A Beginners Guide to not Conceiving Immediately.

Are you TTC? POAS? Are you on your 2WW?

Basically, are you trying to get pregnant?

Have you followed all of the advice everyone feels the need to give you when you are trying to get pregnant?

You MUST follow all of the advice.

You need to be active, and yet relaxed, eat healthy, yet let go a little! Consume just the right amount of everything – but in moderation! Not be too fat, nor too thin (obviously,) enjoy a healthy lifestyle, not be stressed at all (FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DO NOT STRESS!!!) Do not obsess about it too much, But you know, be hopeful or what’s the point? Picture the sperm meeting the egg…

‘Wait a minute, wait a minute, did you just tell me to Picture the damn sperm meeting the damn egg?’

I plop my spoon back in the yoghurt pot and gag. It tastes like sperm. It didn’t. But now it does.

‘Yeah, picture them all hurtling like mad little yokes towards your slutty little egg.’

‘Ok this conversation is over Irish One, I am going upstairs.’

He guffaws.

Cheeky shit. My eggs are ladies. 

I am either pregnant or I am not.

A simple fact.

You are either pregnant or you are not.

It is not a simple fact though!!!!!

I have inadvertently been thrown in to a world of madness, and heartbreak, and obsession and actually, all these genuine and supportive and ‘we are all in it together’ type ‘lean on me’ women.

It is a world filled with time limits and smiley faces on sticks and something called ‘line eyes’ and MUI numbers and acronyms I got completely wrong when I first tentatively lurked on an ‘Actively trying board’ (Just for kicks clearly – I am not actively trying anything, nothing at all dad. Honest.)

2WW – Does not mean 2 wankers wanking. It means 2 week wait. (The longest 2 weeks of your entire life. It is the 2 weeks in between all of the sex and all of the blood.)

POAS – Peeing on a Stick. (It took me freaking ages to work this out. I thought it was the name of one of the ladies husbands for the longest time. I was like ‘He must be Polish. Irish One. Is Poas a Polish name? I like it for a boy…’)

DTD – Doing the Deed. (I need to DTD more often. I hadn’t realised how quickly men stop being able to go at it like rabbits. I’m all like ‘IRISH ONE – I HAVE A SMILEY FACE – SHAG ME. SHAG ME NOW! And he’s all like ‘AGAIN? We just did it a week ago. I need time to recover!!)

OPK – Looks and feels like a pregnancy test but instead of testing for pregnancy it tests for ovulation (Ovulation Predictor Kit.) A smiley face indicates you are having a surge of hormones and probably at some point in the next 48 hours (much like a Next delivery – we have no idea when) you will release an egg. Go Go Go! (But don’t put too much pressure on him or nothing will come out. #Justsayin But seriously, hurry up!)

AF – Aunty FLo. Which means your period. It has taken me a while to get used to this one as I do actually have an actual Aunty Flo. And now I cant look her in the eye. ‘But Lexy, why are you referring to me as the Black Death? I thought you liked it when i popped over for a visit?’ Although once a month it does remind me to call her. (The bitch)

BD – Baby dance. If you ever meet the Irish One ask him about the time I made us both dance after DTD. I had him twirling me and everything. You aint seen nothin till you see a naked Irish man Twerk.

BFN – Big Fat negative… But is it? Can you see a line? I am gonna hold this motherfucker up to every possible variant of light for at least 30 minutes before I accept 8 minutes after sex is probably too early for a result. ‘Ill try again in the morning.

CM- ‘Cervical mucous, also known as cervical fluid. It is fluid produced by your cervix as you approach ovulation due to increased oestrogen.’ I am going to move on now. Even i am too classy for a discharge joke.

CP- Cervical Position. Not where it stands on The tax cuts, but how high it it? Is it high? Is it low? Is it doing the hokey cokey? Can it turn around? Seriously tho. Is it high and firm or low and soft? I wanna know. I have no idea why. I just do.

‘My cervix is high Irish One.’

‘Oh good on ya yerself.’

CD – How many days since the first day you cursed the world, consumed chocolate and generally behaved like a heinous bitch this month? Oh you don’t get PMS? Good for you. Now fuck off.

DH, DD, DS– Darling Husband, Darling Daughter, Darling Son. I made up my own special little acronym for the Irish one as I will NEVER refer to him as Darling anything.

IDH – took me ages. You impressed? Do you get it? It’s a swear word *giggle.*

DPO- Days Past Ovulation. How many days since you experienced a million different symptoms, one of which, may indicate you have popped an egg out.

EDD- Estimated Due Date. If it is a line – when would you be due? What star sign would they be? It is all so torturous. The 2WW is hell. The hope. The waiting. Thank god for the forums where we can obsess, Happily in our little groups over every little symptom. I need to discuss every little possibility! My left nipple is hard and yet the room is warm!! Could this be it???

EWCM- Eggwhite cervical mucous. See CM but like egg whites. Lots of this ‘Occurin in ya pants’  may mean you have conceived a baby. (Again – Too classy for a discharge joke, and also I am egg phobic so can ABSOLUTELY not dwell on this for too long…)

HPT- Home pregnancy test. (Just to be clear – you don’t have to be at home. It will work anywhere, but it is frowned upon to do it in the street or in the car… but only if someone catches you.)

HcG-  This is not a type of digger but the hormone detected by pregnancy tests that turns the line pink or blue. Human Chorionic Gonadotropin, if you must know. And I have none as of yet. But I will try again tomorrow (code for; in an hour.)

TTC- Trying to conceive.

BFP – The Holy grail. One that will be celebrated by others, even if they have been TTC for years. Big Fat Positive. You are pregnant. Off you go galavanting in to your own little group for pregnant people. yeay! But before you go? I want a day by day blow of your symptoms and what DPO were you when you POAS?

There are about a million others, these are the ones I have come across so far. (Let’s keep it classy.)

These women on these boards, they are inspiring me.

I have witnessed the highs, the heartbreak, the celebrations and the support, and I am inspired. Thats the sign of strong women isn’t it? Those that build each other up instead of tearing each other down. It’s a shame it is mostly anonymous. Maybe we wouldn’t be able to be so vulnerable and honest if it wasn’t.

The bedroom door flies open. ‘You wanna do it?’

MY IDH Ladies and Gentlemen.

He appears before me like a vision of manliness in his black boxers, Forest Gump T-shirt and odd socks. (He does look hot actually but there would be no point tonight, so no.)

‘No. Piss off, save your sperm, come back next week. I got AF arriving tomorrow, i just know it. The bitch.’

