It's the most wondeful time of the year

Or is it?

Christmas for me is a very tense and turbulent time.
It invokes a barrage of emotion that is more often than not, very, very difficult to manage, let alone cope with.

Christmas has always been a strange emotional river flowing through my life, growing up it was a time of tradition and truly a time of the great pretenders, where no matter what dramas were unfolding behind the scenes, what disappoints I was laying at my parents door, we bit our lips, wrapped our presents, donned of Dolce's and carried on regardless.
We were the true and original "Keep calm and carry on,"

It was a few days that mimicked pantomime season, Christmas Eve, the running of the gauntlet, drinks parties with people who you only saw once a year and didn't particularly care for, the vacuous, meaningless conversation always laden with great expectation. It was a time you would have your 'top trumps' style attributes and achievements ready to hedge your bets that you had done better this year than last, and that you were excelling in beauty, grace and brains over the children of your parents friends. It was like the Hunger Games with canapes and champagne.

Garish outfits, flashing earnings, shiny handbags, women with more lipstick on their teeth than on their lips, at a parties like these, it was entirely likely the women were eating their lipsticks in the bathroom as opposed to the blini's for fear of getting fat over the Christmas period.
Christine, you're a size 14 love, that smoked salmon and crème fraiche isn't going to open the floodgates, it the 40,000 lunches of 2005 that have lead you here.

From one to the next, with the argument as to who had drank what and therefore who should have been behind the wheel - it always amazes me, now, as a grown woman, the sheer lack of care and consideration, getting in a car, with your entire family, having had one too many glasses of fizz and knowingly heading onward. Especially at Christmas. A las, I lived to tell the tale, so I'll count my blessings accordingly.

There was of course one Christmas where I so rudely interrupted this Christmas tradition, and it's a huge factor of why I struggle at this time of year, to pull my mental health in line and move forward in a positive way. I thought it would get easier over time, but actually, it gets harder. The longer Sarah and I are together, the closer we get to starting our own family, and Christmas time of 2006 has somewhat marred that for me.

I was supposed to go home for Christmas in 2006, to embark upon the family frolics. I couldn't. I was laid up in Bronglais hospital, something my family didn't know about.
You see, on December 21st, I checked into the hospital for what was supposed to be a straight forward day job, to evacuate my life of the evil that had been left behind post-rape in October 2006. To say I was ready, was the understatement of the century, but the sheer horror of that man, clung to my body like a snake and duly tried to kill me in the process. Twice.
Once upon the fateful night and then again, when trying to rid myself of him altogether.

How do you tell your parents you can't come home for Christmas because you've found yourself recovering from a botched abortion? As an out and proud and "deal with it," gay girl, it wasn't something I was willing to give up.

Our family doctor, a family friend, he seemed the most logical to seek advice from. I called him and told him what had happened - surgery, not rape! and asked that if I did go home, at some point, would I be well enough, but really what I wanted to know, was could I pass myself off as fit and well so no questioned would be asked. He told me no, and that I was best telling my parents about it all. I told him that wasn't an option and decided to recooperate and head back at the earliest possible chance to avoid excessive questioning.

It was too late. Our doctor had called my father, a good friend of his, and shared all of the nitty gritty, where I was, why I was, and what to expect when I returned home to Manchester.
Cue phone call from irate father, I was a slut, I was incomprehensible, how could I? And then to lie lie lie? And what of this dyke business? Surely not if I was dropping my knickers for all the boys too.
I didn't know what to say, so I gave in, I agreed with him, it was easier than actually explaining that a 6ft something Nigerian man had attacked me just a few months before, because honestly, what I would have needed was love, support, holding, reassuring and there was no way, NO WAY in any version of me sharing that information I would have got the response I needed.

So I was a slut, who had a one night stand, with a nameless boy, and got up the duff. Class act. One wonders why my parents hate me so, and I can't help but think this has played its part.

Cue phone call from my mother, she was so angry. At my lack of morals, decency, safe sex, and then the true horror of my actions - the abortion. She told me I was selfish. How dare I be so flippant and do something that suited me when there were women crying out for the chance to have a child. I know she was angry and jealous, because I had thrown away something she so desperately wanted, but would she really have wanted me to keep a child born of such horrors? It was never an option for me. I look at my life now, at the age of 31 and to think I could have a 12 year old child baffles me. I know in my heart I would not have the capacity to love in that instance, so was I selfish? Yes. Do I regret it? Never.

That Christmas was the most painful I've had being with my family, and being the jezebel and the whore, when I was anything but. Even now, my father of course, knows the truth, he heard it from a solicitor in my mitigation for court, what a joy, to find out you have brutalised your daughter for something that you never knew the truth of.
I hope, I do, he lies awake at night and feels terrible, that despite all my flaws, in my time of absolute need, he wasn't there.

The laugh is, upon leaving court, he said, whilst looking me dead in the eyes "I think nows the time you just leave it behind and get over it, new start," and with that, I walked away in the opposite direction.

I've spent 12 years "getting over it" but when Christmas swings round, year on year, it creeps into my mind and I feel dirty, I feel hurt, I feel alone, I feel angry and I don't know what to do with myself.

Christmas 2010, the real clincher.
The one that tipped me well and truly over the edge.
A storm was brewing, I was back in Manchester full time, my mum didn't like that, she had grown accustomed to me and my sagas being at a safe distance, she hadn't quite wrapped her head around the whole homeless prostitute in London business and therefore couldn't quite fathom I had returned to the North to build bridges, get a job, have a roof over my head. I had made enough money to be able to do that. When needs must, you do what you have to do. I have no shame surrounding it anymore. It was entrepreneurial at a time of need, I was always in control, it was my choice to make and it empowered me in a way that was taken from me all those years ago.

Christmas Eve morning, mid-Christmas wrapping, a phone call
"Your father and I have decided it is best you don't come back for Christmas, so, don't, you're not welcome here, that's all there is to it,"
Phone down. Engraved in my memory.

I think I broke, in that second, something snapped.
I spoke to myself, in my flat
"Ok mummy, that's fine, no problem" I said, to no-one, the line was already dead.

I stood up and abandoned my half wrapped gifts and took myself into Manchester. Marks and Spencer's, I needed turkey if I was to be spending Christmas alone.
So I did a trolley dash, the whole sha-bang, Christmas extravaganza, this was a time of means and money, so I hit it hard.
Trolley full, booze and food, back to my halls I went.
I drank. I cried. I drank some more. I finished wrapping my presents.

Christmas morning 2010, I awoke, alone, in my single bed, to the dim lights on my £1 emergency Christmas tree and put on the television. Christmas tradition in the Barker house is always the same, wake up - bucks fizz, smoked salmon and eggs, presents, and then dress to impress.

Glass in hand, salmon half eaten, The Grinch now on the television in the background, I began to talk to myself.

