It’s been a while… 

The 29 week utero baby making me feel like death all those months ago, is now 8 months old. 

And I have to say, either this has been the longest period of psychosis I have ever experienced, or I am actually doing quite well and even possibly thriving. (I’m not keen on the word thriving. It reminds me too much of the word thrusting. And I am not thrusting. At all. Ever again. I couldn’t find a better word than thriving though. So… It has to do. Just don’t picture me thrusting.) 

So yeah, I have had a baby. A baby I was convinced wasn’t mine for a good while. Emergency C sections can have that affect apparently. I just, I was sliced open and then because they made me take my lenses out, and it was all a bit hazy and I was off my bongos on diamorphine, at first I was convinced he was black. I kept apologising to The Irish one and promising I hadn’t done the dirt with a black man. I also said I was over the moon as I had always secretly dreamed of a baby with dark skin. Turns out quite disappointingly he wasn’t black, just pasty and strawberry blonde like the other one. This and the fact he was massive, has a dimple in his chin like me, and blue eyes should have convinced me he was mine, but the feeling of him potentially not being, lingered a few weeks. It’s just so different with a section. They took him out and ran off with him. Like- what if he wasn’t … Anyway. Forget it. 

(Does anyone know if you can buy diamorphine? I feel like I was so much more laid back. Anyway…)

His name is Coby. He wears a lot of pink. I am not making any kind of stand on gender discrimination with this. I just like pink. So, until he can stand up, point accusingly at me and proclaim ‘stop fucking putting me in pink woman!’ He will wear pink. And like it. 

I have listened to a lot of musical theatre. (Addison is currently obsessed with grease 2 so if you were to peer through my living room window at 7pm on any given Tuesday evening I will usually be found rocking out in leather tight pants (baggy threadbare pyjamas) and straddling step ladders (the jumperoo) pretending I am 8 stone and all I want is a cool rider. (Addison sometimes joins in.) What I actually want is a good nights sleep. Or perhaps a ten day break in the Maldives. Alone. 

I have quit my job. Quite spectaculary too. I quit my job in a series of quite explicit, straight talking emails. To be honest it’s been a long time coming. But, it’s How I did it, which has got me wondering if maybe I’m experiencing an episode of acute psychosis. Ive been so unbelievably honest and angry in them. I probably come across as a bit bitter. I’m not bitter. I just wanted to be honest. So I was. Very unlike me. I’m usually one to slink away and not rock the boat. I re read them last night. They are definitely ‘to the point’ and would make an interesting read to those who favour ‘take a break’ type rags. Maybe one day I will publish them. Because seriously? It’s a good story. Like a career horror story. Think Saw 2 meets Mean girls. 

I have lost 3.5 stone through the unbelievable magic that is slimming world. 3.5 stone!! And I’ve never been hungry and have at least one diam bar a day. I’m still going. My target is ten stone. 2.5 to go. 

(Seriously tho? Diamorphine?? Where can I get some cos no doubt it’s also syn free!!) 

So yeah. Now I need to find a job I’m passionate about, and um… raise two kids on beans…. 

You know what? Let’s not dwell on the future. It’ll happen whether I want it to or not. 

Also though. 

I have become pretty convinced we are living amongst shape shifters, are being poisoned by ‘Chem trails’ and a man with a giant trophy is following me about. This could be put down to acute psychosis, or it could just be a late night Addiction to google, coffee and Hendricks combined with an unhealthy dose of sleep deprivation. 

I guess only time will tell. But you see my predicament? I am wondering if I’m out of it. 

Anyway. I’m off to water the poodle tree. 


A big truck drove past me before at the lights though. It had ‘IT’S NOT A PROBLEM’ scrawled on the side of it in huge yellow letters, and i guess it’s right. 

It isn’t. 


29 Weeks up the Duff.

I was 9 weeks pregnant the last time I wrote about this pregnancy.

I was full of hope and joy and love and excitement.