‘We are meant to keep sex happy though, have sex randomly just for fun, indulge in one another. Take our time and take care of one another…’

‘Oh for gods sake Irish one! Pull your pants up!’

I won’t tell you what happened next, as much as he would love me to.

This blog post is over.

You are all discharged.  (Sorry. Turns out I am not all that classy.)

Screen Shot 2015-10-30 at 19.27.30



Folic Tequila Badger runs Rampage!!

I’ve thought long and hard about sharing this.

I’ve tossed and turned.

I want to be a private person, I don’t want my life on the internet.

‘Bit late for that – you published a book you Daft Mare.’

He is right, and you all keep asking for more, so fuck it.

We are having another baby.

Well, I suppose that is a little presumptuous.

We are having sex with wild abandon in the hope we can have another baby.

That’s more accurate.

Well, when I say wild abandon, I obviously mean quietly, scheduled and with some serious doubts about whether we are doing the right thing.

It’s taken a while to get here, I have been back and forth so many times I feel like a badger on a bunjee rope. (Completely blind, a little scared and mostly on all fours #justsayin.)

I am mentally ill.

I have mental health issues.

Yeah yeah, you know all this.

I also have a five year old who now regularly calls me a loser (as in – ‘See ya Later loser!’ at the school gates) and reminds me he is growing away from the googly eyed staring at me from the shopping trolley eyes full of love, days with every moment that passes (‘Please stop shouting ‘I love you’ across the playground mummy!’ Ouch!)

Yeah yeah, you miss the baby stage, we have all been there.

Yesterday in a flourish of slut dropping, a large bottle of tequila and with cake all round my face, I turned a not very graceful 36.

I am now officially closer to 40 than I am officially comfortable with. (Just to be clear though, the bearded late bloomer working the register at the co-op (seriously poor bugger, he looks like a wrestler but sounds like Orvil) said I didn’t look a day over 27. #justsayin.)

Yeah yeah, you are worried you used all your eggs already!

‘Irish one! Stop with the negativity!’

‘I am just saying that online it states quite clearly that over the age of 36 you half your chances… And also you would now be considered a geriatric mother.’

I drunkenly glare at him.

Yeah yeah, I should be regularly putting folic acid in my system not 5 rounds of tequila. But it’s my birthday ok?

And I am still not sure what I want.

And also I ate a lot of lemon tonight, so there is some goodness where tequila is concerned! All is not lost YO!! (I am so down with the kids!) And as long as I don’t eat any salt for like, a week, I should be fine.

‘We need to try if we want another.’ He pulls the duvet away and jokingly rubs the bed beside him invitingly ‘Do we want another?’

How many times back and forth, back and forth. Back and bloody forth.

I am mentally ill…. But it would be managed this time around… but what if it wasn’t?

I am happy in my marriage now… we are awful to one another when we are tired…

I have a great job I love… which I could go back to… but I like my life now…

I like my life now.

I have a five year old who can dress himself and I sleep all night….

I can go out and drink tequila, go to the cinema with my boys, I have money!

I can hula hoop in our spare room.

We can go for meals, we may be going back to Disney…


I miss the smell, the sound, the cuddles, the love, the general babyness, the pushing of a pram, the feeling of mothering a baby, the enormous milk filled boobs that make me feel like Pamela Anderson. Hell I even miss the nappies, the tiny toes, the cuddles…I want Addy to have a Sibling, I loved having a brother, I miss snuggling with a newborn, the laugher of a 2 year old, I don’t wanna get to 40 and regret not trying… but what If i do get pregnant? I hated it last time, I was so… disconnected, lost, troubled… fat and miserable.

‘Will it be different this time Irish One?’

‘No idea. Probably. You know what to expect.’

‘But they are all different, what if the new baby is a nightmare?’

He looks at me with disgust.

‘The new baby would be our baby you idiot. How could you think something like that?

‘I am a nightmare… it would be half me.’

‘Good point.’ He pulls the duvet back over him.  ‘So we aren’t trying then?’

‘We are trying!’ I stumble towards the bed trying to be sexy, but a wave of nausea overcomes me as the room spins, the double vision sets in and I see two annoyed Irish men glaring back at me  ‘I think I am gonna vomit.’

‘I have never found you more attractive.’ he huffs as I stub my toe on the door in my haste to get to the bathroom, let our a string of faux whispered expletives as not to wake the 5 year old in the next room and head to the bathroom to drunkenly cry over the toilet.

I am too old for this shit.

This month I am throwing caution to the wind. I am going to have sex with wild abandon! (On the right days, quietly and with serious doubts I am doing the right thing.)

Wait though, am I doing the right thing?

I am like a Badger caught in headlights.


Whasssssuppppppp. (Random picture of Addy as a Baby, because interestingly I do not have a picture of me dressed up as a badger- I will sort this out asap.)

15 Signs you are not Normal…

I was getting comfy in bed.

Doing that arse wiggle you do, where you shuffle and bounce around, trying to find the idyllic lean position that perfectly compliments the hand to eye to phone ratio.

The illusive position that enables at least 2 hours of elbow pain free Facebook stalking.

I am addicted to facebook. I am not even going to try and hide it. It is an illness.

Anyhoo, no sooner had I got settled when I stumbled across this little gem of an article.

Screen Shot 2015-06-29 at 23.05.45                          The link to which is here; http://metro.co.uk/2015/06/29/15-signs-youve-found-the-one-5253420/?ito=facebook

Opening my caramel ice cream bar and smoothing down the covers over my growing bump (I am not pregnant by the way, before you start congratulating me, I am just a summer stress eater) I began to read.

And then I began to stress eat. (Told you.)


Basically Metro, what you are saying is, I have not found the man I am going to marry yet?!?

And… I have husband….

Well this is awkward.

Not one to take defeat lying down, I stomped down the stairs grabbed another caramel bar out of the freezer and decided to write my own version.

I have decided to call this helpful article;

15 signs you know you have met the man you married.

1. They’ve seen you at your worst – and they still think you’re the best.

‘Irish one! Irish one! Have I shit on the table? Have I shit on the goddamn table?’

A midwife swishes away a huge piece of what can only be described as crêpe paper, (read: crap paper) from under my struggling buttcheeks and disappears around the table I am lying on like a huge slab of meat, towards a big yellow bin with a bio-hazard sign on the side. Oh the horror, the horror!

‘Did I just shit on the fecking table?’ I ask him one last time, mortified by the none-stop glamour experience labour has been up until this point… ‘Stop staring out of the fecking window and tell me!’