"What presents have we got then?"
"Oh my, just what I wanted, Elizabeth I on dvd, how did you know? Oh, and Fival goes West,"

- these were the gifts I had bought my family, knowing they would love them, I had wrapped them the night before and duly opened them, as my own, with a running dialogue of insanity.

I cooked my Christmas dinner, ate it alone, in abject silence, even going as far as to pull my own cracker and wear my hat, laugh at the joke and sigh at the shit gift inside.

3 bottles of Marks and Sparks Kir Royale, and a bottle of Bucks Fizz I was 3 sheets to the wind.
A house party invitation from people I didn't particularly like, but hey, it was better than being alone all day right?

I took along a sterdy pack of strongbow and drank the lot. I don't remember getting home.
I sat cross legged in the middle of my kitchen surrounded by silver medication packs and began to eat. And drink. And eat. And drink.

I lost my mind, smashed up the flat, smashed my phone, and then passed out in a puddle of purple sick.
The next thing I remember was waking up in the hospital. The halls of residence maintenance man had heard my racket and found me lying unconscious covered in vomit. Merry Christmas to that man. He had physically carried me into the A&E department which was walking distance from the halls and saved my life.
Bastard.

At least I thought so when I opened my eyes on boxing day. Unimpressed.
But seeing as though I wasn't dead, I decided I would be better off in my little flat than I would in the hospital and duly disappeared, the hospital called the police and I was swiftly back in my bed on the ward. After much theatrics and promises, and absolute lies, I convinced the psych doctor and the doctor doctor that it was a moment of sadness, madness and should I feel not myself, I would come right back, but that I would much rather recover, with my broken stomach, at home.
They relented, I won.

The 28th December 2010, I'm allowed home and for some reason, all I can think about is the girl I've been messing around with. She had been trying to get in touch with me, when I turned on my mangled phone, she was full of Merry Christmasses and lovely messages and I wondered if my sane brain had seen those, would I have been so stupid?

Impulsively and in a state of desperation to see another human face that might want to see mine, I invited her over, for nothing more than films and a cuddle, the original Netflix and chill.
She jumped at the chance, and was in my arms within hours. I told her I wasn't feeling too great, and had had a bit of turn over Christmas and she commenced operation "make Fran better,"
She didn't know. She just cared. For the girl she had got to know. Who made her laugh. I didn't really want her to change that view, and see me as some drama laden nut job.
- of course she knows that now! 8 years on.

She tucked me up in my little bed, and lay next to me, while I slept.
Strange intimacy for two people who were supposed to just be casual.
We weren't supposed to fall in love. But she saved me. She always bloody saves me.

Christmas for the past 8 years, have been the best of my life.
Hard, impossibly hard, but to wake up in the arms of someone you truly adore and who loves you no matter who you are, what you've done, or who you were before, its true love, and liberation.

I still have deeply ingrained Christmas traditions, but not because they are Barker-isms, but because they are part of who I am, and they are what makes me happy, and I love that I get to share them with Sarah.

I want is to be the most wonderful time of the year, and perhaps it will be, its certainly moving towards a more positive place.

I suppose the point of this blog, is that Christmas isn't the most wonderful time of the year for some, its lonely, and thought provoking and it can invoke negative behaviours and immense anxiety and depression, so take care of your friends and your family.

One thing I have learned this Christmas is that without a shadow of a doubt, I know who is worthy of experiencing and living 2019 with me and who most certainly is not.

Positives over negatives my friend.
And breathe

Connie's dead

"Connie, you know Connie, Connie, Connie, from upstairs?"

And so goes the classic Peter Kay joke when discussing the death of a random old lady.

- It occurred to me, having seen some photos on social media, that I had not seen my Nana's little face pop up for a while. Don't get me wrong, that's no bad thing, I tend to avoid photographic evidence of a family that lives on without me, or in-spite of me like the plague and yet - I couldn't help but notice she was noticeably absent from some major events recently.

Surely she's not dead, I thought. Someone would have told me if she had died right? Even my family are not that twisted and we are not so Neanderthal in our approach to one another that even death becomes a conversation too far.

And yet, upon asking the question to my father - no reply (that was two weeks ago) and asking my brother, who did, to his credit (cue Sarah laughing out loud upon reading that phrase) tell me the truth, I can't help but wonder. Who's next? Or actually, who's dead?

It becomes quite a state of awe when you realise you've sent the words "Did Nana die?" and they are met with abject silence.

Truth be told, and in fear of sounding cold-hearted, whether she is alive or dead makes no difference to my life, I haven't seen the woman for over a decade, being that she is indeed my mother's mother, it would be like conversing with the mother of all dragons and we are not talking a rather dashing Khaleesi here!

It's the principle.
Surely we have moral decency among families, no matter how sparse and severed, to share such details?
I suppose the reason this stings me so, is because I'm all too aware that whoever is next in line for the coffin, won't make it into my call log - because people will wither and die, and I won't even get to send a condolences card, let alone go to a church and mourn. Perhaps mourn is too strong a word, I never like the woman, the first time I ever met her she reminded me of the scary old ladies from Roahl Dahl's 'The Witches' and I pulled on my mothers sleeve and as she crouched down to hear me, I said with childish honesty - "I don't think I like her,"

The point is, I don't know how many family members, family friends, people who I grew up with, have perished. I just don't know. Do I have a right to? I would say so?

If these are people I have not seen for nearly a decade, and who have chosen to not see me out of allegiance with my parents and our disintegration then perhaps they are already dead to me. That's a rather stark way of looking at things (Game of Thrones references all over the shop today kids)
but in reality, these are people who I grew up with, who came to my 4th birthday, celebrating my 18th birthday, my 21st, my graduation, who had farewell drinks when I left for London, who had welcome home drinks when I returned from Spain and yet, when my life nose dived into oblivion and I ended up in the crown court, miraculously, every Tom, Dick and Harry had disappeared altogether.
One must not associate with the black sheep of the Barker clan.

This is a strong hark back to my grandmother dying a few years ago - of which I had a lot of time for, as did Sarah. Sure, she was a slightly aggressive Roman Catholic, with undecided homophobic tendancies but what self assured 80 something scouse Irish everton fan doesn't??

I think what sits poorly with me is that I have no doubt there will have been people sworn to secrecy - in a "don't you dare tell Francesca," kind of way. My mother will have had the final say - and to a certain extent that is fair - it's her right, as a grieving daughter (I'm assuming my mother does grieve but I would have to believe it to see it, the ice queen rarely melts)

So what happens when she **touch wood** dies? Do I get to know? Or will she have been dead and cold and buried somewhere I will never know to find her? I realise how mad I must sound, that I would actually want to mourn a woman who has probably caused me more pain than anything else (I'm sure she feels the same, my pain is not exclusive)
But I love her, I've always loved her, and when the time comes and she leaves this place, what will I do?
I say to Sarah often, my greatest fear is that the people I love will fade and die and that I will have no power to care, support or eventually mourn.

