Dear A

The Mulberry

28^th February 2016

Dear A,

            That was a bit fucking weird, wasn’t it? One the one hand, we’re so used to each other that coming to your house tonight and having a drink whilst The Blondies farted and giggled around us seemed completely normal. On the other hand, we had That Conversation. Did I want to sit down with you one day, to discuss things, to talk about what happened between us? For both of us to ask one another all of the questions that have doubtless chased around your mind, just as they have done mine? Would it help?

     I know that both of us have things we want to know, need to know. ‘Did you really say that? Why did you do that? Didn’t you think of that? Why did you… I felt like… That hurt the most… This is the thing that I can’t… Did you ever…’ Both we both know, and we both agreed that we’re beyond that point now. That it might have helped, once. But the two of us grubbing about in the ashes of something that once burnt so brightly and with such warmth won’t help either of us, not now. We’ve come a long way, and I don’t want our fragile fledgling friendship soured by what we both said and did, then. It might resolve past hurts, but it’s more likely to twist our futures in ways neither of us want. We’re better than that, even if you and I are no longer ‘we’.

     I meant what I said about being friends. We don’t have to be, of course, but I like that we think we can be. Not just for The Blondies, but because of what we’ve shared. We’ve been through a fuck of a lot, not all of it great, admittedly. But I have no wish to whitewash my past, and a significant part of that past is you. And you’re no longer my future, but I hope you will at least be a part of it.

     I am sorry, A. Sorrier than I can say that we hurt one another so badly, and the storm that followed caused so much pain for everyone around us. But we both know that we’re happier now, even allowing for the bad days, and the bumps in the road.

     Be happy, A. That is all I ask of you. Just be happy, whatever it takes. You deserve to be happy, and I stopped being the person who made you happy. I have so many regrets; things I wish had turned out differently. But I do not regret you and I, not just because of The Blondies, but also because of the time we had together. So please, for me, as one last promise between us, I will promise to be happy as you asked, just as long as you are too.

     And yes, that last sentence of the email I sent you – I do still, I always will.

Love,

Jx

PS I just wiped snot into my eye writing that last bit. Yup, still classy.

Today's the day

     

     This is becoming something of a tradition. I’ve started marking today. Because today is the day I didn’t die, six years ago. Today is the day I lived.

     For the first few years afterwards, I didn’t mark it. Didn’t think of it. Didn’t want to think of it. I felt that I was still too attached to the date. That as much as I pulled away from it, all that I was doing was stretching the elastic between then and I; that one day everything would snap and I’d be back to where I was then. Like a bungee cord, I could only get so far before being yanked back again.

     It was two years ago that things changed. I realised that I wasn’t waiting to be pulled back. I realised I was relieved I hadn’t died. More than that. I was glad to be alive. More than that, even, I was happy to be alive.

     The rush of elation that accompanied that discovery has been embarrassingly recorded for posterity, both here and all over the internet. Whenever I try to describe how it feels, I know that it sounds like trite motivational bollocks, ready to be superimposed over the sun rising across the ocean. Trust me; I’m not given to that sort of soppy wankchoppery. All I can say is that I feel euphoric. I could be dead. I should be dead. But I aten’t dead.

     If anyone had told me six years ago ‘You won’t just be alive. You’ll be thriving and happy to be alive’ I would have nodded blankly as tears ran down my face and known that they were lying to me. If they’d then gone on to add ‘Oh, and you’ll be a single mother, living on benefits, about to move into a council flat, and although you’ll still have depression, you’ll be the happiest you’ve ever been’, then at least I would have known that they’d got me confused with another person and directed them elsewhere.

     But no, that person is me. Writing this now, through a flood of tears of genuine happiness. Smiling, thinking about my Blondies. Thinking of our future. I don’t fear the future, not now, nor do I worry about facing it. See that tangle of limbs, with Mane freeflowing, a booted silhouette racing towards the horizon? That’s me. Running joyously to embrace the future, my future, whatever it may hold. The future I would never have had. The future I shouldn’t have. But today is the day I didn’t die. Today is the first day of the rest of my life.