I won’t put weight on! I won’t suffer ill mental health as I am aware of the warning signs! I will stay calm and honest! I will write every week and get back in to blogging! I will document every stage of pregnancy! This is going to be an amazing journey and so different to last time!

So it is with great difficulty I am now forced to admit to you, with all that excitement and wonder having been in the air, I am now actually a 29-week pregnant fat hog with back pain, a lower abdomen shaped like a 6-wheeler caravan and the temper of a thousand rampaging bastards.

My stock phrase ‘I don’t remember it being this hard first time round…’ is uttered every time I get to the top step on our staircase (there are only 12 in total) and nearly palpitate to death, every time I have to get up from my desk and walk the 40 paces to the loo and each and every time I need to put a pair of socks on- grunting and straining like a pot bellied pig trying to cross its legs.

I mean, it must have been hard last time, I just can’t remember it.

I remember eating a lot of KFC and Cadbury’s Drifters. I remember milking my time as Queen of the World and having The Irish One making me tea and running around after me constantly. I vaguely remember being unhappy at resembling the back end of the Magic bus. But seriously, I do not remember it feeling this uncomfortable in every single way, or feeling this downright fed up.

I have been trying to enjoy it, I really have, as I know this will be the last time, but I can barely walk, my back is broken, I am asleep every night by 7.30 pm, and wide awake at 2am (is there such a thing as pregnancy jetlag?) And I am either feeling sick or so full of food in an attempt to get rid of the nausea I feel sick. My thighs are like dodgem cars slamming in to one another, angry and ricocheting with every step. My boobs have gone from a comfy 36B to a pair of stretched war torpedo’s sizing in at 38E, sitting like weapons of mass discussion on my rib cage. (‘Wow your boobs have really grown! The Irish one must be happy!’)

And also Seriously!!!! What is it with people having no filter around pregnant women? (‘Wow you are fucking massive!’) 

My hair has also grown outwards. It is now entering Pomeranian territory with the humidity only adding to the Tina turner-esque quality, and on top of all this I am angry, irritable, upset and hurt, joyous and apathetic all of the damn time. (‘I just can’t get over how big you are! Are you sure you aren’t having twins?’)

Sometimes I have to wonder if I am growing a baby in each of my arse cheeks as well as my uterus. (‘How much weight have you actually put on? 2/3 stone?’)

I am having another boy too, so there really was no rational explanation for the constant sickness at the start. (‘Oh are you disappointed you aren’t having a girl?’) 

The gnarly old fortune teller at the Irish circus in 1998 was right. She told me in confidence, leaning in from behind a very withered face and the 4 teeth left in her mouth ‘Youuuu are destined to be surrounded by gorgeous men who will worship youuu!’ 

Forgive me for picturing this a little differently.


I am still excited though. Another boy!

I bloody love boys!

I am Excited and terrified.

I have been awarded an NHS mental health midwife (on account of the whole going loco down in Acapulco thing last time) who is big on visualization. (with a Z.) Not just for in labour, but for the whole time.

What if it is like last time? I am scared.

‘Visualize the love, Visualize the differences, Visualize the joy.’

What if I don’t fall in love with the baby instantly again? What if I turn in to a mega-bitch from hell because I’m cow shit when I’m tired? What if I lose my grip on reality again?

‘Visualize the truth, visualize things getting easier, visualize the challenge passing….’

What if my relationship falls apart again? What if we can’t agree on a name? What if he continues to show no understanding of how I may need a bit more emotional support right now given how vulnerable I am, and carrys on acting like I’m nothing more than an annoyance? What if he never washes the cutlery? 

‘Visualize yourself sorting it out…’


Today I am 29 weeks pregnant and I feel and look like dog shit. 

But still, I am trying to be positive.


(‘Oh my god, you have 11 weeks left?! You look like you are ready to drop!’) 

Motherhood; Letting go of Right Now.

Your little chicken legs pounding the pavement, running ahead, big smiley head on you, ready for the last day of term.