At my Grandma's funeral, there were two benches with placards on that said "reserved for family" - I decided not to cause provocation and chose to sit two rows behind the family pews. Even that wasn't enough to avoid an explosive episode of hate from my mother (who had no time or care for my grandmother so the fact she dared utter as such in her very church made my blood boil)
She miraculously made it all about her, and yet somehow I was demonised for being deliberately provactive and malicious by my very presence, that should I have been a decent person, which I am clearly not, I would have had the good grace to stay away.

Utter madness.
And not something my grandma would have stood for to be quite frank.

Now the fact that my Nana has been dead for several months and no-one decided to tell me, despite being in sporadic communication with two members of my family, is somewhat baffling to me.

What a strange thing.
I always ask my father on the phone, "how's mummy?" and he always gives a generic reply of "busy, working in London, working here, there, changing the world" the usual life affirming spiel of super star Barker.
He never asks how I am, Sarah, Sarah's family, but that has very much become part of the course. I think we go through the motions with eachother, so that I know he is alive and he knows I am, for fear of having to pay for my funeral I'm sure.
Cardboard box and the local tip for this one.

Much to Sarah's disapproval, I have this strange flight of fancy within my mind that when the day comes, that my parents are aged and need help, regardless of circumstance, I will give that help where I can.
If it means finding a retirement home that's not a hovel and forking out the hypothetical pennies Sarah and I collect as we grow older, then all the better.
If I have to heave my mothers rather large arse into a reclining chair, whilst serving up a Wilture Farm Foods ready meal with Heartbeat re-runs on the TV, then that's what I will do.
What a bizarre feeling of necessity, dedication and obligation.
I have been in hospitals and jail cells, and they would sooner see me there. To suffer.

Death scares me, not me dying, of course not, I have stared that demon in the face a few times through my life and lived to tell the tale.
But people dying.
The lack of control.
The lack of resolution.

Life is too short for such bullshit.
We are here to care, to share and to grow.
I may have lived moments of selfishness and greed and absorption, but underneath it all, I'm a weirdly caring, over-emotional, selfless little creature.
A contrast in existence, my good self and my bad self coexist and occasionally drown one another out, I'm not shy to say, I wish the more predominant me was the good, but my pendulum of conscience swings so rapidly from one to the other, sometimes I just don't know.


But does it matter? In the grand scheme of things, I just want to know that the people I love, and have come to care for, whether it be past, present or future - are safe, secure, stable and alive.
It's not too much to ask is it?

Are you proud?

Now then Manchester, it's very rare I get my riot gear wording out for a good old fashioned rant, but my goodness, behave yourselves.

I am a proud gay woman, I am happy with who I am and how I live my life, and it's taken me a long time to understand that being me is OK, and who I love, is just fine - but more than that, it's thanks to all that came before me, that I am able to be this contented, proud woman.

I am a strong woman, fierce in my choices, my career, my friendships and my loves, so forgive me if my cage is somewhat rattled by the sheer corporate monster that has become pride.

What was once stalwart pillars of the community, bound together, for a greater good and a brighter vision of equality and what a more accepting society could and would grow to be, fighting with voices and banners, with decency and pride, true pride, and honour and love, tell me, please, what has your rainbow cocktail got to do with the LGBT movement, the growth and the future?

Do your cocktails and t-shirts, and painted highways and pavements bring the change and the justice and the inspiration to the generations who fought for a day of safety and acceptance?
Or do they line your pockets under false pretences? Tell me, what donation to the Stonewall charity are you making from the megabucks you pull in this pride weekend in our fair city of equality and truth?
What true gesture will you make to the LGBT community? Will you share in the great works of the LGBT foundation with the money that will laden your pockets with rainbow pride?

The final straw for me today, was a previous employer, a homophobic ass, truly the most short sighted of human's I've had the displeasure of working with, had their business shout on social media how excited they were about this weekend's pride event.
- This, a place where I was called a "big dyke,"
Oh I'm sure your rainbow flags are flying high in true love and appreciation for the LGBT community, and I'm sure you are proud, as we are proud, to live and work in a city so accepting and hopeful.
When you're shaking your cocktails and serving the lovely dykes of the north, just like me, do remember your kind words of support, when you're cashing up on Monday night, with pound signs in your eyes, remember the Stonewall Riots, remember the city of Alan Turing, remember why you decided to share your lovely promotion - for pride right?

I would love to see rainbow pavements all year long, I would. I would love the constant reminder for all who seem to have forgotten what gay pride is all about.
Don't get me wrong, I'm all for a pint or ten with the girls, shaking me tail feather to Pixie Lott or whoevers hot this year and I've been known to have a debauch night or two over a pride weekend - testament to the very fact that I can. I can go out, I can feel safe, kiss a girl in public, without fear or dread; mostly.
I can be around my peers and involved in my community and feel absolute love for the bravery, honesty and kindness that is the heart and soul of the LGBT community. I am blessed. I am thankful.
For all that came before. To live as we live now.

But don't ask me to sell my soul to a corporate giant who couldn't give a fuck if I was a proud gay woman celebrating liberty and love, I could be a pink elephant for all they care.

I don't want to buy a rainbow t-shirt, bandana, bracelet, shoe laces, eat a rainbow cake, with a multi-coloured pancake, a rainbow milkshake, a cocktail - with a bright pink umbrella in the name of pride. In the name of pounds. Sure.

Let's talk about Sarah

More often than not, you will see me referecing my other half, but as the turbulent stories of my life take centre stage, she often sits quietly in the background, outside of all the noise.

Sitting outside of the chaos, she's often the first person to tell me when I'm wrong, to help me see a poor choice or decision, and as history shows us - I more often than not, don't listen and plough on regardless.

This morning, she woke up, looking beautiful, I sneaked a peek at her little sleeping face just before she opened her eyes and had one of those appreciative sixty seconds of happiness, of silence, of grateful understanding.
Then I got her morning "mole eyes" (it's what we call her sleepy face, she opens her eyes and looks like a little mole whos just seen sunlight and decided it prefers the dark) adorable as opposed to gnarly little beasties I assure you! (although I think moles are pretty darn cute)

She got up, and stomped around the bedroom as she often does when she is up first, like a baby elephant searching for shoes, bra's, whatever it may be.
She's searching for bits and bobs to pack an overnight bag as she's off to a conference, and for some reason, this morning she is anxious.

The tumble drier is rattling away because she wants a specific pair of socks, this sort of tunnel vision focus is something she has picked up from me, I'm sure of it.
When I'm anxious, I have a specific mind, I plan and prep and nothing gets in the way. Apart from me.

