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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