The Irish one does not make eye contact with me for the following three years whenever this subject comes up.

He did buy me a wii- fit though, following the birth, to help me lose that extra baby weight.

So thoughtful, I told him, as I launched it at his head.

2. Your worst parts are his favourite parts.

‘Do my thighs look thick?’

‘Thick?’ his eyes flick nervously to my thighs and back to my face. ‘Thick?’

‘Yeah. Thick. It is the new in word for curvy I think. Like, Beyonce has thick thighs.’

He stares at me with a tinge of fear in his eyes, a slight stress dew cumulating on his top lip.

‘Well?’ I put my hand on my hip. ‘Do I look thick in this or not?’

‘Yes.’ he says very definitely, evidently having chosen his answer and feeling most determined to stick to it. ‘Yes you look like one thick bitch.’

Charming. I glower like a campfire.

‘There was no right answer to that question Lexy! You just wanted an argument!’ and we both storm off in different directions.

Him to play the PS4, me to cry in to my thick thighs.

3. They don’t judge your eating habits.

The freezer door slams.

‘Have you eaten all the caramel bars already for fecks sake?!’

‘Are you calling me fat?’

‘If you have eaten 3 caramel bars in an hour then ….’ he trails off as I clutch my heart and pull my mock hurt face ‘… I will have an apple.’

4. They put up with your insufferable mood swings.

We can’t talk about the last one, it is all still a bit too raw.

Needless to say I apologised to the lady dressed as Tinkerbell while he assured her she didn’t need to call the french fairy police, or whatever.

But in my defence, how was I supposed to know she was trying to blow Addy ‘a wish?!?’

Any woman would have seen that and thought the same.

That fucking fairy is flirting with my husband.

‘I don’t care if she is a fairy Irish One!!! Any woman would act the same. Flirt with my husband and i’ll rip the fairytale right out of you.’

He shakes his head and increases his speed as I run along side the buggy trying to keep up.

5. They support your tacky taste in films.

‘Want to watch pitch perfect 2 with me tonight?’

‘Fuck right off.’

Well ok then.

6. They are nice to your family, even the weird members.

I don’t think this one counts.

I am the weird member in my family…

7. They like you even when you don’t like you.

‘Oh my god I can’t believe I started on a fairy. I am such a horrible person.’

‘I can’t believe you ate all the caramel ice cream bars.’

‘Irish one! You are supposed to like me even when I don’t like me!’

He sighs.

‘Remember what your therapy taught you. You aren’t always a bad person, just every now and again… or something.’

I spit my tea out.

‘You mean, just because you do a bad thing doesn’t make you a bad person?’

‘Yeah. That.’

8. They happily listen to your work dramas and pretend to care.

‘Fuck those daft bitches. State of them. What’s for tea?’

9. They want to do spontaneous things with you.

‘You never wanna do spontaneous things with me Irish One.’

‘I do. I am always grabbing your boobs while you wash up. You always tell me to get lost!!’

Do I need to go on?

10. Whatever your doing together, you’re happy.*

*Terms and conditions apply. If we are abroad, and fed, and not on a time limit, the washing up has been done, neither one of us has been up all night, it is the day after payday, the child is behaving, nothing has been spilt, he is not hungry and I am not on – then yes… maybe. Unless there is football on, it is too hot, there are crumbs on the sofa or Addy needs a bath, the dog hasn’t been out yet and the car needs petrol.

11. You’ve planned your lives together.

‘Shall we go back to Disney one day?’


‘Jesus Christ what is that smell?’


12. You get excited about buying them things.

‘What is the budget for xmas this year?’

’50 each?’


‘Irish One?’


‘Please don’t ever buy me another barbed wire-esque toilet seat.’

Oh for the love of god are you ever going to let that drop? You said you liked the ones in Rain Bar!’

13. Being drunk together is actually fun.

No. No it really isn’t. Ok well, sometimes it is. But… Terms and Conditions apply.

‘It is fun until the vomiting starts.’ The Irish one thinks he is funny.

I need to make one thing clear here, I am not sick all the time. Just sometimes.

‘Just when you drink…’

I am ok on gin.

‘Except for when you aren’t… and then everything is my fault.’

Let’s move on.

14. You couldn’t picture your life without them.

I probably could in all fairness.

I wouldn’t want to live my life without him but I could picture it.

It would be a life with significantly less washing up, no constant ‘are we having another baby or can we go back to Disney World’ arguments, and a lot more TV time for me.

I wouldn’t want it though, just to clarify.

Well not all the time anyway.

15. They Love you for you.



‘Nobody wants to be the bloke that dumped his mentally ill wife.’

‘Oh.My.God I cannot believe you said that!’


Screen Shot 2015-06-29 at 23.09.08       Significantly less romantic than the Metro Version, but normal yes?

Well this is awkward. 

From the award winning blogger Mammywoo, pegged by The guardian as ‘the one to watch’ comes a new hilariously funny and deeply moving memoir about dealing with mental illness while still reeling from the Magic of Birth.

Lexy wanted to be the perfect mother, she wrote this down numerous times in her planner (ok she doesn’t own an actual planner, but the back of an unpaid bill still counts right?) Her journey through motherhood would be calm and serene. No dummies, no drama and she would most definitely slip back in to her pre- pregnancy wardrobe, immediately!

What could possibly go wrong?

From accidentally breastfeeding the dog to romantic laxatives, therapy and beyond, this is an honest, very real and sometimes quite disturbing tale of woe, set in the wilderness of what was meant to be a year spent relaxing, with a baby.

Now available to read across all platforms.

Barnes and noble, nook, kindle, and iBooks. It’ll be in print this week. iBooks is a dream come true. A dream come true. All hail apple formatting. Here is the link-

I Used to be Cool.. by Lexy Ellis






All Paperback and Kindle Proceeds are being paid to MIND. Mental health charity.

Dear New School Mum’s…

This one is for you;

‘How do I look Mummy?’

I swallowed down an ocean of tears that were threatening to avalanche off the side of my heart and destroy me catastrophically, and slowly with measured emotion, smiled a soft smile.

Does that sound dramatic?

Good, because It bloody was dramatic.

I was gutted.

I did not want my son to start school, I wanted to keep him at home with me forever.

Appearances can be deceiving.I wasn’t ready for the endless days we claimed as our own, to be over.