Dressed in cute corporate looking suit shorts, and a little floaty, sleevless top, with her perfect tan poking out in all the right places, shapely arms, thighs, she's always had a hot bod, I'm a lucky girl. No doubt about that!
She still looks nervous.
Why?
She is beautiful, smart, driven, kind, and fluid in a way that she rolls with what life throws our way, very rarely ruffling her feathers and being stolwart of sensibility and rationale.

I tell her so. She smiles. And makes coffee.
Particularly excited about our bargain buy of some snazzy Lavazza that we picked up for £1.62 in Tesco this weekend.
She is an odd one.

Hates instant coffee, likes Guatemalen, Columbian and her favourite is Nicuraguan.
We had a pretty phenomenal cup of Nicuraguan coffee in a little town called Tewksbury a few years ago in a little coffee shop with a glass front, laden with cakes and bread, it was quirky and cute and we talked about bread. How it would be great to have a little shop where we could bake and make and sell bread.
If we had known what the reality of that actually meant, we would have left that fantasy in the coffee shop that day and run 100 miles in the opposite direction.

When we met, she took her coffee with lots of milk and sugar. She's evolved. We both have. Perhaps it's the hilarious evolution of growing up, where coffee becomes a part of necessary life, you really do turn into the stereotype of needing it before you can start your day. It's part of our routine.
We get up, we make coffee, always proper, if we are leisurely Sunday sipping, we get the 'wazzer' out (how Jamie Oliver with our coloquielism) and theres even warmed, frothy milk to accompany a strong americano.
If anything we have turned into my father, which is truly horrific. A man who once gave Sarah a coffee order and I quote
"Americano, extra shot, no milk, just foam, floated across the top"
This was at a Costa coffee in Altrincham where he waved a £20 note in her face like she was the server and sent her to get drinks whilst we sat and pretending to give a shit about one anothers lives for the twenty minutes he had assigned me.

Sarah being Sarah, laughed, took the £20 ordered a fucking Americano, basic, with some milk in it. The pretentious twat.
Drank his coffee, said his goodbyes, and that was our annual touching of the base, checking we are both alive and going on our way.

The second time Sarah had coffee with my father was a take-out Carluccios (favourite) on the way to my Crown Court sentencing, so a fairly tense affair.
My father and his barrister friend had decided to turn up and show some support / watch the black sheep get sent down, still unsure as to which it actually was.
They strode into the Carluccios, ordered a round of coffees and then marched across Crown square to the court, as I sent Sarah off to another coffee shop to await the outcome. A strange thing to do in retrospect.

I never let Sarah in on any of the court stuff, through shame, through fear, that she would see me as a monster and run for the hills. That if she knew I could be such a poor verision of myself she wouldn't, couldn't love me, who would?
So I blocked her from it all, including my court hearing, the day I fully anticipated being sent to jail, I kissed her, sent her on her way and left it to my father to text whether it was good or bad news.
He did, and I think it's the only text he's ever sent her.
Something along the lines of "no prison, KCB" profound.

My shitty relationship with my family never phases her, she doesn't feel like she's missing out on something, that there are Sunday lunches and brunches that she mourns dearly.
My father is always rude, arrogant and self centred when he see's her. She once almost slapped him over a hospital bed, when he decided chocolate pudding was a poor choice for a fat girl who had just had an apendectomy. Sarah lets me eat cake. Probably too much!

On the flip side, Sarah's mum is my heart and soul, just as much as she is herself.
When I see the kindness, alturism and hopefullness in Sarah, it's Val, shining through.
She see's the best in everyone, even when she shouldn't.

The reason I'm writing this accolade is because this morning I was dumbfounded by an air of insecurity, I know she's not invicible, even though she's spent the last 7 years being just that, but she is incredible.
So mole eyes and anxious faces, go away.
I text her this morning when she left "You will be amazing, because you are amazing <3 You have limitless potential my love xxx"
Never a truer word was said - and coming from me, TAKE IT!

The crazy woman wants to marry me, after all this time, after all this horror. There has been happiness. We are eachother happiness, underneath it all.
I think I'm selfish for keeping her, because no-one should really withstand this shitstorms that I have brought upon us, but she stands tall, holding my hand, championing me because she see's greatness, kindness and a future.

She is the best part of me, the biggest part of my heart, and I have no doubt she will change the world in any way she sets her mind too.

She is so clever, sometimes it catches me off guard. We are geeks together, and we thrash out political concepts, talk about the metaphyics of ideology, we philosphise over Brexit and wonder how, why, when, where will it take us and how did it happen.
She teaches me about evolution, and tells me snippets of facts that I remember and repeat. She taught me about the DNA sequencing of fruit flies and why they are so important even when I find them irritating and gross.
She teaches me about what she does at work, the mechanics of PCR and molecular biology, the scary things in the world - which means you should definitely take your frozen sweetcorn back to Tesco.
She tries to learn Spanish when I sit down and teach her and somehow despite year's of trying, she still says "Soy con leche" when trying to ask for milk, terrifying potential waiters with her announcement of being with milk!
Her favourite word in all languages is apple, whether it be manzana, pomme de terre, or most recently learnt - elma.
I don't think I've ever seen her eat an apple abroad, so I think perhaps the book of knowledge needs expanding to at least beer, or ice cream, but it's a work in progress.

She sits and listens to my ramblings about society, politics, local economy, the justice system and how much I love Kylie.
About my fears of debt, of life, of the business crashing around us, she listens, she advises.
One thing she has tried to drill into me "it's the business that failed, not you,"
Which I don't take on and I don't believe because the business was me. Always.
The Barker Baker was built upon my shoulders - and so she continues with the sensibility - a business built upon the shoulders of someone who can't take the weight every day, only some days, who needs time to recover, rethink, rebuild, it was a business that could never sustain itself.
That investing in me isn't a mistake, but investing in me as a business and the foundation, well businesses fail every day and that it was the harshest lesson we will have to learn but we will.
 And then tells me to keep trying. Not to give up. I bake, I love, she eats, she remembers, and we secretly hope that The Barker Baker lives on so our children can be part of a journey we built for life.
We talked about creating something that would live forever, a bakery, a shop, a hope, that would be passed on, and in 100 years, our great grandchildren would reference their crazy lesbian grandparents who started from a market stall.
Perhaps thats not how the story progresses, but it's a story none the less.
I digress.

When people meet Sarah for the first time, they find her quiet, shy even. That's not whats ticking behind the eyes, its evaluation, its thoughtfulness, its caution. Sensibility.
But I can guarantee you will not meet anyone as deep, honest and true as this woman I call my own <3
You have helped me find the best version of myself. The kind, the hard working, motivated monster. I work hard, for you. I try harder for you, I want to be the best I can be, for you.
Because you deserve everything the world has to offer.

So Sarah, as I know you're a creep and will probably be the first to read this, as you are and have been for years now, my biggest and strongest fan.

