My boyfriend has Psychosis. It means that he sees, hears and talks to people who aren't actually there. At least if they are, they are very very quiet and very very small, as no-one else can see or hear them...I can't anyway.
It only happens when he's been drinking heavily and is therefore either dangerously intoxicated or starting to withdraw. Which currently is most of the time right now, and it's a worrying, and often disturbing experience for anyone around him, watching a fully grown man sit and have an animated conversation with people that only he can see.
During Psychosis he loses touch with reality. He only sees and hears the scenarios in his head that to him are real conversations, but to everyone else are the red flags that indicate that his drinking is once again spiralling out of control and that he is mentally and physically extremely unwell and in serious need of professional help.
Sometimes he talks to me too, but not very often - at least not to my face. In reality he talks to me all the time...it's just that I'm very rarely in the same room when the "conversation" gets going. I'll be in the kitchen or the bathroom maybe....he'll be convinced that I'm sat there next to him on the sofa in the living room. But when I try to say as much he accuses me of lying and playing games with his head...when in reality it's not actually me playing headgames at all. It's vodka and the copious quantities of it that he continues to drink that's busy distorting his reality.
It's upsetting to see and hear him like this. Talking away to himself for hours on end...having full-on conversations with these imaginary people that aren't actually there. But if I try to hold a conversation and tell him that he's talking to himself he doesn't believe me.
Especially when it's 3.00am and I can't sleep because his imaginary friends are keeping him up all night again...He's usually having a 'discussion' about me and how he's scared that he'll lose me if this carries on. Which he will if he doesn't get help. Because seeing and hearing him like this is excrutiating...I actually can't take much more. His alcohol induced mental problems are starting to consume us both.
The whispered conversations are horrendous...the look on his face when I try to explain to him that there is no-one in the room breaks my heart. Because he genuinely doesn't know what is going on around him.
It makes him paranoid.
He thinks that I have an agenda. That I'm filming him / recording him...taking photos. For the record I'm not. I wouldn't. Although I have to admit that it has crossed my mind...because maybe then he would see what everyone else sees...that he's talking to himself. But it would terrify him. The thought makes me sick. Its not an option.
My boyfriend desperately needs help. He's very very sick. He's been hospitalised several times because of his addiction. But he refuses to see the doctor more often than not...presumably because he will be told in no uncertain terms that he needs to stop drinking. Which he continues to do on a daily basis and which is slowly but surely killing him...because he physically and mentally can no longer do without it.
So the talking continues and every day he gets worse. He no longer needs me to talk to... his friends are all consuming. If they tidied up after him too then maybe I would be more tolerant. But they don't...they just continue to talk cod-shit, which he in turn talks back...24/7. Unless he's asleep...
It makes him incredibly hard to be around and even harder to listen to. I constantly have to leave the room just to breathe for a second. Ever increasingly I'm leaving the flat completely...because I need some space from him and some real conversation...with real actual people.
It's breaking my heart...I'm at my wits end and I'm ready to leave. I love him so much but I have no idea where to go from here. Except home. He doesn't even know if I'm there or not anymore... I may as well be invisible...except that if I was then maybe he would talk to me more...
My boyfriend needs help. Without it he will die. He can't carry on like this. His body is screaming for him to stop drinking alcohol. It can't keep up with the strain that he's under and his head is slowly turning to blancmange. Things have to change...because at this rate, as much as we all love and care for him, one by one everyone else will leave him too....for the sake of their sanity if nothing else.
So my boyfriends imaginary friends had better be loyal...because if he continues to refuse the help that he needs, then those invisible mates of his will be all he's got left...which is heartbreaking...
I've bought a house.
Well a caravan.....And now it's mine. I own it.
It's just for me.
Well me and Magic.
Magic is my cat.....the one I promised myself I would get just as soon as I got a place of my own. And now I have one. A place that is. Not Magic.....Magic comes later.
I have to move in first....
I'm finally starting to value myself.
It's hard work.
It goes against everything I've ever know or been told. It feels weird.
Like I'm pretending..... which I am. Obviously. But I'm secretly hoping that the 'fake it till you make it' approach rubs off......and then one day I won't have to pretend anymore.
Thats the cunning plan anyway. It's pretty much the only one I have to be honest. So I'm giving it a go.
Written for Ivory magazine.....published as 'The Self-respect Barbie'.
My Barbie was a Super-Model. No matter what I dressed her in, what accessories she wore, she always looked amazing. Because I had no doubt at all that she could rock any style / any colour / any combination - I believed in her.