I wanted one more day at a an empty play-centre, one more playful conversation as we rolled through the Starbucks ‘drive thru,’ for another mother and baby latte. One more lazy pyjama day lying on the sofa watching cartoons and eating biscuits. One more…

Yes yes I know.

I can hear all you experienced mums and grandma’s now, and for the most part I agree, It is good for them to learn, and grow, and be around other children and be influenced by others, they will come on leaps and bounds and develop in ways we have no concept of yet… yada yada yada… I know this.

But there is something I need you to understand.



‘Yes Addison?’

We are pulling up to school at 8.45am for the two hundredth and twenty third time.

Seriously. Do you know how many sandwiches I have made this year?? I have made over 400 sandwiches. 400!!! They don’t tell you about this in the baby books either do they? Or what to do when your son decides he doesn’t like cheese, or ham, or jam, or tuna – do not even think about tuna – and yet he still wants a sandwich.

Do you know how many shirts I have washed this year? How many pairs of shoes this child has gone through?

How many times I have cried at the school gates over something random?

How many times the teacher has needed a word? And how embarrassed I have been being pulled in to ‘discuss’ the occasional blip in behaviour?

Do you know how many times another school mum I barely know has hugged me, supported me and been there for me? How many articles I have read saying school mum’s are the worst, when in fact they are the best bloody bunch of women you could ever find?

How many times I have seen my son excited over something he has learned? How amazed I have been about how much he now knows, when all I get is ‘Nothin’? or ‘I can’t remember’ when I ask him about his day. ‘TELL ME ABOUT YOUR DAY SON PLEAAASSSEEEE’ I want to beg, but it wouldn’t matter anyway, he tells me nothing.

How many show’s I have sat and watched in awe as my little potato, with 25 other tiny veggies, have put on a show, where they have all been happy and proud, clapping and singing, laughing and hamming it up, a confidence I am surprised by every time, and I have sobbed like an imbecile?

How many times I have sent him in to school in odd shoes…. Ok, let’s move on from that one.


‘Yes Addison?’

‘Please don’t shout I love you when I walk in to school anymore, I know you love me, and if you really have to say it, you can whisper it in my ear ok?’

I clutch my chest and gasp.

Does that sound dramatic?


Because it bloody is dramatic!

‘Ok baby no problem!’ I respond, dying inside ‘Do you want to stab me through the heart now and finish me off completely, or wait until after school when I pick you up with a sausage roll?’

Screen Shot 2015-07-10 at 11.36.17That first morning, with a smile held together by strength I didn’t know I was capable of, and a face puffy from crying in to my pillow for most of the night, I was broken.

‘You look like a real life grown up boy, my pudding. Are you excited?’

He was so excited.

We walked around the play ground waiting for the bell to ring, admiring the wiggly snakes and numbered squares, chatting like we always did and then the moment I had been dreading arrived.

As we heard the bell ring for the first time, off he went, debonaire on little legs, in his pristine uniform, little arms laden down with his new normal, leaving me watching, fantastically proud and utterly devastated.

‘I love you!’ I shouted to his back a little desperately.

‘Love you too mummy!’ he turned and smiled ‘See you later.’

What I actually wanted to shout was;

‘Addison, have a good day ok? I am going to miss you. I am going to miss the endless questions and the occasional tantrum. I am going to miss shopping with you, having a wee with you sat on my knee, making you lunch, begging you to nap, wasting the days away. I am going to worry you will fall and hurt yourself and I won’t be there to pick you up. If it turns out you don’t like school, when I pick you up we can abscond to a desert island, just you and me ok? And I will teach you all the important stuff myself. I love you Addison, come back and give mummy another cuddle. What is mummy going to do all day without you? Addison! I love you. Thank you Addison. I love you. Please don’t change, you are perfect the way you are. Addison… can you still hear me? I don’t know if I am strong enough for this Addison, are you sure you don’t want to wait another year? Addison? Are you there?’


We are fast approaching the last day of term and although so much has changed this year and we have both learnt so much (like, do not tell your teacher to ‘Piss off ‘Addy, it will not end well for you. And mummy? Do not laugh when the teacher tells you what he said- as it won’t end well for you either) nothing important has changed.

‘I love you so much.’

‘I love you too kiddo.’

A lot has changed this year, but to be clear, absolutely nothing important has changed.

Screen Shot 2015-07-10 at 11.35.32Dear New School Mum’s.

We get it.

Go ahead and cry.

And also, If you need it, I know a really cheap way of keeping your white’s white.

Welcome to the next part,

From all of us.




From the award winning blogger Mammywoo, pegged by The guardian as ‘the one to watch’ comes a new hilariously funny and deeply moving memoir about dealing with mental illness while still reeling from the Magic of Birth.

Lexy wanted to be the perfect mother, she wrote this down numerous times in her planner (ok she doesn’t own an actual planner, but the back of an unpaid bill still counts right?) Her journey through motherhood would be calm and serene. No dummies, no drama and she would most definitely slip back in to her pre- pregnancy wardrobe, immediately!

What could possibly go wrong?

From accidentally breastfeeding the dog to romantic laxatives, therapy and beyond, this is an honest, very real and sometimes quite disturbing tale of woe, set in the wilderness of what was meant to be a year spent relaxing, with a baby.

This is the perfect read for any parent who ever thought ‘This isn’t what I expected.’

Lexy Ellis – ‘I used to be Cool’ is Now available to read across all platforms.

Barnes and noble, nook, kindle, and iBooks. It’ll be in print this week. iBooks is a dream come true. A dream come true. All hail apple formatting. Here is the link-

I Used to be Cool.. by Lexy Ellis






There is this Girl I know. She Wishes I would Shut up about Poor Mental Health.

I nearly got run over tonight.

Some pizza delivery guy with an Express Margarita on the back seat.

As I write this, the words are jumping around on the screen, much like my favourite five year old, I cannot make them sit still.

Last night for almost 5 whole minutes I believed I was dead.

Funny how a silver Micra can feel like a fucking tank when it’s approaching you at 30 miles an hour, and the driver isn’t aware he is about to use your fabulous boobs as speed bumps.

I actually pushed myself off the bonnet to propel myself out of the way.

It was not graceful.

It was at that moment he noticed me.

Doodle the poodle walked right past me as I stood at the front door half an hour later, arriving home from work- he didn’t notice me at all.

The usual ‘Hello mummy!’ was absent as I slammed the door closed, brain heavy with the weight of another day missing out.

‘Am I dead?’ I half smiled in a bid to remain calm, seriously teetering.

No response.

My heart sped up a little.