Birthday present

     Tomorrow is my 36^th birthday. A full lifetime since I roared into the world, annoying the midwife in the process (I was a few days overdue, the designated midwife went on her lunch break assuring Mum that nothing was developing, only to find me, 11 minutes old when she returned at two o’clock. It seems to me that I was a contrary bastard even before I was born).

     I never really look forward to my birthday. It’s in the depths of winter, right before Christmas, everyone’s broke, busy, and beleaguered, and it’s a pain in the arse going out anywhere because of the less than joyful crowds. This year though looks like it’s shaping up to be even more of a belter than usual, as I face up to life on my own. I’m not expecting any presents from anyone, maybe a card or two, no plans with anyone over the age of ten, but even the plans I thought I’d made to do stuff with The Blondies are unravelling a bit because Dad’s quite ill in hospital, and we want to go in and visit him. So I have been feeling a bit selfish and self-pitying.

     But there’s something I have been given lately that might just be the best present I could ever have received. And that’s you lot. ‘You lot’ encompassing the people I know on twitter, facebook, people who read this, even a few of you from that strange and confusing place known as Real Life. You’ve been amazing, so many of you. The emails, messages, texts, comments… all of it. You’ve kept me going on days when just getting The Blondies to school feels like it deserves an award ceremony. You’ve been there with me when I’ve had to go out and kick serious civil servant arse. You’ve made me feel, at times, invincible. You’ve brought me enormous comfort too. 

     And some of you have gone above and beyond anything I feel I deserved. Some of you have made me laugh with silliness. Some of you have been brilliant at distracting me. Some of you have let me rant and rave and leave snot all over the bloody place. All of you have played a part, in your own way. One of you has saved Christmas for The Blondies. One of you just behaves normally, so I feel normal. One of you genuinely saved my life one night, and that’s not something I would ever say lightly.

     I’ve been a bit rubbish at replying and letting people know what’s going on and how I am. That’s not to say I don’t appreciate you, just that sometimes it’s much easier for me to keep my head down and just power through things to get to the other side. I fear that if I allow myself to stop and think I will become overwhelmed. Thinking is when the time for doing is over. There’s no time limit on thoughts.

     But you lot, I wish I could thank you all individually. For what you’ve all given me. You’ve made me realise I am stronger, tougher, braver and more resilient than I knew. That is something for me to hold onto when the darkness feels overwhelming. Because of you, I know I will be ok, because I have to be. And I know it’s clichéd and naff and all the rest of it. But knowing that you’re around… it is a gift, honestly. You’ve all, in your way, given me what I needed. Time, and a place to be myself. Thank you.

Sonnet 66

     I’m still tired. I’m tired with all these.

     I’m tired with endlessly phoning people, and being told that someone will phone me back, but no one does. I’m tired with phoning other people who tell me I shouldn’t be speaking to them; I should be speaking to another department. I’m tired with phoning another department to be told the first department are the people who can provide the information, but no one’s in the office right now. I’m tired with having to leave message after message.

     I’m tired with no one giving me any information. I’m tired with having to find out things from family, instead of the official people who are actually making these decisions. I’m tired with everyone else knowing what’s going on better than I do, and I’m finding out information second or third hand. I’m tired with no one actually sitting me down and telling me what the situation is.

     I’m tired with being unable to not overhear phone conversations that blame me. I’m tired with people subtly, and not so subtly, saying this is my fault. I’m tired with being shouted at in the street. I’m tired with getting phone calls when I’m doing the school run that make hot tears run down my face. I’m tired with making appointments that other people don’t show up to. I’m tired with making appointments that I have to sit in a public place and wait for over an hour to be seen.

     I’m tired with being told it is vitally important that I arrange to see someone from a certain department, walking two miles in the rain to keep our arranged appointment, and the first thing they say is ‘I’ve looked at your file, and there’s no point you being here.’ I’m tired with having to provide information. I’m tired with people saying ‘there are services available to help you, you have been referred’, but then finding out my details have mysteriously vanished. I’m tired with getting angry at people who are so incompetent at their job, they’re actually dangerous.