It wasn’t so long ago you clung to my hand and we walked this playground together, me filling you with assurances of how much you would love school, while secretly wishing for time to stand still. For you to stay mine, and only mine forever.

How selfish am I? Wanting to keep you mine.

But how the times fly by.

I am not ready for the future right now.

‘Can I catch up with Ronan mummy?’

I smile and nod, trailing behind, taking in the moment, swinging your lunch box and bag in my hand, watching the seasons change before me.

You still call me mummy, and I am trying to hold on to how this sounds, because I know soon it will evolve and I will be mum.

You still shout ‘I love you mummy!’ as you walk through those double doors in to school, shooting a grin back at me, but I know soon you won’t.

I also know you won’t want or need me to carry your stuff, preferring to jump out of the car and leg it, like the bigger boys do.

I also know on the horizon I won’t be allowed to shout my love for you, a quick reminder, before you disappear in to your secret life I know nothing about. I know I will have to ‘act cool’ and keep my heart firmly on my sleeve.

Watching you grow and change is the most heart-breaking and incredible adventure I have ever been on.

I am both excited for you and melancholy for what was, constantly.

I am clinging on to your babyness right now because I know once it has gone it won’t ever come back, and time is fast.

I will tell you the bedtime stories as long as you ask for them, I will kneel down and put your socks on for you as long as you need me to, I will breathe you in as you run towards me for a hug at the end of the day, every single time, because it may be the last time, and these times I don’t want to forget.

You feel like home to me in a way I never felt before. You are my home.

And although I will let you go, and watch you grow proudly, I want to remember right now.

Because right now, like the ‘right now’ last year, and the one before that, is forever changing, and I have adored you through all of them. They have all been my favourite you.

I am also so very proud of you.*

Every single day. 

*And also me, I am proud of me. I am proud of myself for not throwing myself at your feet and begging you to let me pick you up, spoon feed your cereal and generally mollycoddle you and prevent you from growing up because the thought of it makes me wanna vomit. LITERALLY the number of times I have nearly woken you up watching you sleep, stroking your forehead, trying to come up with a space time continuum. I am a proper weirdo. I know this. When I burst out crying randomly it’s because I’m picturing you going to uni and leaving me. But know this Addy woo. Even when you are 21, you will still be my little boy. And also, I may whisper I love you in your ear at the school doors, and the uni doors, and the morning of your wedding, and anytime I see you every day for the rest of your life, even if it drives you mad. #justsaying.



It’s magical! (Week 9.)

Have you tried ginger?

Have you tried hot lemon?

What about crackers?

Hmm OK, have you tried warm lemonade?

What about standing on your head in a bath full of urine on a Tuesday at 3pm while farting the national anthem?

Why yes.

Yes I have.

Nothing helps. I am as sick as fuck.

Oooo *obligatory head tilt* ‘Must be a girl then.’

You have no idea the terror that fills me with, but let’s move on.

I said this time would be different. I said I would be ‘all bump’ and as well as being ‘naturally’ slim I would be one of those women star jumping in front of the gluten free aisle at 34 weeks. I would eat healthy, drink no caffeine and I would clearly post a video of me horse riding and cross country running 2 days before labour on you tube.

‘Look! Look at that healthy pregnant woman!’ people would gasp. ‘She looks like Joan of Arc!’

So yeah, that was the plan.

Instead I have immediately morphed in to THE AMAZINGLY LUMPY ELEPHANT WOMAN and spend my days either vomiting up my innards and pulling noodles out of my nose or trying not to wet my pants whenever I sneeze. (Funny how quickly that little wonder returned!)

I also desperately wanted this pregnancy to be all about the baby as last time I was unwittingly depressed and miserable and I still feel guilty for making it all about me. I was going to be bloody serene! SERENE I TELL YOU!

But nothing is going to plan.

I don’t think I’m built to be a thin pregnant woman and I hate horses anyway.

I look like a portaloo with legs stuck out the bottom.