‘Wanker!’ I had screamed, shaking like a shitting dog on the side of the road. ‘You nearly flattened me, and for what? A fucking pizza?’ 

Was I dead

5 minutes previous to this I had been stood on the very edge of a 60ft drop.

I had leaned over for a little while, daring myself, looking down, romanticising about having the courage to feel free, about having the courage to ‘just do it’ and fall.

Like a really sadistic Nike advert.

‘Hello? Addy?? I am home baby!’

If I want to die though, why am I veering in to sheer un-aldultered panic now that no one can hear me? And why am I so incredibly angry with the Domino’s delivery guy for nearly flattening me?

Wouldn’t being run over be the perfect ending? It wouldn’t have been my fault.  No one would be able to call me selfish, or thoughtless, or weak.

There is no dignity in Suicide. Or the possible return of Psychosis.  

‘Doodle look at me! Look at me! Look at me! Oh shit Doodle! Look at me! Can nobody hear me? How the fuck will Addy be told I am gone forever?? Oh Jesus no.’

Too late, I have crossed over the threshold in to what is considered abnormal behaviour. My vision ebbs and flows and almost at once becomes Fisheye. 

I have my forehead pressed against the cold hard floor, the palms of my hands pressed against my ears, my knees tucked up under me and I am about to be sick with fear, when the Irish one finds me two minutes later. 

I am wholeheartedly lost and completely petrified. 

I nearly got run over tonight.

‘You are not dead Lexy. Addy is in the bath, I am bathing him.’ 

His face is too concerned.

Well Ok then.

I stop instantaneously, breathe deeply, and very slowly get back to my feet, the dizziness of relief nearly making me keel over.

‘What’s for dinner?’ I smile sheepishly through the nausea, he has to think I was joking.

This week has been a really long week.

I have died every day, in a million different ways and yet here I am.

Still living.

As I write this, the words are running about on the page like busy little fleas on a mangy dog and the noise in my brain is overpowering, constant and repetitively intrusive. 

I am incredibly lucky that not everyone is cold and cruel when it comes to supporting someone with mental health problems.

I am incredibly grateful to the people who choose courage.

This illness does not make me anything other than ill.

(And a nightmare to live with. – Sorry Irish One, and thank you for this weekend.)

I was nearly run over today.

Turns out I don’t actually want to die.

That is a relief of sorts.

Now I just need to figure out a way to want to live.


I am so fucking poorly right now, but today is not the end of me.

Rudeness and ignorance is not strength.

Smearing a smile on my heart and pushing it out in to the open, in the hope others will feel less alone, when I am down on my knees and so close to giving up myself, well, this feels a lot like strength.

And I am not doing it alone, there are millions of us.

Women who have done it for me before, Men who have inspired me.

All these survivors who talk me down from the ledge, all these women who stick together and show compassion, all these friends who don’t only see illness when they look at each other. Women who die a thousand times a day before getting up to struggle through the school run with a smile on their faces.

I know I am not alone.

I am so fucking poorly right now and I am also Fine

The main word being ‘right now’ as James my therapist used to say ‘tomorrow this may pass.’ 

And one thing I will never do, is stop talking about poor mental health. 

Because Tomorrow is somewhere we don’t always get to, alone. 


Screen Shot 2015-07-19 at 22.24.14

Rest In Peace Tim.

You will always live on in my heart and I will smile and think of you whenever I eat a bag of Doritos or hear the serenity prayer. The world lost another fighter and Heaven gained a Handsome and Brilliant friend.

A Precious Mind…

My eyes feel like a pair of burst grapes stuck with crap school glue on to either side of my face.

I say crap school glue because one of them does actually feel as if it may be about to start slipping down past my nose at a jaunty angle.

(And everybody knows School glue isn’t actually glue. It is of course, decades worth of toddler sweat and tears mixed with cotton balls and sparkle chips funneled in to a weird looking mini bottle. It is about as sticky as moist garden moss and holds the frustration potential of an embedded splinter in a jelly fish’s’ arse. If it can be ingested safely it isn’t glue. That’s my rule. THE ONLY good thing about school glue is the satisfaction you get peeling it off your hands twenty minutes later while pretending to be a zombie. Right?)

I am ‘I still have yesterdays make up mottled around my nose,’ exhausted, I stink of puke and as if that wasn’t bad enough, I have run out of clean pajama bottoms.

Last night I had the absolute pleasure of discovering that it is not only sneezing that makes me inadvertently wee, but also violent anxiety induced vomiting. (There is a party going on right here… a celebration to last though out the years….)

I am so attractive right now I can’t even tell you.

Picasso would totally want to draw me.

I am in abstract.


‘Oh babe’ the Irish one whispers in to the darkness as I hobble past the bed in the half light bent over and clutching my stomach ‘are you OK? Do you think this putrid and incredibly loud and dramatic puking will go on all night?’

I reach up from my stooped position near the wardrobe and flick at the light switch in defiance.

‘I need clean pajama bottoms again,’ I groan ‘so when your body turns against you in celebration of you releasing a book, by all means have a go at me for keeping you up all night- but for now, please be quiet..’ I feel like crying as I open the empty draw. ‘And no I hope it doesn’t go on all night. I have no clean Jimjams left!’

His head is now under a pillow ‘the light, the light, turn out the light!’

‘Irish One, I think I am actually dying here. I am having heart palpitations too! You do realise if I keel over, people will assume you have killed me. It would not end well for you. You are too pretty for prison.’

He sits up and swings his legs out of bed in defeat ‘Fine! You can have some of my clean bottoms and I will go and….FOR THE LOVE OF GOOD GOD!’ he bellows as he finally catches a glimpse of me from between heavy lids, his eyes immediately now flung wide open.

‘What!?!??’ I scream back, the anxiety and exhaustion making me even more jumpy  ‘is it a ghost? IS IT A GHOST?’

He puts his hand on his heart.

‘No it’s you!! The freaking state of you. I don’t have my lenses in and you look like freaking Smeagol, here take these and get in bed, I will make you some mint tea.’

He passes me his gym pants and even though I am pretty sure they will be uncomfortable, I gratefully cover my modesty.

‘Who is Smeagol?’ I moan, climbing in to the foetal position on the bed ‘you scared me..’

‘Never you mind.’ He whispers kindly, going in for a kiss but then swiftly changing his mind and heading for the stairs.

I slept for around half an hour before heading back in to the bathroom.

And now here I am!

Lucky me, looking like an extra off the Walking dead, half way through the school run.

I hate anxiety.