     I’m tired with feeling scared. I’m tired with feeling hurt. I’m tired with feeling guilty. I’m tired with regret and remorse. I’m tired with people behaving in ways that make things worse.

     I’m tired with trying to protect The Blondies. I’m tired with always having to keep a happy face in front of them. I’m tired of slipping into the downstairs loo to cry for thirty seconds when everything overwhelms me. I’m tired with waiting for them to go to sleep each night so I can lie in bed and silently shake with tears, just like I’m doing now. I’m tired with trying to find distractions so I don’t feel like I do. I’m tired with having no money, and having to tell The Blondies I can’t afford things. I’m tired with worrying about Christmas. I’m tired with the abyss that opens up within me when The Blondies aren’t here, and the gnawing, aching fear that I carry then.

     I’m tired with trying to explain, I’m tired with talking, I’m tired with having no privacy, no secrets, nothing that’s mine anymore. I am tired. I am tired with all of these.

Uncomfortably numb

     I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired. I’m tired of being so fucking tired, of feeling like I’m dragging three people along behind me with every sodding step I take, that everything is just so much of a fucking effort, that I just don’t have any energy. I’m tired of thinking all the time, of constant thoughts just spinning round and round my head, chasing themselves and I have no idea how anything is going to resolve itself. I’m so tired, so fucking unbelievably tired and I can’t fucking sleep. I can’t go to sleep for hours, and when I do I wake up again and again, the same thoughts in my stupid bloody head, and I can’t get back to sleep and I’M JUST SO FUCKING TIRED.

     This is going to be cryptic and annoying. I can’t talk about what happened this week, not yet. I need to. I need to write the fuck out of it, I need to fucking hammer the crap out of every word, of every still life image that’s there in front of my eyes all the time since it happened, I need to try and make some sense out of it, even though I know there is no sense in it, I’m never going to understand it, at least I hope I never do.

     I’m ok, but I’m not ok. I’m scared, I’m hurt, I know I’m not alone, I know I have family and some good friends who have been amazing to me, but I feel alone. I feel like a stupid, stupid, pathetic cliché, a victim, a low and unworthy thing. I feel alone, and I don’t want to be. But it doesn’t matter where I go, or who I surround myself with, I’m going to feel alone, even with those who care about me most.

     When bad things happen, I’ve realised I go into autopilot. I just get my head down, keep on going. It’s easier to worry about The Blondies and their packed lunches. I’m doing the stuff that needs to be done. They’re fed, they’re clothed, I’m holding it together in front of them. That’s where my energy is going. Keep it going for them. They’ve been amazing, both of them. They’re not really asking any question, thank god. I don’t know what I’m supposed to tell them, so far I’ve been as honest as I can be without telling them the truth. But they are going to find out. I don’t want to rip up their world. My world might have just exploded into tiny shards of broken glass across every floor in this house, but I can’t let that happen to them. What I have to do is protect them. I might be broken, damaged, confused, but I won’t let them see that, and I won’t let it happen to them.

     I don’t know where I’m going to go from here. The stupid thing is just how much I find myself thinking about practical stuff, I’m almost horrified by how easily I’m thinking about really basic organisational things. It seems almost callous and as though I deserved what happened. I didn’t, no one deserves it. Maybe it’s a coping mechanism. I’m tweeting & posting on facebook like normal, maybe more so than usual. I don’t want people to know, but at the same time I want to scream and scream and just let all this out of me so I don’t have to live with it. I’m not crying either. A few times, over silly things, I’ve found tears in my eyes. But I’m not crying. I can’t cry.

     I’m tired, I’m scared, I can’t cry. I’m scared of being in the house, but I’m scared to leave it. I don’t like being alone, but I don’t want to talk to anyone ever again. I’ve done so much talking this week, have had to answer the fucking terrifying phone so many times every day, never knowing who it’s going to be this time, or whether the news will be welcome or not. I’m so tired of talking about it, but I need to, because I don’t know how I feel, other than numb. 

Today

     It’s horrible, writing this. We’d had such a nice afternoon, The Boy & I. We’d lounged about at home for a while, slobbing out, then, at his request went down to Norwich cathedral and went graffiti hunting. We ‘found’ loads of things, I chatted to him about who might have made them, the different meanings, why we find some areas with barely a square millimetre uncovered, and other areas where there’s nothing.