I am too sick to apply make up. I am too sick to make conversation. All I want to do is lie in bed groaning. My hair is greasy, my eyes are hanging off my chin and my back is permanently arched and sweating.

The Irish one has been understanding.


Apart from that one time he asked when I would be up for ‘sexy time’ again.

I told him in no uncertain terms, while stinking of vomit, bloated like a dead fish and omitting smells of death from my arse, that if he found me sexy he could absolutely take a mental picture and go and have a wank. (And then I climbed back in bed to continue groaning.)

He hasn’t asked since. (Bless him.)

Last time I beat myself up a lot. I mean it was constant. I was too fat, and I was too miserable, my thighs were too big, my arms wobbled, my uterus didn’t retract quickly enough, I didn’t feel like pounding sex every night while my boobs flailed about like udders beneath me. I was just not enough. I wasnt good enough at pregnancy. I compared myself to other women constantly, I failed every day .

This time, although I have come to realise I am not going to be thin, nor I am not going to be willowy or have any inclination to do cross country (the idea of cross country running makes me want to kill wildlife – seriously.) I am trying to be ok with it. I am not going to compare myself. I am not going to feel like a failure.

I realise this is the last time I will do this.

So I may as well make the most of it and at least try and ‘enjoy’ my big cellulitic chin.

I am not Joan of Arc. I am an elephant.

And I am trying so hard to be ok with it.

I am a fat, sick as fuck, plodding pregnant lady who is not enjoying pregnancy at all.

And I am OK with it.

And I am OK with it, OK?

Did I say it enough times to convince you?

I am sulking.


Dead Whales. (Pregnancy Week 7.)

Today has been a hard day.

Today marks 2 weeks off the pills.

Today I read my baby might have a heartbeat.

Today I also read that 21 whales have died on the beaches of the west coast because of sonar testing the army are doing. These whales get confused and die an undignified death suffocating in the sand.

Then I read about how calves are stolen from the their braying and begging mothers only a day out of the protection of the mother’s womb to be placed in tiny sheds where they can’t move for 4 weeks and then slaughtered for veal. They are confused and hurt and they want their mummy’s and instead the humans at their charge keep them chained, preventing them from even standing up.

Then I read about the children in Syria.

Today I am emotional at 7 weeks and 2 days.

Today I am wondering what the hell I am thinking bringing another child in to a world where grown men bully and victimise women and children and millions are killed because of the colour of their skin.

A world where a man can cut a dogs leg off and throw it in a sewage pipe when it sits on a crisp packet for a week, dying slowly and alone.

Today I am wondering what the hell I am thinking.

My first midwife appointment is the 18th of February. It is with the mental health midwife.

I will tell her I am fine because it is not like they can give me more anti-depressants.

I don’t want the Irish one to ask me if I am ok again, I do not want him to hug me, I want him to leave me alone. I want him to kick me in the stomach and bounce on my head, gouge my eyes out and punch my face.

Today I want to take the pain for the animals. Today I want to be eradicated. Today I want the human race to be eradicated.

I read this morning that coming off anti-depressants suddenly (like I have) can cause emotional instability.

I read that this is ‘normal’ and will pass. 

I know in my heart this will pass but that won’t make Today any easier. 

Bring on week 8. 


Crotchy McCrotchy Face. (Pregnancy week 5.)

His crinkled frowny face was a mixture of ‘what the hell were you thinking?!?!?’ And ‘don’t you worry your pretty little head, one way or another we will sort this.’

He isn’t Texan.

My GP surgery is not in the mid-west of America. (Much to my dismay, due to my continued desire and to pick up a Yanky twang or two.)

Alas no, my doctor is thigh slappingly British and appears relatively stiff with it, soooo I have no idea why I imagined his facial expression to communicate with me as a ranch owning cowboy boot clicking spurs wearing Robert Redford lookalike, but such is my ‘imagination.’

I sat down in front of him and nodded.

‘It’ll be fine.’