This ‘Publishing a book’ experience is beautifully excruciating. Fantastically horrible. Scarily magnificent.

Don’t get me wrong, I was chuffed for the first 8 minutes after pressing publish that I had finally grown a pair and done it. But since then I have mostly been bloody terrified.

‘Mummy?’ comes the voice of innocence from the back of the car as I struggle to signal, mirror, and manoeuvre without mounting the curb and turning the house on the corner in to a drive thru family diner ‘What is it like being you?’

I smile to myself. Even in the depths of drama my son keeps me smiling.

Right now it is exhilarating and painful.

‘Well Addy’ I think to myself before replying  ‘according to daddy, being me, looks something like this;’

hhhhh I am never too ill to Google the compliments you give me Irish One.

Never too ill, my precious.

From the award winning blogger Mammywoo, pegged by The guardian as ‘the one to watch’ comes a new hilariously funny and deeply moving memoir about dealing with mental illness while still reeling from the Magic of Birth.

Lexy wanted to be the perfect mother, she wrote this down numerous times in her planner (ok she doesn’t own an actual planner, but the back of an unpaid bill still counts right?) Her journey through motherhood would be calm and serene. No dummies, no drama and she would most definitely slip back in to her pre- pregnancy wardrobe, immediately!

What could possibly go wrong?

From accidentally breastfeeding the dog to romantic laxatives, therapy and beyond, this is an honest, very real and sometimes quite disturbing tale of woe, set in the wilderness of what was meant to be a year spent relaxing, with a baby.

Now available to read across all platforms. 

Barnes and noble, nook, kindle, and iBooks. It’ll be in print this week. iBooks is a dream come true. A dream come true. All hail apple formatting. Here is the link- 

I Used to be Cool.. by Lexy Ellis







All Paperback and Kindle Proceeds are being paid to MIND. Mental health charity.

I Published a Book and now I am Never Leaving the House Again.


The shit is hitting the fan.

(Can you imagine how horrific that would actually be? If shit actually hit a fan? Who came up with that saying? And god forbid, but do you think they actually tried it? ‘Hey Jo! (Because it was definitely a man.) Go a take a huge shit mate, then throw it at this desk fan….’ Yes! Amazing idea!!)


People are buying my book.


‘So are you at least complimentary about me the rest of the way through?’

The Irish One is stood somewhere near the end of the bed and although I have been living under the duvet, effectively in hiding, since it was published, unfortunately for me although it is muffled I can still hear him.

‘Come out from under there and talk to me right now! I am getting annoyed.’

He doesn’t understand.

I don’t care if he combusts, I am going nowhere.

I am not leaving my bed cave until the shit has stopped circulating.

‘If you want to talk to me Irish One, you are going to have to join me under here. I am not coming out there ever again, or at least not until I have to pick Addison up from mum, but then? Then I am coming back, crawling under here and remaining in hiding for the foreseeable future.’

I expected him to walk away.

The fact he did not walk away tells me he means business.

I summon my serious face just in time for a rustle of the bed covers, followed by a blast of cold air and then out of the darkness his face looms in front of me.

He looks like this.







(It is true. The Irish One does look like Addison. You were all right.)

The problem is he has started to read it.

The book.

The fool has broken the cardinal rule and has started to read it.

‘I cannot believe you called me a Twat!! And as if that wasn’t bad enough, you shared with the world the time I had a sanitary towel stuck to the side of my leg!? And you hated those times? You hated them? I thought I was being helpful! I remember it as romantic!’

‘Romantic? Are you on glue?’ I half laugh, raising the roof off our make shift fort so he can see how serious my serious face is ‘It was the most excruciating time of my life! I loved being a new mum ….’ I put my finger to my head in a sarcastic thinking gesture ‘oh wait, no I didn’t! I lost the plot!’

‘Yes but I was helpful.’

I stare at him silently for a while, nodding slowly with a smile I usually reserve for Addison.

It goes on a bit long and I am forced to stop.

I cough.

‘Well, this is awkward.’

‘Tell me I was helpful.’

I try and smile nicely but judging by the role of his eyes, it clearly comes across as more of a grimace.

‘Put the Book Down Irish One. No good can come of it.’

He puts the book down on the basket by the bed.

It’s my only print copy and it is laughing at me.

I get back under the covers.

I hear him stomping down the stairs.

‘I was bloody helpful! I was the one who called the Dr when you got baby shit in your eye, and I told the police it wasn’t you who stole my credit card and tried to book a flight to Goa! You would be in prison now if it wasn’t for me!’

I get back out of the bed, walk down the stairs, put the book in the freezer and return to my fort.

Of course he was helpful. That’s why I thank him at the end of it.

He’s amazing my husband. But don’t you see? If I tell him I’ll owe him a million lie in’s! The point system will always be tipped in his favour. I WILL BE CLEANING THE BATHROOM FOR MONTHS!

I wrote a book.

But none of you are allowed to read it.


From the award winning blogger Mammywoo, pegged by The guardian as ‘the one to watch’ comes a new hilariously funny and deeply moving memoir about dealing with mental illness while still reeling from the Magic of Birth.

Lexy wanted to be the perfect mother, she wrote this down numerous times in her planner (ok she doesn’t own an actual planner, but the back of an unpaid bill still counts right?) Her journey through motherhood would be calm and serene. No dummies, no drama and she would most definitely slip back in to her pre- pregnancy wardrobe, immediately!

What could possibly go wrong?

From accidentally breastfeeding the dog to romantic laxatives, therapy and beyond, this is an honest, very real and sometimes quite disturbing tale of woe, set in the wilderness of what was meant to be a year spent relaxing, with a baby.

Now available to read across all platforms. 

Barnes and noble, nook, kindle, and iBooks. It’ll be in print this week. iBooks is a dream come true. A dream come true. All hail apple formatting. Here is the link- 

I Used to be Cool.. by Lexy Ellis



Flap Flap.

‘So do not forget, not everyone has the skills to impact on somebody’s life. But now you all do, through the power of positivity. Use your power wisely. Thank you and goodnight.’

And with a final flick of her over highlighted hair, and a well timed meaningful look deep in to the darkness of the audience from beneath huge false eyelashes, the lights went down, and as if on cue the thunderous applause commenced.

The over enthused 50 something sat next to me, even stood up to clap.

I rolled my eyes cynically and lent down, grabbling in to my bag for my phone.

I clearly need to be pickier about the leadership courses I book myself on to.

‘Thank god that is over’ I text my husband ‘I will be home in 20. Complete nonsense!’