There is nothing you can't do.
Even when life gets in your way.
You have achieved more than most people know.
And whilst your CV is shit hot and you shine wherever you are.
I know the strength you have and the potential you hold and I am so grateful that I get to be the one to see it all unfold over the next million decades we have together.

I want to grow old (older) and wrinkle with you, until my gargantuan bosoms touch the floor and for my 60th birthday you get me a titty life and tummy tuck for my birthday - it's a gift for both us.

I want to listen to every word you have to say, and remember it for as long as I can.

I want to hold your hand, on walks, in bed, in happiness, fear and hope.

I want to build a life with you, no matter how shaky the foundations.

Together, we can do anything and everything.
x

The Bonny Barker Girl

My mum once said to me "You know if you lost some weight, you would feel better about yourself and then you'd feel you could get a nice, good looking boyfriend,"

This was her rationalising me being gay. That I was gay because I was too fat and body-conscious to get a hunky man.

My reply was one that greeted her with shock, but to this day still brings a naughty and provactive smile to my face.
"Have you seen the women I date?" with a raised eyebrow. She seemed to think I was settling for women as some sort of contingency plan for unattractive chubby girls, that because I felt no good man would want me, I had hopped on the other bus.
- My parents views to sexuality have always been fairly alien to me, but their views on my weight, were something that left a much deeper scar.

I have always been big, "big boned" is the jovial remark family friends would often chortle whilst pinching an inch of belly fat, adorably chubby, the ever offensive bonny - I'm pretty, but fat. Thanks guys!

My relationship with food is one of an addict, and given my previous life as a drug addict, this is no surprise. I have an addictive personality, this is sometimes an excellent attritube, as I have grown older, I have learned to apply the negative aspects of my behaviour and turn them into positives.
Addicted to hard work and pushing for the latest milestone - thats a good thing. I don't burn out, I work harder than most I know, and I thrive off it.

Food for me is always something I can justify.
I'm sad - I eat, I treat, I need, I deserve.
I'm happy - I eat, I treat, I celebrate, I deserve.
I'm fat - I eat, I'm fat anyway, I need.
And on the cycle goes.

I was brought up seeing a fat girl in the mirror, which was reinforced with comments like
"Do you want to end up like the girls who have to shop in Evans and can't buy anything in Selfridges?"
To be fair, I had never seen inside of an Evans store until I did actually get to that size where I skulked round in my flat shoes looking for some work pants that might fit, but that was in my late twenties, not late teens.

I am someone who gets agitated very quickly if you tell me I can't. Not in a childish way, in a "let me prove you wrong" way. Eternally stubborn and always with something to prove.
Ok, maybe a little childish then.
When someone tells you that you can't be something, have something, dream something, you either accept it and sit in your self-pity land, or you challenge it and build on it.
This is where my unhealthy 'self-worth' comes from - it's not born out of pride, passion, happiness, I have always found it in the approval of others. Still. But that's changing.

I've had a tough few months in a job I thought was my dream, and it is, because I'm good at it, and I actually fought back the tide to realise - I am, I believe it, I know it, and it doesn't matter what anyone else says.
I didn't think I would find that self belief and it's ignited something.

The weight. It's a pinacle of a lot of things in my life.
If I can tackle my weight, it means I'm in control, but it means I care.

I never realised how little I cared about myself.
I truly just didn't care.
I think it was reflected to the outside world and thats a little sad, and in a world as shallow as we are now, I'm sure it will have shown the worst of me.

My mum got me makeup lessons for a birthday present in my teenage years because she didn't understand why I wasn't bothered about putting a face on, shes the kind of woman who says
"You don't even go for a loaf of bread without putting on your mascara and your lipstick"
Now, I'm not a pyjamas in Asda kind of girl either, but the thought of a bit of lippy to take the bins out is a foreign concept to me.

Never has Ru Paul ever been so true, and I feel like shouting it from the roof tops

I recently found a picture of a 13 year old me, and at the time, I was convinced I really was fat. The way my parents talked about my weight, they way they joked and made comments, I felt obese. Ironically, I never was. Never. But that is what I have become.
Look at this little body

I never felt enough, pretty enough, thin enough, clever enough. Enough.
But really, looking at that photo, I was all of those things. I was pretty, I was slim, and sure as hell clever.
I hit my milestones time and again, academically, physically, but mentally, I was all over the place and to that end, pretty hard work.

I went fat, thin, fat, thin. When I went to University, I let loose, drank what I want, ate what I want.
But it was always powered by something unhealthy - the need to please.

When it was my brothers 18th, I was at a size 16, the biggest I had been.
I knew my parents would be angry if I turned up looking like a shamu, so I jumped on the hottest detox of the time - the lemon and maple syrup diet.
I drank this gross liquid for the week before my brothers black tie birthday, the photo on the left below is me after the liquid diet, photo on the right below is before.
12lbs in 10 days. And lo' I fit into that beautiful Karen Millen dress and looked great.
I went back to Uni, a week later, I was a balloon monster again. But I was OK with that, it was easier!

It really is a beautiful dress. And look! Make-up!


Where as cider drinking, no make-up wearing, living the life of the lesbian off the leash in sunny Aberystwyth, quite a different visage! (getting all my RuPaul references in today!)

Being a closet gay, from 15, despite coming out at 15, I quickly got back in the closet once I realised it wasn't safe to be outside of it.
In my family, the sterotypical denial period of a confused parent assuming their child is going through "a phase" was something that wasn't so much an endearing lack of understanding; it was a "you're going through a phase" which loosely translated meant - this strange and childish rebellion designed to agitate and antagonise us has a shelf life and we will tolerate it momentarily in an aggressive, disappointed and disapproving way that will emphasise this is an unacceptable lifestyle choice and it's time to grow up.
So coming out at 15, really meant, having secret girlfriends and sneaking off to canal street to live the life of a happy little gay and lie to my parents about where I was and who I was.
It's a strange resentment I've harboured towards them all these years - my fathers constant criticism of my life and our daddy daughter breakdown is that I never told him the truth, that I always had a secret life and that he didn't know who I was.
UMM.... I didn't have much choice, it was live a secret life from teenage years or never get to have a flicker of the life I wanted.
He once paid for a private detective to find out what I was doing with my weekends whilst at 6th form, I would tell them I was at a boyfriends, or a friends house, and more than likely I was kissing pretty girls in gay bars and drinking Smirnoff Ice; which was duly proven when he pulled me up with his 'proof' - which is weirder? Lying to your parents at 16 about going to gay bars or your parents paying someone to follow you and prove it?
- that would be the eptiomy of who we were and what our relationship was. I could never tell them because they would hate me and disown me and make me feel disgusting and wrong, all of which were part and parcel of my life when I was part of theirs, or I could lie to them and protect myself from their judgement and protect them from a world they didn't want to be a part of.