     I told him some of the history of the building, of stories, of my favourite inscriptions, and he giggled, and we explored, and wandered. We realised that we were about to walk through the middle of a Big Important Service, and giggled, and then both felt a bit lightheaded from the incense fumes, so went out to the cloisters, and he showed me some of the things he’d found earlier in the week. Then we went to the refectory and had lunch, and chatted, and giggled more, and did silly faces at one another.

     It wasn’t A Grand Day Out, not at all. But it was fun, and we laughed, and he rolled his eyes at me taking photos, and I was deliberately embarrassing, and we both just enjoyed being in each others company for a few hours, and he asked when we could do it again. It was… nice. Fun. But I didn’t want to overdo it with him, so we decided to head for home, still chatting.

     We were on a narrow stretch of pavement, on a quiet residential street, no one else around. And then it happened. I could see a young man, weaving his way along the pavement, coming towards us. He was quite clearly drunk. No. Shitfaced. At about four o’clock on a Sunday afternoon, walking towards us. His face was red, eyes unfocussed, limbs loose, a lolling type of walk. I ushered The Boy to walk behind me, the pavement not being wide enough for all three of us to pass.

     The Twat, for that’s what he is, drew level with us. Then stopped, his body rocking back and forth slightly. He peered at us confusedly, then smiled. I was nervous, uncertain, turning back to face The Boy, just when The Twat pulled his arm back, clenched his hand into a fist, and swung his whole body rapidly towards The Boy, stopping only when his fist was within an inch or two of The Boy’s nose, then grinned. I saw The Boy flinch, his body stiffen. I put my hand on his left shoulder, and drew him closer to me, trying to pull him out of the way.

     ‘I WASN’T GOING TO FUCKING PUNCH HIM.’

     I didn’t respond, just pulled The Boy closer, and tried to walk away, but not before The Twat put his face in mine.

     ‘CUNT CUNT YOU FUCKING MISERABLE CUNT, YOUR MUM’S A FUCKING CUNT.’

      We walked away, further shouts echoing in the distance as we tried to put distance between us and The Twat, my arm still around The Boy. In an undertone, I said ‘Don’t look back. Keep walking. Don’t look back, it’s ok, you handled that perfectly, but just keep walking.’ I could hear more shouting, but I ignored it, still talking the whole time to The Boy, until we got round a corner. ‘You ok?’ ‘I’m shaking.’ ‘I know. It’s ok. I won’t ever let anyone hurt you, not ever.’ I gripped his hand, and he let out a shuddering gasp, shaky and scared. I stopped, put both of my hands of his shoulders: ‘I promise you, anyone who ever threatens you has to get through me first. And I won’t let anyone past me.’

     That was a couple of hours ago. The Boy’s cried. I’m close to tears, but I can’t let him see I was scared too. He relies on me. He was scared of the unknown. I’m scared of what might have happened. I’ve hugged him and explained that some people are just Twats. We’ve looked at the photos we took together of the graffiti, trying to remind ourselves of those happy hours we had before The Twat entered out lives.

     This is growing up. This is realising that you will encounter Twats, just because you happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. This is finding out that people will behave like utter cunts towards you, when you’ve done nothing. But this is also me, shaking, feeling sick, and knowing that if anyone, anyfuckingone, dares to scare, threaten, or upset my children, I will kick their fucking arse. Say and do what you like to me, I’m pretty fucking tough. But threaten a single strand of The Blondies, and I will fucking destroy you. Your arse is grass, and I am a motherfucking lawnmower.

     And now, I'm going to walk to the shop to buy milk, bread, various bits needed for packed lunches, and I'm going to fucking howl my fucking eyes out that I know I can't protect my children forever, and that they're growing up in such a fucked up world. 