I am way too cynical and jaded to buy in to a happy ‘clappy’ idea of life presented to me over the course of two hours by an underweight and no doubt overpaid (judging by her Vuitton bag) lover of all things self. I had wrongly assumed it would include the teaching of actual skills.

Like time management and prioritisation. How to hide your frustration with lazy people and appropriate ways to give feedback to a husband who doesn’t understand why playing a PS4 24 hours on the trot would be annoying to his wife!!!

I could have done with help on those, especially as my bank account is empty, my patience fund is exhausted, I haven’t had time to wash my hair since tuesday and the Irish one seems to care more about killing imaginary zombies than the general guidance and feeding of our five year old.

Oh I am all for positivity don’t get me wrong, I am even occasionally described as ‘bubbly’ (instead of just plain old ‘mad’) but fundamentally I disagree with what I have just listened to.

I believe we all impact on people, in a million different ways, some of which we will never know about, every single day.

I do not believe it takes forethought and positivity and support and encouragement every single time to change the path of somebody’s life.

And I believe it has fuck all to do with skill.

I do not believe as humans we hold as much control over ourselves or the universe or others as this woman seems to think we do.

I believe in the butterfly effect and chaos and destiny and fate and the ability to encourage, support and inspire, all the while being as miserable and as confused and as tired as sin.

I believe in honesty.

I believe in pathways walked.

Positivity is not key.

Take this example;

In 1987 a heavy set woman with brown eyes and very short hair, wearing a green yoghurt stained jumper and brown chords walked towards my mother, my father, My brother and me.

‘Welcome!’ she boomed to the four of us in an over friendly and positive manner grabbing for my dad’s hand to shake. ‘Welcome to the New English International School. We are thrilled to be able to show you around today.’

She was genuine, and informative, friendly, empathetic to my family’s circumstances and fantastically positive about the possibility of 6 year old me joining that school following our recent move to the South Coast of Spain from dreary old England.

Full of beans and again, with very positive body language and inflection of tone, she helpfully showed us around the welcoming and unique grounds. She informed my parents about the quality of the teachers and the past history of successful students. My mum laughed with her, my dad nodded and listened to understand, my brother nudged me encouragingly and while all of this was happening I felt like the luckiest girl in the world.

I wanted to come to this school SO BADLY, this woman was so approachable and ‘nice,’ and not at all scary like the head teacher at my stuffy old school in England, and best of all I wouldn’t have to wear a uniform.


She invested a good 3 hours in the meet and greet.

As we climbed back in to the car I bobbed up and down with excitement.

A school I can look forward to attending, no need to feel intimidated anymore!

‘When can I start daddy? When am I starting mummy?’

‘You’re not.’ They both replied in unison, and we sped out of there like the place was on fire.

I remember crying and sulking, moaning and eventually letting it go, as weeks later I started at a very different type of school.

A type of school I was used to.

An international school in Spain very similar to the one I had left in England, with a very similar and stern head teacher.

I won’t bore you senseless.

Some of you will have already read about my impressions of school (I fucking hated it) and the impact those experiences, like anybody who was bullied in school, have had on the rest of my life.

Some of you will also have already read about the wonderful times I had with some of the girls I met there, who are still my friends now. Girls like me, who just wanted to get through it.

We were miserable, we were misunderstood, we were not positive at all.

And these girls were my support, my encouragement and they inspired me, in spite of that.

They have impacted my life in huge ways.

Like I say.

All of our experiences, bad and good, borne out of positivity and adversity, shape our lives and who we are, which enables us to shape the lives of others in some pre-determined ways and randomly in others.

But don’t put too much thought in to it.

We don’t have as much control as we like to think we do.

Years later I asked my dad why I hadn’t been allowed to attend the New English International school from the start, having always wished I had.

His reply has stayed with me ever since.

It reminds me to chill out and stop stressing about ‘big deal’ decisions.

What will be will be.

‘The woman had a yoghurt stain on her top and it really annoyed me and your mum. The minute we saw it we both agreed to find a different school.’

So you see.. that woman, who’s name I will never know, on some day in 1987, was getting breakfast and accidentally spilled some yogurt on her top, maybe she didn’t notice, maybe she did, but directly because of that, decisions were made that have shaped who I am as a person, and the life I have lived since.

Because. She. Spilled. her. Yoghurt.

I’ll leave you with that.


I bloody love the butterfly effect.

Be positive, be miserable, be who you wanna be.

We literally have no control over anything anyway.

I should do totally do motivational courses.

Thank you and goodnight

*hair flick*

Why I don’t do Review’s.

I received an email yesterday, reminding me that as a mum I need extra protection in my knickers. 

(Like I haven’t got enough to think about in-between my son’s unhealthy obsession with the Titanic and a demanding full time job!)

Had I received this email prior to birthing a baby with a MASSIVE head, I would have squealed at the audacity of these no name companies sending me advice about how to care for my vagina, and then I probably would have giggled over it with all my friends.

Unfortunately though, there are no giggles anymore, as since tearing my delicate front bum from here to Transylvania during the magic of childbirth, this type of spamming has become a regular occurrence in my inbox. 

Unlike my husband, who hasn’t been anywhere near my ‘inbox’ since we decided to officially try for another kid – funny that eh Irish One?  If I’d have known sooner that that’s all it took to not be pestered by the infamous ‘boob and fanny grab’ while I’m washing the pots, I would have been a lot more eager to have the 2nd baby conversation!

Anyway, back to the email reminding me on a Tuesday afternoon, mid work related issue, that I’m a lazy whore who needs to do more pelvic floor.

(It’s true though, I do. The child and I went trampolining on Sunday and somewhere between my first jump and a fancy ‘look at me I am a trampolining goddess’ sitting drop, my bladder decided to be a complete twat and release its entire contents. Unfortunately, because of the aforementioned child with the MASSIVE head that arrived 5 years ago, there was sweet FA my vagina could do about it. I think the staff at Jump nation may have thought my waters were breaking. In that, I may have screamed this at them as the floor swallowed me up and I ran off (like john Wayne) in horror.)

SO ok Tena, you are right.

My vagina is pointless in more ways than 1.

But your email pissed me off. (No pun intended.)



I may need a finely lined panty liner which absorbs faster than ordinary panty-liners and locks in more moisture, controlling odour thanks to the feelfresh technology ™, but I didn’t want my boss to know that. Or a team of 12 people who I was in the middle of presenting to, using a flip screen and projector, connected to my laptop.