In my eyes, Barbie rocked. I actually wanted to be her. She set the bar and all of the other dolls followed (in dolls world anyway)....
Published as "What happens in detox" - Ivory magazine. February 2018
I'm not pregnant.
In case I was wondering....Which I wasn't. Mainly because they hadn't told me that I was being tested for that when they insisted on me providing a sample. They were supposed to be looking for drugs....
Which they found. Obviously. There's not much that gets through a piss test in detox. Luckily for me they were prescription. Which meant no naughty step (always a bonus) - because I was so drunk when I arrived that steps of any kind were to be avoided like the plague....I didn't really trust my legs to be able to do the maths.
Instead I found a chair, sat on it and stayed there until the staff came to check me in... Safest option all round to be honest.
I try to see the best in people.
Even when I know that it's futile.
I keep looking for the good in someone even when I'm being treated appallingly - I'm the kind of woman who would find something loveable about a rabid dog. In fact if I thought that I could get near it I'd probably take it home.....
But the last fourty-eight hours means that I'm starting to learn from my mistakes. So thats progress.
It's alright for Beyonce.....wriggling around blasting out "All the single ladies" and then scampering off home to Jay-Z.....but what about the rest of us? Us 'actual' single ladies, who don't have a Jay-Z or any other kind of guy for that matter, to get our groove on with or snuggle up to once the lights go down......what about us?
What if you don't even own a leotard? Or sexy shiny shoes like Bey? Well, maybe you did.... once. A long time ago......when you were still young and foxy, with the whole world at your feet and when you didn't give a shit about imaginary lumps and bumps or cellulite.......What if anything even remotely resembling foxy hasn't made an appearance from your wardrobe in a very long time.....because everything that does has been tucked away on a shelf somewhere gathering dust - along with your self-esteem and your confidence after the last disastrous relationship you had eventually bit the dust.....
Because I'm a single lady at the minute and trust me..... it's really not as glamourous or as exciting as Bey makes it look in that video.....
I'm a mess.
I'm stood in his kitchen surrounded by bags, frantically trying to repair my ravaged face. I know that it will be dark soon anyway but there is absolutely no way that I'm leaving the house like this. I'm upset granted, but I still have standards.....
Ten minutes and some frantic sleeve wiping later and I'm heading out the door and down the stairs. I didn't stop to say goodbye. My head was obviously pre-occupied with the black smears around my eyes and I'm mentally giving both barrels to R*****l..... because this latest mascara of theirs is seriously shit......
It was his birthday.
I'd planned a holiday as a present - nothing incredible, just a few days in the sun last minute.com. It made sense. It was cheap, it was hot and it was a chance to get away while I had the time booked off from work.
I was so excited.
I needn't have been.
Because it didn't happen......
So I'm staying over. At his....... On Tuesday night.
It makes sense....It saves interrupting our evening, dicking around with trains and a walk home alone for me through pitch black fields, late at night, attempting to dodge cow pats and copious amounts of sheeps piss.
And I know this guy, which means that I trust him enough to assume that he's not going to jump on me or set upon me with an axe once I'm in his flat, behind closed doors.
So it'll be cool. It'll be fine. We're just having some food and catching up with ourselves. No biggie. Absolutely nothing to worry about - It's not like we're going to have sex or anything.....
Because then I would be bricking it....
So this is a story about a man.
A funny, intelligent and articulate man who has recently snowballed into my day to day life. Out of the blue. From Nowhere. Completely unexpectedly, and completely unannounced. I'm still attempting to process it all. It's kind of a complicated story. Involving an extremely complicated man.
We crossed paths via social media. He'd followed me on twitter. I checked his profile and clicked onto one of his blogs. And time kind of stopped for me. Literally. As I re-read his words and struggled to take in exactly what this guy was telling me.
Because as I read this blog it was clear that this guy had had a plan. Which didn't involve following me (or anyone else for that matter) on twitter if it had worked. He wouldn't have had time to sit about surfing the internet and making new aquaintences. He would have been way too busy being dead. Which is kind of a full time job once you've comitted to it. And from what I could see he was pretty comitted. Up to his neck in it actually.
Anyway. Long story short.
Despite his well thought out and carefully articulated plan, involving ingesting enough prescription medicine to knock out a small country, washed down with copious amounts of tepid white wine, coupled with the fact that nobody actually knew quite where to find him whilst all of this topping himself on social media business was going on, (which didn't help the emergency services who were at this point frantically attempting to locate him), for some unknown reason, somewhere along the lines that night it didn't quite work out.