He put his arms behind his head momentarily and exhaled, probably contemplating  the magnitude of the task at hand. Thing is, he didn’t lean back or anything with it, so essentially he was just sat upright in front of me, showing me his pits.

His sweat stains were shaped like North America. (Told you. OBSESSED.)

I tried not to look at them directly and instead focused on his crotch, WAIT NO, DON’T LOOK AT HIS CROTCH -WHAT THE HOLY FUCK JUST HAPPENED!!

He saw me look at it his knob shape, then we made eye contact.

So much fun.

He pulled his arms down and crossed his legs, turning rapidly towards the computer.

‘So holy shit balls, I am pregnant.’ I slapped my thighs in an attempt to cover the AWKWARD.

‘Yes you are.’ He boomed, and also slapped his thigh. Which did not cover the Awkward at all, not even one little bit.

So then I did the only thing seemingly left to do and accidentally LOOKED AT HIS CROTCH AGAIN. GOOD GOD WOMAN STOP LOOKING AT THE DR’S CROTCH!

He turned around again and began feigning interest in the computer screen.

Kill me. Kill me now.

‘SO. Let’s talk about medication…’ he coughed ‘you are on high doses of a few different happy pills at the moment you mad bitch, and as we don’t want you going mad again, because let’s face it last time you cost the nhs and Bupa thousands, I think we should put together a plan.’ (This is not a verbatim quote.)

I’ll be honest, I don’t remember much else as I spent the next 20 minutes telling myself not to look at his penis while focusing on a box of tissues on his desk.

It’s good though. (Not his penis. I mean it might be but I … let’s move on.)

I am not sure I managed to convince him I am stable but we did agree I could come off medication in a staged and timely manner, if I wanted to. (Which I do.)

The NHS are going to take my psychological care seriously though, unlike last time.

I have been referred to see the head mental woman at St Mary’s and if I need any help I am to ring the bat phone and I am assuming batman in a white coat will come running.

It will be fine.

It’ll all be fine.


Two Pink Lines. (Pregnancy Week 3.)

Today I found out I was pregnant.

Today is huge.

Today I took a picture of my semi flat stomach in preparation for comparison. (Hahahaha semi flat stomach! Oh I make myself laugh sometimes.) Today I took a picture of my wobbly, baby-free, saggy skinned belly, for comparison later on.

Today I ran around with my hands in the air in celebration, saying (quite quietly as not to wake Addy) WOO a lot and then I shoved 2 pieces of cake down my neck. (To welcome the baby OBVS.)

The Irish one doesn’t believe it. He thinks I’m climaxing too soon, celebrating before the event has been confirmed, putting all my eggs in an imaginary basket.

He wants a Clear Blue £90 test to spell the word PREGNANT out to him. Then he says he will believe.

This is annoying me.

A line isn’t a line unless it’s a clear line- he says, but I know different.

Millions of us women know different.

Today there is a second faint line and it changes everything. 

I’m pregnant motherf*cker!! Woo! (I was recently advised swearing shows a lack of intelligence. I’m ok with that.)

I have only experienced a second line on a test twice before, and both times have felt significantly different to how I feel right now.

The first time I will not speak about.

The second time I jumped for joy (because I felt like I should) and then realised I had ten long months without gin and cigs and to be honest I felt a bit bereft.

This time we argued at length as to whether there was a line or not (there is a line you muppet!!) and then I left for work with so much joy radiating through my body I could barely concentrate on the road.

It keeps coming over me in waves. I feel sick, and excited and like this time everything will be different.

It immediately feels different.

I am happy in my core.

I know what to expect.

This time is not about me at all, it is about the baby.

I cannot wait for the baby to arrive.

I even bought a Disney baby grow.

I am not going to put on as much weight, I am not going to spend too much money and I am hoping unlike last time, these moments of pregnancy will pass quickly so I can meet my gorgeous boy.

I wasn’t sure this morning but now I am.

It is a boy.

I have not thought about my mental health.

I am sure this time will be different.

It’ll be fine. (I hope.)



Mind fullness.