It probably wouldn’t have been so bad if I had distracted them from the huge TENA that appeared at the top right hand of my screen advising me of your badly timed email, instead of clicking on it in a panic and opening it for them all to read.

And now they all know.

They all know I inadvertently added myself to your mailing list, and they all think I probably wouldn’t have done that if I didn’t require odour control for my nethers.

And literally, not one of them can now look me in the eye when I laugh.

For the love of god Tena, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!

This isn’t a sponsored post, but I do wonder if you should treat it as such and offer me some sort of compensation.

KNOW YOUR AUDIENCE! It’s as if we as mothers haven’t been through enough…

And don’t get me started on this one.

FullSizeRender (3)

You think I need a panel of stangers advising me on how to keep the spark in my marriage alive?

Do you think us mum’s have NO shame?

Send me emails asking me to review wine! Or Spanx!  Remind me there is more to me than broken bits and no mystery!

You wanna know how to keep the spark alive people?

Don’t mention the possibility of a leakier vag, more sleepless nights and another 10 months of morning sickness!

OH WELL, only another 306 to wade through…

Maybe one of those will include something useful.

Like Gin.

*This is not a sponsored post for the baby event or Tena. However if you good people at Tena would like to send me some samples, that would be nice. (Also I realise your advert says 69% (teehee) of new mums or pregnant women need them, but I am here to tell you, mothers with kids who have giant heads who are five, still need them too. Thanks.)

‘This time next week I will be admitted in to the Priory. I need help, and soon.’

That was what she had written on her Facebook Status.

I’ll be honest, at first I was a little shocked.

It is not like people to be so honest on my Facebook timeline.

I was taken aback, and then I was hugely inspired by her strength.

She is quite clearly desperate for help, I thought, and where most people would not admit to a mental health problem, instead preferring to hide behind ‘a bad day’, a happy smiling family photo or an inspirational quote emblazoned onto a picture of a murky lake or some such guff, she is openly and with extreme courage, asking for support.

This kind of thinking and honesty needs celebrating, it is inspirational men and women that talk willingly like this about mental health issues that enables huge steps forward in breaking down the stigma in society.

Personally, I was inspired as I saw a Facebook friend who was not ashamed, had clearly worked hard to see depression wasn’t a choice, but a very real and brutal illness, and therefor deserved all the well wishes and support she could gather, and by accepting time in a mental hospital, was most likely determined to win.


If she had cancer She might have been updating her status with ‘only 1 more round of chemo!’  And no doubt we would all be celebrating and supporting her without question, so why shouldn’t she let people know she is ill and seeking help from this illness?

In those moments I had huge amounts of respect and concern in equal measures for her.

My heart went out.

‘Just goes to show you never know’ I said to the Irish one as I clicked on the link to offer my support.

And then my heart sank.

‘Oh me too.’  A friend of hers had commented.  ‘I will join you. I am going to sit in archery and art therapy and relax in all of those little groups they do.’

And then I felt nothing but dismay.

‘Ha. Ha. I am going to sit and rock back and forth in a chair, why should I do any work, I need a good rest.’ Was the final reply.

And then I was gutted.

My fingers typed out a few replies.

But I never published them.

I was too ashamed to fight.

I felt a little humiliated.

What if they disagreed with my points of view?

Was I over reacting? It was only a joke. They were clearly only joking.

Why was I so offended? Maybe I needed to ‘get a grip.’

I spoke to the Irish One about it, all worked up and sad.

‘I am so tired, why do people think it is ok to talk about mental health and mental hospitals like they are a joke? No one would ever take the piss so openly out of any other hospital or person suffering from illness? It just re-enforces those feelings of shame, and stops people asking for help! I hate it, and the stigma.’

His calm response floored me. (Smug git.)

‘So what are you going to do? Reply now, emotional and upset, or educate, once you are calmer?’

I didn’t want to do either.

I wanted to forget all about it and move on, I wanted to bury my head in the sand and not remind myself of that awful night in the middle of one hot summer, when I had woken up at 3am in the kitchen, an empty bottle of pills in my hand, and knowingly made the decision to leave my family, a little boy who needed me and everything that made me feel safe, and head in to the Priory hospital. I was not going for a ‘little break.’ I was going because if I didn’t, he would grow up without me.

I didn’t want to dwell on the acute fear and panic I felt as the sun on that first night started to set and I knew I wasn’t allowed to go home. Or the agonising grief that ripped through me as I thought of a little boy crying out for his mummy while his mummy would rather have been dead.  The hours I spent with my head in my hands, the pain in my heart so overwhelming I would rock back and forth in an attempt to focus on something other than that and the voices in my head, that tortured me over and over with what a terribly selfish human being I was. The rocking was comforting. Isn’t that simply hilarious?

I wanted to shy away from the sheer torture of remembering my first ever art therapy experience where I had been so broken, that I felt like the world had literally fallen away and I was stuck in an alternate reality where I couldn’t focus on any one voice. The anxiety and depression mixing together making me shake uncontrollably, my heart pounding constantly. This was my absolute rock bottom, in that ‘little group’ while the art therapist spoke softly to me, trying to provide me comfort, I had had to spend the whole time focusing on keeping the world steady and not fainting. The real pity was however, that I did not see any celebrities.

I didn’t want to remind myself of how lost I had been at that time, how scared, how pointless I felt, and how vulnerable I was, and what a hell of a long journey back it has been.

A road that will most likely always be uphill, but I am fucking making it.


I felt like I had a duty to say something, on behalf of me, and on behalf of all the beautiful people I knew and met, in the summer of that year when I was admitted in to the priory, because I needed help and soon.

I felt I had a duty to keep fighting the stigma, on behalf of the ones that lost.

I also realise that prior to being admitted myself, I probably would have said something similar without realising how shame inducing it could be for those who have lived it.

It is not ok to take the piss, refer to in jest, or joke openly about mental illness, no more than it is to take the piss, refer to in jest, or joke openly about cancer. 

But I understand this was not meant with any malicious intent, I am hopeful it is only a lack of thought mixed with a dash of Stigma, and that next time, any one who may read this may now think twice.

Taking the piss out of Mental Health stops people asking for help.

It is an illness.

One person every 7 seconds loses their life from mental health related illness. That is brothers, sisters, mothers, daughters, fathers, cousins and friends.

Do you still feel lighthearted about the whole thing?

So for my beautiful friends and family that died at the hands of depression and ill mental health, even after a stay at the priory.

This post is for you.

Let’s keep challenging that fucking stigma.




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