I suggest you do to.
Its a clear cut window into my mind
The first hurdle I faced yesterday was where to sit.
In the church.
The house of God.
In a church I have sat many times before.
Still as uncomfortable as ever.
"Reserved for family" signs on the first two benches - I never dreamt I would sit so close to the front when I decided I was going to her funeral.
So I sat on the benches behind those reserved for the rest of my family. I didn't want to offend by sitting there, it would have been welcomed as distasteful, obnoxious, and a classic Fran being a provocative bitch.
I also chose not to skulk at the back, like Judas waiting in the wings. I loved my Grandma. And no fucker in that church was going to take that away from me.
So I sat, with my little service sheet in my shaking hands, looking down at her smiling face and some seriously debatable glasses choice; it was an old photo.
The music starts, the coffin comes in, and its not just her thats dead, its everyone else whos carrying her.
My father, tears streaming down his face, my brother, handsome as ever, concentrating on where he is walking. My cousins, faces I haven't seen for over a decade - older.
My poor uncle, heartbroken but steely faced and brave, all walking.
Following came the family, from the funeral cars, aunties, non of them will look at me, some of them look through me. Then there is a sigh, it reverberates around the church, people turn to see where it came from - my mother. She looks at me.
I wish she hadn't.
Such hate. Such hate. Words can't describe.
And then a miraculous thing takes place before my eyes, people comfort her, place their hands on hers, on her back, sharing her hate and supporting through the sheer anguish of having seen me.
People who used to know and love me.
Sharing in this car crash.
No-one is concentrating on the grief for a few moments, oh no, it's all eyes on me, Judas.
I thought we were here to mourn, I thought death meant more.
Sarah grasps my hand, I pull it away lightening quick, I can't hold her hand in a church, not my grandmas church, I can't hold it infront of my family, it would flame to the fire.
But god I've never wanted it more.
The service is beautiful, but nobody sings, nobody cries. My dad maintains his composure,
My aunty reads something she wrote about her mum, its honest, she cries.
Its poignant - "Mum wasn't perfect, but who is, we loved her"
Its still ringing in my ears.
And then the service is over, everyone stands to follow the coffin from the church, they are taking it to the graveyard to be buried with my grandfather.
The firey eyes continue as my mother looks at me, as she leaves, she breaks her gaze of disgust and goes to talk to people who had attended the service.
Help me.
I'm in limbo, surrounded by people I want to hug and reassure; "I'm sorry for your loss" is something strangers say when they hear awkward news.
I grasp my Uncle, I say those words "I'm sorry for your loss"
The whole thing is hideous, no-one wants to engage me, but they all have the social awkwardness of having too.
My brothers other half walks over and hugs me tightly, its the best hug I've had all day, I barely want to let go of her. Shes kind, and shes above the family politics, but she wont realise her mistake until later.
Jay follows and hugs the two of us, asks if we are heading for the drinks, I say yes, he laughs and tells me not to get a pint - heaven forbid, the lesbian, with her lesbian partner, drink a pint, at a catholic funeral.
What would grandma say?
She would probably get another round in.
My mum see's this. There is a lady she knows stood next to me, she marches over, dragging my brother with her "Oh hello, its so nice to see you, how nice that you came"
"This is my son James and his fiance" she looks at me as she says the words, theres a slight smirk on her face.
Well played mother.
Introducing my brother to people whilst I'm stood next to him with nowhere to run.
More embarassing is that the woman later asks if I am Francesca, Christines daughter. I don't know what the right answer is. No, I don't think I am. In fact, no, I'm not.
My mum doesn't have a daughter anymore. I do not exist, and shes made it her mission to erase me.
My father comes over, hugs me, says hello to Sarah, thanks us for coming. I'm grateful. It gives me some credibility to be there.
I ask if he is ok, he says hes fine. Then goes to greet other people.
I want to go to the graveyard but see there is no way I would be welcome, so like the snake I am, I slither away. Back to the car.
Still, I don't cry. I barely talk. Sarah tries to engage me. Whats the point.
We drive to where the drinks and buffet are, now it's another test.
Where does Judas sit? With the disciples? Or cast out on a table far far away?
I chose far away.
For safety.
For fear of it being misinterpreted if I sit in the for-ore of people.
My brother comes and sits with us, brave, stupid, he will pay for his choice later.
He's lovely, and kind, he jokes about how awkward it is.
I sit here looking around the room and a terrifying thought enters my head.
This is exactly why I loved drugs.
This is exactly why I loved lies.
This is exactly why I loved being a total fucking fake.
Because to sit here and be myself, and feel ok with that, is IMPOSSIBLE.
I feel hated. I hate myself. I feel like I'm stood in the crown court again.
It makes me feel sick.