Mainly because he found himself very much "Not Dead" . When he woke up very much alive on an acute psychiatric ward. From an induced coma. With tubes going into places that really should only allow for stuff coming out. Along with various other pleasantries that had been carried out in a desperate attempt to save his life.
And that's how the weirdest friendship in the world began. I sent him a message. He messaged me back. The rest is history.
He's bringing out stuff in me that I can't describe.
I feel an incredible protectiveness towards him. We are similar in lots of ways and share the same history. I'm hearing my story but told by a man and from a mans perspective. We are both alive when we didn't actually want or plan to be. And dealing with the implications of that. Our similarities are beyond weird.
We talk every day.
I try and walk the line between keeping him cheerful and making conversation that isn't going to be too overwhelming. There's a lot going on in that head of his right now what with him still being alive and all....
I take the piss a lot. There is no elephant in the room during our conversations. It's how it should be. And I send him stuff. Snapchats. A song from the movie "Suicide Squad". I call it "My cheer up song." It's a private joke. Thankfully, he thought it was funny too when I explained. We share the same dark humour at times.
He has an adopted sunflower.
He didn't get a say in it really. I just gave it to him. It lives in my bathroom where it gets plenty of sun. He gets regular updates and photo's - as though he's signed up for some random charity or other off the TV. "Look Nick - here's "Sunflower" chilling out on my windowsill." ( He doesn't have a name. He's just "Sunflower"), or "Nick, check out Sunflower and his brother in this pic. Your's is kicking ass. He's grown loads"....
Although obviously Sunflower is a metaphor, Sunflower is real. He is growing. Every day I see tiny changes in him. My friend is growing too. He might not always think so but he is.
I've known him no time at all, but I have the greatest respect for this guy and I wish that I could do more to help. I want him to be well. And far away from a psych ward. Being comfortable in his skin. Being happy. But that's not my job to do and not my thing to wish for. It's his. It has to be his.
I don't have a magic wand. I can't just wave something and make him better. It's not that simple. Only he can decide where he goes from here. To a Penthouse or a Park bench. It's a 50/50. It's going to be a long haul. But if this guy is half the guy I think he is, he'll do it. With bells on. He just needs to cut himself some slack.
In the meantime, I'm honoured to know him. It's like I see into his soul. And hopefully my chit chat helps. So for now the songs, the snapchats and the crazy Sunflower photos are staying on the menu. To try to compensate for the terrible hospital food. While he puts himself back together however he sees fit. Until he doesn't need them anymore. Maybe because he'll have his own garden again and can grow his own Sunflowers. No internet intervention necessary.... Or no garden at all. It's up to him. It's his life. And gardens are over-rated anyway.
Basically, what I'm trying to say to this man is this. That the past is the past. It's happened. It's gone. Nothing and no-one can change that. And despite his best laid plans for his life at that point, fate appeared to have a different agenda when the shit hit the fan for him that night. And maybe there's a reason for that.
So he's alive. With a fresh clean slate. If nothing else resonates right now, it's a start.
Also known as a beginning.
But if I did have a wish for this friend of mine, it would be this.....That you would choose to begin Nick.
So this is a blog about my mum.
I don't write about her very often. Our relationship is complex and mostly non-existent. Which I hate.. but that's pretty much how we roll so now I just get on with it.
As a child, living with my mum was like trying to balance a handgrenade. On a see-saw. With no hands. My little brother perched on one end, me on the other, and my mum the un-exploded bomb in the middle, in all of her unpredicable, chaotic glory rolling around between us, the pin constantly working loose but never quite coming out completely.
The fear of that pin coming out caused me to live my life in a constant state of high alert and high anxiety, which, up until fairly recently, I'd blamed on both a traumatic event that happened years later in my home as well as on an ill-fated "relationship" that I'd had with a misogynist, but I can see quite clearly now, looking back, that the seeds for my poor mental health had been sown much, much earlier....
I'm in bed with my boyfriend. And not in the way that you think.
Because I'm writing this blog as a way to keep calm while I'm keeping an eye on him. While I'm upset and I'm worried and I can put into words just how heartbreaking this whole fucked up situation is.
My boyfriend is ill. And he's struggling right now. He had a relapse three days ago. Quite a big one. It's knocked him for six. And now he's struggling to function properly again. I'm trying to be supportive and I'm putting a brave face on things but I'm struggling too. Seeing him so confused and upset and in pain is breaking my heart.
