously by work colleagues and bullied to the point of submission. To the point where I  spent a year staring at people shoes, my self confidence a big fat zero. (I did see a lot of nice shoes though!) And then perhaps the most painful phase of my life so far (you can get the violin out now), I lived through and grieved for my only brother, who died very suddenly and unexpectedly in 2005.

Now some may look at this unfortunate list of events (just call me Lemony Snicket) and think, ‘it hasn’t been that bad love, you’ve not heard what ive been through yet! You’ve been lucky’. I know in comparison to some people, what I have been through is simply a ripple in the ocean. And if you are one of those people, I feel for you I really do and I hope you have the love of your friends and family, and that in some way you are managing to get out of bed every day. And if you are? I respect you for it.

 ‘Life just happens’ That’s what my boss once said to me a couple of years ago when I requested an early finish to go and spend time with my sister in law. ‘Life just happens Lex, if you need a cup of coffee and a cake, you know where I am’. I have never forgotten that phrase. Because life does just happen. Bad things happen to good people. But each morning the sun comes up. Whether you get out of bed or not is another thing entirely. But the sun does come up. It certainly helps to have kind, caring friends around you, that’s for sure.

Even after living through all of the above, and feeling genuinely rotten at points, never ever did I use the words ‘depression’. Because on some days I was very, very happy. On some days I was sad. On some days I was drunk. And on some days I would laugh until my ribs hurt. I did suffer with the odd panic attack and the odd bout of the blues but not ‘depression!’ (Remember to spit that word out again!) If you are depressed it is every day! Right?  It’s a sign of personal failure right?

 There seems to be such a stigma attached to being depressed. Maybe I did see using the word ‘depressed’ as some sort of personal failure, what with my happiness shield and all! Also being out and about you hear the word being banded about with such ease these days;

‘Oh my car won’t start Im so depressed’ – Teenager in car park. 

‘Oh my god ive put on two pounds, Im so depressed’ – Friend of family.

‘All the square crisps in the shop were out of date, Im so depressed’ – (this may or may not have been me. Ahem.) 

So at what point do you stop, take it all in and maybe admit you have been suffering in silence, hiding the tears and forcing a smile for far too long? At what point is it acceptable to admit to somebody you may be a bit more than ‘a little bit down’ and not have them assume it’s because you laddered your favourite tights? (Although that is annoying!) At what point do you admit to yourself that using the word ‘depression’ is not a sign of personal failure?

 They say the first step in recovery (I saw the doctor today and by ‘they’ I mean her) is admitting to yourself you are more than a ‘little bit down’. It may not even be depression. It may just be the ‘baby blues’ but surely admitting it to someone is a good thing? A problem shared is a problem halved and all that? The things is, with this post natal crap (see how angry I am), every time I try to admit anything other than being a bit low, the inner me rolls its eyes and my subconscious whispers ‘God Mammywoo stop being so positively pre teen! You are so lucky, you have a healthy baby boy, a year off work and a loving man. You have to go and ruin it all by being miserable. Ungrateful you missis! Ungrateful!’

 So the truth is, I don’t have any words of advice. I don’t have the answers to how to feel better. I guess it’s just another one of those rollercoasters us women (and some men I’m sure) have to ride. But do i feel better ? Knowing that there are lots of people who have dealt with these feelings, who have suffered horrendously and have come out the other side with a smile on their faces,  Sponsored by their family and friends. Not booze? Yes I do. Because it gives me hope.

 And hopefully I will look back at these months in a few years and smile at the number of times I have shit someone up unexpectedly by bursting in to tears.

• Sorry little old lady in Morrison’s. You saying ‘your son is gorgeous’ is not what reduced me to the foetal position on the floor, sobbing in aisle 2. (Much understood, look of horror, scuttles away.)
• Sorry man in the post office. It’s not your fault I didn’t have enough money for stamps, I shouldn’t have had a full on meltdown and hid my face in the pram, as if the world was coming to an end. Think Nicky Graham in Big brother 7. (He offered me a free stamp to get me out of his shop as soon as possible. This random act of kindness made me cry all the more. Poor bloke.)
•  Apologies to my other half. For countless mornings of scratching my eyes out and yours, for being a total bitch. And for crying anytime you are nice to me. Also I apologise for waking up and telling you there is a man stood at the end of the bed. Yes I can see why, in a pitch black room at 3am, this would cause you to suffer a minor heart attack. But really, the sleep talking is all a part of it. Honest.
•  Sorry to everybody I shouted at. (There are too many to mention.)