‘So I need to buy a colouring book?’

‘There is more to it than that, but yes, a colouring book would be a good start.’

‘So what, I just sit and colour?’

I am incredulous.

How could that possibly help?

And when? When on god’s green earth am I meant to sit and pissing colour?

‘And at what point am I meant to sit and colour James?’ I bark, ‘Before I put Addison to bed when he is wittering on at me about wanting the iPad instead of dinner, Or after when my husband is wittering on about the potato famine? OR perhaps I could get up at 5 am and squeeze in an hour in before work….’

My rant goes on for a while…

‘If you don’t want to sit and colour you could think about other ways of finding mindfulness Lexy. Your intrusive thoughts, the constant fight of flight response your body is experiencing, is not good for you. Stress and anxiety are hard going physically as well as mentally. The thoughts you have repeatedly told me about are distressing you yes? So you have two choices. Shut up and put up or find ways to deal. You cannot control them, you need to learn to watch them like a movie and let them move on. Mindfulness will help you do that, it keeps you focused in other ways.’

I sigh deeply and huff. ‘For like what, ten mins a day?’

‘Let’s start with two… two minutes a day and we can build up from that.’

‘So what if I don’t want to colour?’

‘Can you afford a massage?


‘Does that sound more appealing?’


‘It may not keep you focused but it may shift the focus from your mind to your body.’


‘Then try that. It may relax you, help you find peace in your mind. Try and focus on your body.’

‘Ok. I will try that.’

Three days later I had a massage and a facial.

Because that is what I HAD to do.

It did not help me find peace.

Things I thought about during my facial and massage.

1) This room smells expensive, I wonder how easy it would be to slip some of these products in my bag.

2) Is David Bowie really dead? Or is he just back with Steve jobs in the Glitterati. No wait, it is not Glitterati, I mean that thing with Angelina Jolie and the triangles. I wonder how you join.

3) Does Beyoncé Hula Hoop?

2) (When therapist leaves the room and re-enters) “What if it’s not her and it’s a serial killer?”

3)  Shit, I think I left my straighter on!!

4) I wonder what she’s thinking about while doing this. I wonder if she hates my fat back. I wonder if she has ever had ring worm. I wonder if she is a serial killer who keeps heads in her bath. I didn’t say goodbye to Addison.

5) (While face-mask is hardening over entire face and mouth with only my nostrils to breathe through) “this is probably how Fred and Rose West’s victims felt like…..*reality check*, no, probably not.

6) Oh fuck, I need to fart!!! What if my house is on fire? Would the neighbors save Doodle the Poodle? He’s flame right up.

7) (As she starts to massage my feet and legs) “Bollocks, I forgot to shave!”

8) I wonder if she ever gets asked if she’d like to earn some cash-in-hand.

9) Was that her tummy rumbling or mine?

10) I’d definitely get caught if I tried to steal some of those products!

11) Illuminati!

barbie-serial-killer-8 (1)








I need to buy a colouring book.

Any suggestions?

Get out of My House.

You’re brash, you’re common as muck and you dress ten years too young.

This from a guy I have spoken to maybe three times in my life.

He thinks he is being funny, but actually I find his words shocking, incredibly rude and mildly insulting.

In fact no, I don’t believe he thinks he is being funny, I think he knows very well he is pushing the limits of what is acceptable to say, but is choosing to say it regardless, safe in the knowledge that I will take it on the chin and walk away.

Because I am me and he thinks he knows me.

Of course, I don’t say any of this.

And I do walk away and I do take it on the chin, because I am me.

But he does not know me.

I laugh, touch his shoulder, thank him for making such ‘hilarious’ observations on my character and I walk away, with my head held high.

As long as he doesn’t know he has upset me, that is all that matters.

And I know I’m not any of those things anyway right?


I got to thinking about this ‘exchange’ on a two hour drive up to Carlisle this weekend.