The bucket next to the bed is a flashback for me. I used to have one too. For the inevitable morning sickness that came after the days and the nights before. For the times when I was too sick or weak to do anything except lift my head and attempt to rid myself of the contents of my stomach....basically to make room for more of the shit I was going to throw down my neck for the rest of the day.....not because I wanted to but because I needed to....
This is addiction. And I want to talk about it....
Published in Fearless Femme magazine.....
"I'm gonna pick up the pieces, and build a Lego House.....if things go wrong I can knock it down...." "Lego House" - Ed Sheeran.
He's a clever guy Ed - Writes all his own material, sings, plays several musical instruments and has a house made out of Lego. Funnily enough, so do I. Because Lego is cool. Lego is the future - and my Lego house rocks....
So he's coming to see me. This amazing "blast from the past" super-cool person of mine.
Because it's going to be amazing. Me and him. A hotel room somewhere. And an absolute whale of a time guaranteed. All arranged lastminute.com which is always how we roll.....
A "Hey _____ I've been thinking. I've missed your face. And I'd really love to come see you again .....are you gonna be free between ____ and _____? (Him)
(Me) "What's there to even think about? Do it. Come see me. Get in the car and get down here....will be amazing. So yes. I'll make sure that I'm free....'cos I've missed your face too..." kind of conversation.
And so he's coming. To see me. In two weeks. I'm turning cartwheels.
Fuck. I'm turning cartwheels.
I need to do a risk assesment....
I love it here.
This eclectic, bohemian little thrown-together town, with it's winding cobbled streets and every kind of shop. It's incredible.
It has a bad reputation, this crazy little town. It's the end of the line here, so the streets are filled with the lost, the lonely and the mis-understood - exiting the platform with their crumpled train tickets and their rucksacks full of dreams. But I love it. It suits me perfectly.
I hate facebook messenger - It's the bane of my life.
Especially when I've messaged someone and can see that they've been online since but that they haven't actually looked at it yet. Because then my mind goes into overdrive, and I can feel myself slowly starting to morph into Glen Close, as I start to drive myself crazy with a million and one scenarios trying to come up with a plausible reason as to why they haven't actually bothered to read it yet.
Because there was nothing on the news today announcing that there's been an earthquake, or torrential flooding or that a previously undetected giant mineshaft is currently opening up in the back garden of where they live. There hasn't even been a thunder storm or a power cut which could help to explain the lack of contact. Which therefore leads me to only one obvious conclusion. That they just don't want to talk to me right now- because I'm not that important.
Which makes me feel terrible.
Which then makes me want to message them more, in order to elicit a response in an attempt to prove to myself that my original theory was wrong.....
Which does nothing but make me feel needy and stalkerish, which in turn makes me feel exactly like the type of woman who would go scampering off into the kitchen in search of a saucepan big enough to pop some poor unassuming bunny in.
Which really isn't me at all.
My first thought, is that he's not supposed to be here. Here, in the South-West....where I am. He's supposed to be in London. Where he lives and stuff...
My second thought is "Why didn't he say something sooner?" .....
My third thought is "Thank Fuck he didn't say something sooner". Because if he had have done, we would have made a mess of things. Absolute guarantee on that front, because following up on feelings in rehab isn't the wisest of moves.....and we were both spoken for back then anyway.
But now that we are out, both single, and all fixed and stuff.... well that's a different ball game....
I've had a horrible day.
One of the worst that I've had in ages. My head is racing, my heart is pounding and my anxiety is going through the roof.
I'd love to be able to ask Nick Knowles and the boys to come round so that they can do a re-build. Starting with my head. Because right now this one really needs to go. And I don't care if the new one means that I have to look like Aunt Sally..... at least I won't have to listen to myself going over and over and over old ground.
But there is no "Diy Sos" rescue for me today. Because Billy and the boys are busy whipping up a miracle renovation for someone else who could use their help too.
And so it's down to me to sort it. Again. Because technically I suppose that I am actually the best person for the job....I've lived with this head for decades.
It's my works Christmas Party in exactly eight days.
I'm dreading it.
Not just because I get to rub shoulders with the woman behind the bar who hates my guts because I had a fling with her ex, or because I need to get all glitzy and glam and I don't have anything in my wardrobe that even comes close to being either, it's mainly because I'm shit at socialising these days, coupled with the fact that I'm guaranteed to bump into lots of random people that I haven't seen for over a year who last saw me making a show of myself in various locations in town because I had a drinking problem back then and I shouldn't really have been allowed out by myself.....