 The thing about post natal depression, you can kick its arse!

 I am sure we will get there. All of us. Everyone in the ‘mummy club’ who is going slightly mad around the edges, slightly sad around the edges, and in reality, joking aside, suffering in a big way. In silence. We will all get there. I have been told this by many a wise mother. And really, if they can do it. So can we! (Ive never been very good at inspirational speeches.)

 But the first step is admitting it to yourself. (According to Dr Quack, it is anyway. (I shit you not. That is her name! Look her up if you don’t believe me!)) You have to actually say the words out loud apparently. There are no secret handshakes in this club. Just honesty.

 So ok, I’ll go first.  I’ll take the plunge.

 ‘My name is Lexy and I’m admitting to myself, and you, (ooo get me all brave) that maybe I am feeling more than ‘a little bit down’.

 There I said it. Now it’s your turn. When you’re ready, that is.  And if you’re not. That’s ok. It took me a while too. As long as, at some point you do admit it, to someone. (NOT JEREMY KYLE!) Because I would not like to think of anybody going through this for longer than necessary, alone.

 And in the meantime, I find chocolate helps. Lots and lots of chocolate. and lots and lots of self love. (and i dont mean rude self love, i mean love yourelf. Appreciate yourself if you can, and all the good things you have achieved, even if that good thing is just getting out of bed! ) In fact, I have a bag of revels in the cupboard with my name on it. Ive shared enough for today. Im not sharing them!

 Good luck,  and honestly my thoughts are with you. I know how miserable it is. I am going through it too.

 Click click. Spoc spoc. (Or whatever the trekkies say.) Tommorrow is a new day.

Once upon a time in the life of a fairytale ….

There lived a princess who loved life. She was vivacious, and ambitious, happy and a little bit chubby. She would often give long ambling speeches to anyone who would listen about how happy she was. She had the perfect relationship, the perfect 2 bedroom flat and just enough money in her bank account. She went on luxurious holidays spending her days sipping martinis and lazing by the pool. Occasionally she would shop, all her money being spent on beautiful clothes and handbags all for herself. She would often wander around her kingdom gently humming to herself and pondering life’s little nuances like she had all the time in the world.

And then she woke up to the sound of a drunken stumble entering the bedroom, and realised with a sinking heart, she had no money, was more than ‘a little bit chubby’ and her husband had obviously been sticking his pencil in somebody else’s sharpener.

I have never been married to a golfer, a footballer or a rich celebrity type. I have never been hounded by the press. I have never been voted ‘most gorgeous ass 2009.’ (Although to be honest they missed a trick on that one. My arse is something to behold let me tell you. Something big to behold. Anyways..) I have however, been cheated on in the past. So feel that in some way I can relate to some of the ladies in the press in a small way.

I was dating a pilot. (Do I need to go on or can you guess what happened?) Apparently a bright orange uniform and too much make up did it for him in a big way. Not that I knew. Although I don’t own anything orange so never had the chance to find out…  We had been together for a lovely 2 years when I found out he had been shagging all and sundry behind my back. I was humiliated in a big way, as it turned out most of our friends had been aware of this. I blamed myself for a while and it was truly awful. Even though we had no children, no responsibilities other than a mortgage and a dog, we did have what I thought was ‘the perfect’ relationship. Now for me, personally, there was no coming back from that, or those, particular acts of unfaithfulness. That relationship was dead the second he admitted to countless acts of indiscretion at 32 thousand feet. (I use the word admitted loosely here, it was more of a ‘blood from a stone’ scenario, involving a large stiletto and a lot of tackling.) I now refuse to fly with ‘sleazy jet’ as honestly? If their pilots spend so much time in cubicle one? Who the hell is flying the plane?? But anyways.. there you go. The trust was gone. And so was he. (I kept the dog.) 