I am a strong, loud, extroverted and confident woman with a penchant for wearing Adidas, who would put a stranger before herself if it meant making a difference to their life. I have good bits and bad bits. I can be self-centred, selfish and blunt. I can be kind, generous to a fault, and funny. I can be your best friend and your biggest pain in the arse. I can be intuitive and thick, I make mistakes and I make a difference. I am a mum with a full time job who has to parent like she doesn’t work, and a working mum with a 5 year old son who has to work like she isn’t a parent. I am a friend, a wife and I used to be a sister.

I would never go out of my way to make someone else feel like shit and I cannot understand or begin to empathise with people who do.

Knowing all of this about myself, and having had years of therapy learning about negative people and how to protect myself against them, why on earth am I allowing his inconsequential voice to continuously repeat itself on a never ending loop?

Why did I walk away and laugh, effectively allowing these things to be said?

His throw away insults about who I am as a person barely disguised ‘as a joke,’ and now not only did I allow it to happen, I am giving him head space.

I am now wasting energy, internally arguing with him about why he is wrong.

Which of course (deep down) means I think he is right.

His barbed words are illegal squatters in my house, and they are rearranging my furniture.

I have a lot going on right now.

I have too many lodgers, too many unwelcome guests and too many fair weather visitors as it is.

Intrusive thoughts, grief, mild auditory hallucinations, exhausting depression, a five year old son I do not stop worrying about, a full time job, a highly strung Irish man who gets stressed when he can’t brush his teeth the second he wants to brush his teeth (he told me to shove my eye liner up my arse) because I am just finishing my make-up, anxiety, insomnia and finally self-esteem crushing weight gain.

Everything is happening all at the same time as absolutely nothing is happening.

The noise is stretching its spindly old man fingers in to every shadow of my brain, and for the first time in my life I truly feel as if my brain is not my own, there is no quiet place to hide.

All of my drawers were upturned on the floor anyway, and now here he is, with his throw away comment re-arranging the damn couch.

Am I as common as muck? Am I brash? Do I need to spend less money on Addison and more on my own wardrobe?

And if I am brash and common as muck, am I bothered?

Funny how his ‘joke’ really isn’t funny now I have spent a weekend fighting to remind myself his words do not define me.

James has suggested I try mindfulness to help regain some control, help clear out the clutter.

Supposedly it helps you find calm.

Supposedly it will help me regain my own space.

I am skeptical.

But the couch doesn’t go there and the cushions are scattered like I’ve been burgled.

Do you have someone who rearranges your furniture?

How long are we gonna allow them to do this to us?

I need to get my house in order.

He needs to get out of my damn house.


Balls to Your New Year New Start.

For 9 o’clock in the morning on New years Eve, the queue at Asda opticians is ridiculous.

It curls around the sunglasses stand like a lizards tail and much to the disgust of the tutting lady chemist in the white coat behind me, is beginning to encroach on the pharmacy.

I can’t even mess with the sunglasses as my hands are filled with booze.

I’d love to try some £3 glasses on and take a selfie. It’s like, totally, my favourite pass time and I don’t care if you judge me.

It is an outrage.

The miserable looking, slow walking woman ‘serving’ at the mobbed till some 800 yards in front of me seemingly agrees.

‘Is it New Year’s eve you bloody bunch of cunting twats!’ she silently conveys with an eyebrow raise, a deep sigh and a roll of her eyes, as yet another customer steps up (squinting) and asks for another emergency broken glasses appointment. ‘No! Fuck off!! You blind Badger looking knob!!!’ she wishes she could say (it’s obvious.)

I join her in her deep and frustrated sighing, her cleavage straining against her lime green Asda shirt, mine drooping around my waist, as my phone buzzes in my pocket and the woman waiting in front of me coughs up her right smokers lung. She thinks I don’t notice her inconspicuously stifle a sneaky fart out at the same time, but I do. Dirty tramp. I turn away disgusted (as only an ex smoker could) before my nostrils are offended by either last nights bean tea or flemmy chest germs.

One email received.

One email received!!!