I think about Sarah in times like this, shes kind and beautiful and so strong. She brings out the best in me, even when its hard to find. They are missing out on so much.
But in reality, shes too good for them. The kindness, the heart and the purpose, they don't deserve a second of her time.
My mother has never met her, never said a word to her, not a hello, not a how are you. She has only uttered under her breath at a family funeral that Sarah was my "disgusting little lesbian friend,"

- Well for one, bisexual mother. And for two, not friend, BEST friend, of 7 years, the longest and most rewarding relationship I have ever been in, my relationship with Sarah has had more meaning and love that my relationship with the Barkers ever did or ever could. She is someone I will grow old with and love for years to come, despite it all. She loves me at my worst, the good, the bad and the ugly.
AND the fat.

She worries about me, about my health, its been turbulent to say the least, and the fact I'm alive at 30 is a miracle and somehow I don't treat it as one.
We want babies, that's not something that's on the cards for me without another miracle and a lot of hard work. To at least be healthy would give us a fighting chance.

I follow these positive affirmation and postive body image hashtags on Instagram and I wonder, are these women happy? It's something I've never been able to understand because of the way I have been brought up and the opinions I have formed over time. I was brought up in a very shallow and vacuous environment where image was everything and personality was nothing, not really. Interesting people are only interesting if they make alot of money and wear alot of designer gear!
That lovely tiffany diamond is a real talking point, who give a fuck about Brexit?
Conservative party politics? Only if we are taking off-shore tax havens and wondering what all this talk of food banks is about when humus has never been so cheap in Waitrose?

I think my lack of self worth is something that is rooted deep within me, and it rears its ugly head in a variety of ways. When I was a teenager, I was looking for love in all the wrong places, finding validations of who I am in other people, which was never going to work.
Then in my twenties, it was addiction, which was a beautiful blur of not having to give a fuck and if I did start to care, it was a distored drug addled self image of indestructability. Also, coke was an excellent diet aid, always high and therefore not really eating.
A family member once said "At least when you were on the coke you were thin!"
Which again compounds the way the people I surrounded myself with really feel : who cares if you were a druggie, you were thin. And you looked rich, because you were spending lots of money and buying all the drugs - hear no evil, see no evil or however it goes.

So as I type at a sizeable size 18, with gargantoun breasts at a 38G, I'm all too aware that I have let this lack of self care go too far this time.
Having a chubby rebellion and getting fat to piss my parents off, well that should have ended ten years ago. Continuing the chubby rebellion upon realising they wouldn't love me fat or thin, well that really really should have ended a long time ago too.

So why do I do it to myself?
I came to a very simple conclusion.
It's self harm.
Gone are my days of sitting in doctos offices with long sleeves tops on lying about the last time I took a razor blade to my skin and scoffing at their suggestion of a rubber band twanging as a viable replacement.
At 30, I reflect.
Why did I do that? Why cut? The classic control? The need to feel something? Yes. Both of those. But in reality, it was a body I didn't want, I didn't like, and wanted to punish for not being what I needed no matter what I did to change it.
Gone are the razors, and now its cake, its booze, its carbs aplenty and its abuse.

I eat and I get fat. And I hate how I look.
And I eat more, because I feel too far gone to be anything better than this.
And then I purge, I don't eat, I drink energy drinks and I work out excessively and loose weight, quickly. I look better. I feel better. But it's unsustainable and then I go off the deep end with each pound that creeps back on and the cycle begins again.
With the added extra of failure syndrome. This is who I am. I give up. I am useless. I am worthless.
Fat. And worthless.

I spend days in bed, watching netflix, with a hairy fucking face, eyebrows the Wolverine might have something to say about, I won't even discuss the legs! Bigfoot may be one of my lost siblings?
I order takeout, even though I can't afford it, it comes to the door, and sometimes, if I've ordered too much, I'll pretend it's for two people when I open the door. It's not.

When I was teenager, my mum used to count the chocolate biscuits in the biscuit barrell, because she knew if I got at them, I'd eat half a pack. Now, bearing in mind, I was a pretty little size 12, with 34E knockers back then, that wouldn't be a fate worse than death.
But it was the shaming in front of people that I couldn't deal with.
"Francesca, how many chocolate hobnobs did you eat today?"
Brain panics, the right answer is 7, the answer I give is "3"
Quick response from the lawyer "There were 11 in there this morning and now theres 4, so who ate the others??"
CRAP. Busted.
So like the criminal master mind that I am, I got wise to this counting of the biscuits trick.
If I want to smash through a packet of hobnobs without judgement and humiliation I am dam well going to, and THEN, I am going to walk 1 mile to the local shop, buy a replacement packet, eat the amount that is acceptable to the count and put those biscuits back in the biscuit barrel.
HA! I beat the system. And I got exercise ;) Winning.

This is my unhealthy attitude towards food.
When I was adopted, I used to steal food from the cupboards and the fridge and hide it all around my bedroom.
My mum would smell mouldy food and go on the hunt, find blackened bananas and unidentified objects in drawers and under beds. She would scream and shout and call me "slovenly" and a "slut" which as I grew up used to make me laugh because I thought she had misunderstood, actually she was right the defition for slut is not as we think!

I never changed my behaviour, because of how I was born, and the early years of my life, were years without food, or a guaranteed meal, and the need to save myself and my brother, scavenging became a way of life. It was sensible and proactive.
I did it at 4, I did it at 14, I never changed. The way my relationship disintegrated over time with my parents, my childlike safety mechanism was always to protect from being abandoned - I wasn't far wrong, as thats exactly what happened.

So much so, I would collect like a magpie, loose change, I would pinch the money out of my dads money jar, and collect. Store away. I would sell my things, that I didn't think I needed and collect the money. I had a bag in my wardrobe hidden away with clothes, money, books and everything I needed to survive on my own.
I used that bag when I left home in my early twenties and ran away to London, when my secret stash of money ran out, I was homeless and lived like a street rat and a beggar and of course became a lady of the night.
It was essential. It was business. It was self preservation. And I don't feel shame about it anymore.
But it does play a poignant part in my body image saga.
Self worth = how much someone is willing to pay for you, and as it turned out, that was quite a lot!
Not a bad test of evaluating how much you value yourself.

Regardless.
It's 8:45 on a Monday evening, I am making dinner for Sarah and I, chicken breast and a small pasta salad on the side. Neither of us have eaten properly since breakfast, so all in all, its a good calorie in take today.
Tomorrow we will go on our first run of the week, with our last run being on Saturday morning and I have just signed up to join the local rowing team.

Once upon a time, I enjoyed exercise, because I was good at it, and I never expected to be.
I was always a chubby girl, I think, I'm not even sure anymore, I never engaged with sports particularly because my brother took point on that, I was the academic and he was the sportsman.
As it turned out, I was both.
I went from fat to fit, and was running at 6 miles a day, for pleasure.
I went from a size 14, to a size 10, and was pretty dam hot.
I didn't sustain it. I broke my ankle and never motivated myself to be that person again. As time went by, I got heavier, the pain of the ankle suffered under the weight and I found reasons not to be.

