How To Make A Mess Of Things

I'm sat in the sunshine with an old friend.

And so I don't see that he's walking through town until he's right at my table, telling me that he's had a drink.

And those words cut through me like knives and everything changes in an instant, as the grim reaper himself takes a seat right in front of me, grinning like a cheshire cat, pointing at his scythe and mouthing the words "I've got another one..."

 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 how it's always been 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 now I mostly manage, but back then was horrendous, because I never knew  for sure if my day was going to be a near miss, or a series of expertly timed explosions.

It was excrutiating.

I’m black and I’m blue and I’m feeling degraded,

My hair is a mess and my make-up is faded

I look in the mirror, despise what I see, then I look at this man who means nothing to me

I creep out the door before he awakes,

I’m tired and I’m ill…there is nothing to take

I don’t leave my number, I don’t know his name, 

I’m tired and hungover and burning with shame

I creep down the backstreets, avoid being seen, and I long for a shower, or just to feel clean

There’s no-one to turn to, there’s nowhere to go, 

It’s just me and my head in this shit horror show

So I head for the basement and open a can, 

And I drink to get shit-faced as fast as I can

I’m all out of options, I’m running on empty, I have nothing left now, I’m just how he left me

I’m counting the days now, I’m counting the hours,

Because soon I’ll be dead and be pushing up flowers

And I’m ok with that, I’m resigned to my fate, because I’ve tried and I’ve failed to keep spinning these plates

It’s too much too deal with, it’s too much to take, and I’ll tell that to God when I’m stood at his gate

And I hope that he gets it…that he sees that I’ve tried, as I drown in the river of tears that I cried

Because I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to stay, in this horrible head fuck of “Alcohol Day”

So somebody help me, or let’s get it over, I’m all out of hope, I can’t deal with life sober

So this is my story, and this is my shame,

Written here on my face and beside my real name...