Review: The School Run

     You’d think, having been blogging for two and a half years, that I’d sort of know how this all works by now. No. I really don’t. Ranting and swearing and banging on and on and on and on about graffiti, writing about bratty kids, and depression, and Ed Balls and all that. But no. I have missed a trick, my loves. Apparently, lifestyle blogging’s a thing. People talking about what they wear, where they eat, places they visit. And fucking get this – they get freebies! I know! They get invited to eat for FREE at local pubs, restaurants, and cafes, and in exchange, they write 300 words about how lovely everything is, and that’s it. There is such a thing as a free lunch.

     With this in mind, I’ve decided to change my approach. No more bastarding arsehole swearing and ALMIGHTY CAPS LOCK RANTING SWEARIFUCKINGNESS. I’m giving lifestyle blogging a go. So here’s my lifestyle blog review of yesterday’s walk to school.

     Disclosure: I was invited to collect my children from school on Thursday afternoon in exchange for sod all. All thoughts are my own.

     I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect when I left the house at three o’clock, but it seemed like a good idea to make the journey to school! I have to confess I was somewhat surprised by the number of various routes that were presented to me – Mile End Road was a shorter option, with heavier traffic, but in the end I plumped for Christchurch Road, and I have to say I wasn’t disappointed! At first I thought there might be rather too much pavement for one person to handle, but shamefully, I managed to cover it all! I went for the signature ‘1 mile walk each way’ option, but having perused the map, there are definitely plenty of others to choose from, and all tastes are definitely catered for! It also seemed as though you could opt to cycle or drive, if you’re in a bit of a rush.

     There were lots of houses along the way, which gave it a lovely ‘homely’ feel, as well as numerous green wheely bins, a very thoughtful touch which I appreciated, and something that a lot of roads overlook. The concrete was broken up by the addition of fallen leaves, adding a very pretty seasonal flourish to my route. When I reached Unthank Road, I did have to stop, and whilst the pedestrian crossing looked very pleasant, in the end I opted for the rather more traditional dash across the road at the traffic lights.

     Forgive my terrible photography skills – this really doesn’t do the walk justice at all! Once I reached Colman Road, there were lots of cars and lorries around, which gave it a rather buzzy and lively atmosphere – clearly this is a popular spot and I felt reassured I’d come to the right place! There were lots of other walkers there too, of all ages, and it was definitely family and dog friendly, although I didn’t feel out of place being there on my own. I definitely appreciated the grass verges too, which certainly added to the greenness of the experience.

     I started with The Girl, in the lower school playground, sharing it with other parents as I was concerned it might have been a bit too much for me otherwise! I needn’t have worried though; she arrived promptly, considering she’d been freshly educated. Then it was time for the main event – The Boy! This truly was very special, as I had anticipated. First, we stood for eleven minutes in the rain – a very acceptable length of time! Upon greeting me, The Boy realised he’d forgotten his lunchbox, and although I insisted it wasn’t a big deal, he made sure to go back and collect it – a sure sign of quality! The slouching ambling walk he used to achieve this really was very pleasant indeed, and I’d recommend it to everyone.

     I’d enjoyed my experience so much that I was doing my best to extend it as long as possible, and even though it was a school day, I decided to be a bit naughty and go to Greggs! As they do every time, The Blondies were totally overwhelmed by the vast array of delicious mass produced cakes on offer, and spent several (seven in fact!) minutes staring. Needless to say they changed their minds several times too; keen to wring as much enjoyment from it as possible!

     It goes without saying that I didn’t come home empty handed either! In the end I opted for a milk chocolate cookie, which was wonderfully chewy and moist, whilst The Girl had a triple chocolate muffin, which mostly decorated her face, coat and hands. The Boy, who doesn’t have such a sweet tooth, had a steak and cheese bake which caused him to go in raptures!

     There were one or two minor quibbles – a couple of teething problems with cyclists racing along pavements, but I’m sure these will be taken care of by the walkers who seemed very attentive, but unobtrusive, and mostly faded into the background. Unfortunately too, it was raining, but needless to say, I can’t fault the walk to school for that, and needless to say I’m sure it’s very pleasant on sunny days, and needless to say I shall be doing the walk to school again as soon as possible!

     What do you think? Have you done a school run recently? Leave me a comment in the box below – I’d love to hear your thoughts!