The most middle class sob story you will ever hear, I was once in Harrods with my mum, trying on a pair of DKNY jeans, they were beautiful. I was 15, they were a womens size 14.
I was mortified.
I was more mortified when I heard my mum say to the changing room attendant
"I know, she really is big, its embarassing really," and glanced the action that went with it.
She was like a bitchy year 10 girl, only she was my mother.
I was humilated. I cried in the changing room and told her I didn't like the trousers. We left.
A few days later, I went to go and see Kylie Minogue in concert, it was some sort of affirmation of how I was feeling - D&G white cargo pants with fluroscent lining - I wanted them. I wanted to be able to fit into them.
Then came the London marathon, I watched Paula Radcliffe smash it, and decided it was now or never. So I tucked my ta-ta's into a sports bra and went off for a waddle. A fast waddle. Faster.
And then I woke up and was running 6 miles a day before school, and loving it.
It was time to run, time to loose weight, to feel good, and time out of the house away from my family.
And me getting thin was making them happy.
I got my own back.
Changing room saga part two.
This time, Marbella. Zara.
"Can you pass me the size 10?"
"Don't be silly you'll never fit into a 10, I'll get you a 12"
- "pass me a size 10"
Svelt sexy ass slips into light denim size 10 zara jeans, laced them with the suede tie at the front, no overhang, no love handles, no chunky ass. Just a good looking, blonde, slim, cracking rack 16 year old me. This was the year my mother bought me a pink burberry bikini for my birthday thinking I would never fit into it. It was a trap that backfired, because it looked GREAT.
My parents have played a key role in how I view myself, my body, my sexuality. I have felt shame for both my entire life.
No more.


Size 18 Fran has been running and is LOVING it, I remember who I am, or who I was, and I like it.
I'm not the fit unhealthy beast I see before me, I have potential to be the fit healthy person I was, with that comes a future.
My fatty liver is a fast road to diabetes and a heart attack. My biological father died an early death of a heart attack (much deserved, and too good for him, but) a heart attack none the less.

I weigh 16 stone today, thats down from 17 stone and 5lbs in April 2018.
At my heaviest last year, I was 18 stone, not only is that disgustingly overweight, its also dangerous. Really dangerous.
Prepare yourself - and its taken a lot of bravery on my part to share this, but its mostly to benchmark a place in my life I will never go back to.
Last year on the left, this year on the right.

I know we all take our BMI with a pinch of salt, but shit got serious.
I'm 30. I look old. I feel old.
With the change of diet and exerise, I feel better. More awake. More focused.
I look less wrinkly!
I care more for myself, because I feel a little glimmer of pride.

We don't have to loose weight to conform to what other people want to see, we have to loose weight to live the lives we want, for as long as we want.
Its about healthier choices, not defying the politics and the media.



I am ok with who I am right now, working hard in my career, working hard for my mental health, my commitments, my health.
All are moving in the right direction.
I'm inspired at work, I love what I do and I am dam good at it, it drives me to want more and do more. I'm fierce.
I'm in love with a girl who adores me, no matter who or what I am, the silly bugger.
I'm safe, in a house, with a roof, with a fridge full of food and I don't have my escape bag packed anymore.
I'm learning to be better for myself and for those around me.
Most of all I am kind.
Kinder to myself.
Kinder to others.
And I'm ok.

I think, I've spent 30 years being a different version of myself like an ever changing chameleon based of love, friends and family and never taken the time to be me.
Fat, thin, gay, straight.
It doesn't really matter.

I am enough.
I have purpose and worth.
I deserve love.
I don't have to keep punishing myself.
Its ok, to just be ok.

So i'm going to keep on running, start my rowing, eat better, meditate, take my meds, pay my bills, pay my debts, sleep better, be kinder, be stronger, and be me <3

The chocolate monkey

I didn't do it.
For the first time in history (or at least as long as I have had a mobile phone; BT Cellnet Trium anybody?)

I didn't send the traditional "Happy Mother's Day," text message.

I fought the compulsion to do so all day yesterday, every time I clicked on my social media profiles, there was an abundance of happy families and lovely mother/daughter posts that made my silly little girl heart pang; but I fought it off.

Rule number one of 2018 for me was - LESS self-flagellating (why does that sound rude?)

It began with NYE, I didn't send the midnight text, which in turn means I didn't receive the "Fuck off" and a happy new year to you too Francesca response.

It's a strange thing; it seems me not texting my mother on what we deem significant occasions leaves me protected on the one level - ie. not opening up the world of hate and barrage of abuse I usually receive back; but also, as sad as it is, these torrents of text message tellings off are the only interaction I actually have with her these days so in reality, theres a big part of me thats missing the communication.

Christ on a cracker, its a sad day when you yearn for the "I don't want to know you," text message because it means she actually acknowledged your existence for all of 5 seconds.

I sat in wonder yesterday, where was she, what was she doing, was my brother wining and dining her in a restaurant so fancy, I couldn't afford to play the game even if I were part of it.
Was she having a nice day? Did she get a nice gift? Did she feel loved, appreciated?
I scoff as I type - yeah, because thats what Mrs Barker yearns for on Mothers Day and Christmas Day and birthdays - love. If you could see my raised eyebrow, that many of you know all too well, you'd understand my scepticism.

Last year I sent a card to her place of work, because I don't actually know where my parents live anymore.
I imagine it was intercepted by the bulldog who guards the pass who has come to recognise my handwriting over the past 20 years, many a welcome birthday card back then, and now its as if the devil had signed it himself.
It's more than likely, my cards of birthdays, mothers days and Christmases have added to the recycle bin than they have the mantelpiece.

The issue with these Hallmark occasions is that they remind me of one thing.
My mother will grow older, greyer and grumpier and she will die, and there is nothing I can do about it.
It's a traumatic thought for any child, but then I have the pleasure of adding on :-
If she did, would I even be told?
Would I get to go to the funeral?
Would I want to?
Would I be shunned and assumed the cause?
The stress, the toxicity, the ruin I brought upon the house of Barker?

Not that I overthink or anything but its one of the perks of my mental health issue - absolute anxiety of things I have no control over but somehow think I could, or should.

Sarah tends to tip toe around me on days like yesterday, she's worried it might be the thing that tips me from "I'm fine," a la Ross Gellar, to being really not fine.
Really not fine in a can't get out of bed, can't have a shower kind of way.

And when it got to midnight and I was still sat up in bed awake, I wondered whether I had missed the boat and should send a late text to say Happy Mothers Day, I felt this sudden rush of, oh my god its too late, and then minutes passed, I looked around my bedroom, at a sleeping girlfriend and a snoring cat and I didn't need to.