Oh my god this could be it!

‘Dear Lexy,
‘Thank you so much for your submission, unfortunately we will need to pass at this time….’ 

I close out of IPhone Mail instinctively, without reading the full details of how I am a failure again.

I do not need to see the rest, I have read this mail many, many times over the last 12 months.

Now what I must do while I wait behind the bog of eternal stench, is tell myself why this rejection, just like all the others, doesn’t matter, when it really really does (all the while literally swallowing a strangers farts. What is it the kids say nowadays? FML?)

Another standard big fat negative.

It could have been a positive, it might have been a positive, it could have changed my life, it might change my life!

But it didn’t. Because I am not good enough. I swear too much, I use too many brackets, I need to be more descriptive, add a subplot, find another way of saying ‘my vagina was in shreds… Stop saying cunt and say C-word instead.’

Another failure to round off the year consistently.

2015 will always be remembered as the year I failed miserably.

I mean this literally too.

Because I failed a lot let me tell you, and each and every time I learned of a new failure, I was desperately miserable.

When I think about all the times I failed in 2015 the first thing I want to do is curl up in bed and sob. I had these dreams of becoming a published author and working from home. I had dreams of a second child and walking round Asda rubbing my growing bump, holding my sons hand. Choosing baby clothes together. I pictured summer days filled with laughter and love but like a slow running sepia time lapse of success my show reel caught fire every time I pressed play and all I was left with was failure and tears. Long days where I waited for news, for possibility of a brighter future to come knocking after putting my heart and soul in front or umpteen ladies who could make my life happen. Gasps that quickly turned to crashing disappointment as emails were received with big fat negatives, just like month after month of one lined pregnancy tests.

And yet here I now am, still breathing, still getting out of bed, still fighting and now playing the same sepia movie with 2016 written on it.

Apparently, according to James my faithful therapist, this makes me a success.

It’s a nice thought, but I am not sure it is true.

Because how can it be? Nothing is happening.

How can nothing happening mean you are success?

All that is happening is failure, and nothing.

Take this blog for example, I have wanted to write for a while, but all I have to say is the same old shit I say every time I write, so why bother?

Boring right?

Same old writing, same old stuff, same old boring ‘samesy’ blog.

I wrote a different post last week about fresh starts and new beginnings.

I spent 25 minutes writing it and then deleted it immediately before downing a glass of gin.

Because it is boring.

Because I was bored of me.

And it’s bullshit.

When you have depression you lose the ability to have a fresh start.

You may have a ‘good week’ or a ‘good six months’  which may feel like a ‘fresh start’ but eventually the illness is gonna drag you out of bed by your leg and carry you off down the corridor at 3 am, in to the darkness again, and there will be fuck all you can do about it. Like paranormal activity. It’s coming to get you bitch, don’t you forget it. You’ll be there innocently brushing your teeth and it’ll grab you by the hair and smash your face off the toilet.

And what do you do? Well you smile through it of course, while it knocks your teeth out.

You keep on fighting, keep on smiling, keep on struggling.

Keep on looking over your shoulder and warning off the intrusive thoughts.

(Although actually, intrusive thoughts? These are new. And NOT enjoyable.)

No one wants to read any of this. you’ve read it already. You’ve been reading it for the last 3 years.

Nothing new.

I am still not pregnant Blah, blah, blah.

I am still suffering with depression (I am having a bad week – can you tell?) Blah. blah. blah.

I still don’t have a literary agent Blah, blah, blah.

I bought new boots because my legs are getting fat and rather than giving up pizza I figure high heel boots will stretch the fat out blah. blah. blah.

I hate going to ASDA optician because smokers fart all over me, and the woman behind the till sends me abusive psychological psychic messaging Blah, blah, blah.

And I don’t have anything interesting or new to say because I keep failing at everything.

Apparently this makes me a huge fucking success, according to my therapist.

But what does he know.

I put my bottle of prosecco down in the end.

(To be clear, this was not a review for Asda.)



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