But I smile on.
Drinking my wine.
Trying not to reach for Sarah, I keep forgetting.
On and on it goes, the occasional acknowledgement.
A lady asks Sarah at the bar "Are you Francesca?"
Sarah says no, and that I'm sat over at the back.
The lady tells her she wants to meet Francesca, as my grandma spoke about me all the time.
Its the best part of my day.
So I did exist to someone,
I was right to come.
And what I wrote on my flowers for her funeral day couldn't have been more true.
I go to the bar, ask my father if he wants a drink, he looks like shit, drained, tired, sad.
I buy a pint of bitter for my uncle, who hugs me once again.
He and a few obscure family members ask me to sit with them, so Sarah and I move from the outskirts into the centre.
I warn them they are making a mistake.
That they shouldn't sit with me.
And I'm right,
My mother grabs one of them at the bar
"Don't be taken in by Francesca," she laughs whilst looking at me.
"She's a decietful little liar"
This is hear.
The rest is lost in the noise of the room.
"She's even brought her disgusting little lesbian friend"
I feel like I've been kicked in the stomach.
She hates me so much.
The table of people I was sat with, diminishes one by one, and they leave me, to sit with her.
And then it's Sarah and me.
Again,
I have lied, I have cheated, I have stolen, I have broken, I have been the biggest bitch in the world.
I have wreaked havoc on my life and the lives of the people I love most.
I have broken hearts.
I have.
I live with that, every day.
I lived with that in a court room. On probation. In rehab.
I know what I once was.
I know why I was that way.
There in lies my frustration.
None of it is me anymore. It never really was.
I have a good soul, I am a good person.
So why do I hate myself so so much today?
I woke up at 4am, short of breath, sticky eyes.
I lay there. In my lovely bed with my beautiful Sarah, and for the first time in years, I wanted to get out.
I wanted to put on my shoes and just walk, run, scream, cry.
Do I not get this?
Do I live in limbo for the rest of my life?
Do I watch the people I love live and then die?
And never ever get the chance to grieve? To mourn?
To feel?
We drove, so fast, away from that place.
To the graveyard.
The sun was setting, it was beautiful.
I walked through the mud in an incredible pair of high heels, I stomped, to find her grave.
It's not like anyone would tell me where it was even if I have asked.
There were several mounds of dirt, many people were buried and lost today.
I half wish I was one of them, my heart hurts. I don't know how I will overcome this feeling.
I find her mound of dirt.
Patricia Anastasia Barker.
It's strange, theres flowers on her soil, and a little space, and my flowers fit so perfectly, its like it was meant to be.
I ask Sarah to give me some time, and I stand in the soil and the mud, with no shoes on, talking to a newly buried grave. A piece of wood with a shiny plaque.
I stand there and I talk.
I tell her whats happened today, and I tell her I'm glad I came, that I wouldn't have missed it for the world.
I tell her I'm sorry.
I tell her I love her,
And that no-one will understand.
That because of who I am, and what I have done, it seems I'm not supposed to feel this way about her.
I'm not entitled.
Entitled is the word I use.
If she were alive she would have told me off.
If she were alive she would have shot my mum down after her first words of hate, whether justified or not.
I laugh and tell her about my Aunty's ironic speech in church, I tell her about the concept of forgiveness in her precious faith, and that it doesn't ring true.
That I don't believe it possible.
I tell her I've lost them, and that I won't be going to anyone elses funeral.
That they will all die, and it will come to nothing.
That I'll die, and no-one will come, no-one will mourn.
I have angry tears running down my face, self pity, what an ugly quality.
But I find myself believing it.
I once thought if I died, in death maybe they would mourn me.
So I tried to hurry the course.
I once thought if I was sick,
They would have to stand up and start to care.
None of it made a difference. In life and in death, I am Judas.
I don't quite no how to find my way back to who I was on Monday, on Tuesday, on Wednesday.
Because I'm saturated with absolute self hate.
I feel sick.
That I can make a room full of people who are supposed to love me, turn to hate, and loathe, and I don't know how to fix it.
I know who I am, I do.
I am Francesca Barker the girl who began to exist and understand at 25.
I am Francesca Barker, set to marry my incredible Sarah, the poor girl.
If yesterday shows me anything it is that I am proud, of who I am, somehow.
I introduced Sarah to my Aunty as my partner yesterday.
I have hidden that part of me from my family all my life.
It was liberating,
I was proud. Because she loves me. And I am blessed, I am grateful.
So maybe thats the answer, I can't be a Barker anymore. They don't want me and I'm not sure I want them.
A Barker-Mills perhaps, we will build something great from the ashes of my past.
And hope to hell no-one else tries to set me on fire.
If I don't hold the torch myself.