As a child I whole heartedly believed that one day my prince would come, so to speak. And that no matter what happened, somewhere out there, under the deep blue sky, was a man that would whisk me away and I would live my happily ever after. And even though that particular short arse, smelly footed, small dicked prince ran off with another (unlucky) princess. I still never really gave up believing that one day my prince would come. (teehee, ok sorry ill stop now.) So when Sir Fucksalot Chlamydia Willy (as I now refer to him) ran off with Princess Ms. Sucksalotofcocks, he actually did me a favour as it hardened my resolve (ooer missus. Sorry don’t know what’s up with me today) that I was living my real life fairytale. 

Did it hurt at the time? Yes. Did I get drunk and listen to Sinead O’Connor at 4am while warbling on to anybody who would listen about how I would make him regret it? Yes. Did I eat too much ice cream, pizza and MacDonald’s and endlessly dream of him ploughing a single man craft in to the side of a cliff? Yes. Did that mean my life was over? No it didn’t. Did that mean I wouldn’t get my ‘happily ever after?’ No it didn’t.

I got to the point after a lot of soul searching where I vowed I would enjoy my continuing search for my happily ever after. Which also meant in the meantime I could enjoy the fairytale of rebound, the fairytale of drunken nights single, the fairytale of enjoying me and all that I am, and the fairytale of finally meeting someone else and thinking ooo could this be it, this time? And this of course proceeded…

The fairytale of first words with the new hottie in the office, first hidden glances, first emails, (the digital age eh? If only the beast had IM’d a photo to Belle first.) Followed by first dates, first kisses, first rambling midnight phone calls, first holidays, first ‘I love you’s’ and first ‘ OK you’re doing my head in now’s’.  Followed by first night in the bedroom (ahem, yes I always wait that long) and the first morning sex. NB- for the record this only happens at the start. Followed by the first ‘did you just have a wee in front of me? Im in the bloody bath!’ and then the ultimate ‘oh my god my period is late’…. and before you know it. You have a house, a mortgage, a baby boy and other than the odd bout of post natal depression fog you are blissfully happy… ..ish.

 And if this one cheats on me? I may forgive and forget, I may leave him, or I may do a Mrs. Bobbit and chop his nads off. But either way I will keep going, keep living, keep fighting and keep searching for the happily ever after I was promised..

I don’t have any advice for Cheryl Cole, Coleen McLaughlin or Pam who lives at number 42. All I can say is do what’s right for you.  It will all work out one way or another. In the end.

 And really it’s nobody’s business but your own. Do you think Cinderella asked the fairy godmother for her opinion after prince charming was caught in the back of the pumpkin with an ugly sister? (See Cinders the untold story.) Nope she stayed with him, or may have left him, I can’t remember. But either way. She lived happily ever after.

 The end.

I dont have post natal depression.

I don’t have post natal depression.
I don’t.
I just feel down sometimes.
I don’t have post natal depression.
I don’t.
I just cry sometimes. 
I don’t have post natal depression.
I don’t.
Im just too self involved.
I don’t have post natal depression.
I don’t.
Because how dare I? 

How dare I feel down? When I have everything I have ever wanted. My whole life. Waiting for somebody who would love me for me. Somebody who would need me, like I needed them. Somebody who would laugh in the face of my faults and love me all the more. Somebody who would put their arms around me and let me cry. 

I don’t have post natal depression
I don’t.
I’m just a drama queen.
That’s what everybody says.
So It must be true. 

How dare I be a drama queen? When I have the most beautiful, happy and healthy baby boy. A baby boy I have waited for. A baby boy who smiles and whose smile says  ‘I love you mammy’. A baby boy who can take my breath away. 

I don’t have post natal depression.
I don’t.
I laugh too much. 

I laugh to myself when I catch myself feeling sorry for the man living on the street. I laugh to myself when I think of how much I miss my brother and how he should be here to see my son. I laugh to myself when I feel like breaking down at the thought of my little doggy, my first baby, feeling left out. I laugh when I catch site of myself trying to look pretty. I laugh when I feel low. 

I don’t have post natal depression.
I don’t.
I have no right to be sad.
I have everything ive ever wanted. 

What right do I have?