Is it possible I have reached a place in time where I no longer need to reach out?
That I truly have come to the point where I'm ok to not have a mother to text?
In reality, I never did, so what difference does it make now?

She will have got up yesterday to an adoring son no doubt, who told her all the right things and took her all the right places, and she will have had a nice day.
Another nice day. Where I don't exist and she enjoys life that way.
And I suppose the point is, I enjoy life my way.
I choose my path, I choose my love, my Sarah, our house, our life, my mistakes, my choices.
I choose my family, my sister, who's an adorable mother.

Let me tell you a story......

When I was about 14, I had some money saved (hilarious concept for any who knows me!)
I went shopping in Wigan town centre with my brother, we were in JJB and he saw some rugby boots he really liked - they were in the sale.
Now, the reason we had gone into Wigan was to buy a mothers day gift, so buying something off topic wasn't the plan.
However, they were nice boots, they were a good price, they were in his size and anyone who knows me knows I would have bought that boy anything - so needless to say, the mothers day gift fell by the way-side and I bought my brother some red and gold rugby boots instead.

With about £7 left, I wondered what I could buy her, and on-offer in the window of Thorntons was a big chocolate monkey with a sign that said they would ice it with a message for free, I had just the right amount of money, I thought hey, she loves chocolate, I'll put a cute message on, she will get a nice little gift and Jay's got some boots - this is a successful day where everyone gets something.

So fat teenager waddles into Thorntons buys said chocolate monkey, gets Happy Mothers Day Love Fran written on the monkey, it's lovely and wrapped up, I've got her a card. Sorted.

Mothers Day comes, she opens it up and her face falls. Not impressed.
She wants to know what I spent my saved up money on - so I tell her the story of the rugby boots and how they were too good to leave and that I saw the monkey and thought she would like that too.

Her response? "Well I hope you enjoy getting nothing of what you want on your birthday this year and 'maybe' I'll get you a chocolate monkey,"

- The story of the chocolate monkey was retold and replayed to all our family friends and I never understood why I was being judged as a bad daughter, or why they laughed along with her at the thought of buying something so ridiculous?

The thought of that fucking chocolate monkey is the reason I didn't text her yesterday.
Because on my 15th birthday, I did get a chocolate monkey, and a reminder of the shitty mothers day gift I had given her.


So what have I learned 15 years later?
1) fat girls like chocolate no matter what the age - so I loved the chocolate monkey and so should she.
2) its probably the only chocolate I got to eat that year without being judged for being an overweight disappointment
3) when I am a mother, if my child brings me a stone from the garden as a gift, it will be the most beautiful thing on planet earth; or better yet, if I have a child who loves me on mothers day, I'll have everything I could possibly want.

**Sarah, there better be a chocolate monkey in the mix somewhere**

You can try to change every part of who you are, and maybe you can succeed.
But if the people you are trying to please are just as changeable, you will never ever be good enough.
Thats on them.
Never on you.

I am enough.
Always have been, I just didn't realise it.

The unempathetic empath

One of the things that stood out when reading all about Emotionally Unstable Personality Disorder, was the stark explanations and validations that people with a variety of BPD's lack empathy, where as other medical journals and articles would cite that actually, people with BPD, in particularly EUPD have heightened empathy and are vastly emotional beings.

So I wondered where in the quandry, my brain chemistry lay.
My brain is a zebra, it is streaked through and through with both of the above. Lack of empathy and absolute empathy. But how and why do the two co-exist?
How can I be inherently selfish, and self-preserving, but in reality, the most giving and selfless of many I know?
Is it some sort of moral see-saw, that constantly balances itself out?
For me, it's not a case of behaviour correction, when I am at my lowest, my most vunerable and my most unstable - through lack of medication, or perception of threat, abandonment, loss, then my brain switches to chaos mode, and I lash out and start making rash decisions which some part of me knows will lead to all of my perceived predictions of danger, abandonment, loss, but I essentially become, like clockwork, a self fulfulling propechy.
It is a time where it becomes carte blanche in my mind, anything goes, nothing is off limits, hurt or be hurt, chase or be made to run. It'd childish in essence, but I suppose that is the point of this mental health disorder, it's origins, born in chaotic childhood trauma, developed in confusing and isolated adolencense and left to fester, grow, evolve into adulthood and lo'; here I am.

It's a strange concept which I find quite perplexing, the two streams of consciousness running side by side.
Stability and safety bring about positive behaviours and envoke the ability to achieve more than most, it makes me somewhat unstoppable with my ambition and desire to learn more, to do more, to be more.
On the flip side, instability takes me to the darkest of places, where I lack self worth and become the worst version of myself, I think my short stint in London playing secret diaries of a call girl proves that, the abject drug addiction that I let define me, became my only purpose. I think it says alot that you can exist as two people in one mind.

I have always known I am someone who can conquer and achieive, it's my ability to maintain and sustain that scares me, I can be the success, for as long as my mind is focused, content, that the constants in my life remain that way - the love, the home, the bills, the friends.
IF they stay constant, I do too. If they wobble, I do. I create an earthquake throughout my life and it all starts to tumble.


I digress.
I have been working, doing something that has made me a better person.
It's been some sort of accidental social experiment.
When I was younger, I wanted to be a doctor, I wanted to help people.
When I got older, I wanted to be a politician, because I wanted to help people.
Through my decades on this earth, I have always had core good intentions and pure morals, despite the sketchy choices I have made.

This job, has tested every fibre of who I am.
Am I truly the caring, hard working person I believe myself to be?

Hell. YES.

Am I capable of stability and sticking with something even if it's harder than I ever dreamt it would be?
Again, I say, HELL YES.

I have got up and gone to work and hit it out of the park every single day. I have learned that empathy and caring is exactly who I am, and it is what makes me soul happy. I love to know that what I do makes a difference to someone, somehow.
I know it harks back to the childish need to please, which makes up a large part of my personality, but in reality, if I know these traits of mine are there, then why not tap into them and turn them into positives?

Believe me when I say, this joyful venture of full time employment has been no picnic, I was optimistic and naive as to what I was getting myself into and was desperately disheartened when I realised I wasn't there to be anything more than a body of the floor, an extra pair of hands for the dirty work, and by god, I mean dirty.
It wasn't exactly testing my intellectual ability, or my realms of experience with people, people like me perhaps.
If anyone knows how to navigate the world of mental health and know what will bring about positive changes - its me.

Alas, that is a story for another time, and what a story it will be.

My point is - I have let my mental health disorder define me, I have accepted all the negative connotations that come with it, and allowed them to be the defining features - and that was wrong.
Yes, I am a sandwiche short of a picnic, but maybe picnics don't need to be just about the sandwiches.
Sarah will be proud of that very loose little metaphor right there.

If you feel you are defined by your label, the question is why?

It's only you who has the power to define anything.
So make the right choice, and just be.... you?