Bee-have yourself!

This is my WIFE's happy face

Is this not the cutest face you have ever seen? Our super duper photographer caught this "OH MY GOD IT'S WHEATUS!" face at the perfect moment.

Those of you who know us, know that we had our low key, low budget wedding with big love and even bigger surprises - in the form of one of Sarah's teenage dirtbag favourites - Wheatus.

I know, I'm good.

Wife material.

In the run up to our wedding, my Friday class were kept in the loop of wedding planning, dresses, flowers, invites, food, social media surprises! I have a beautiful rapour with my students in that, they listen, I listen, they learn, I learn, and it's a never ended circle of growth for all involved.

So when I returned from my annual leave break for the wedding, to hear their group project ideas, we began the class as we always do.

Part of teaching, is including the latest and loudest messags from above, and currently, that is the embedding of British Values; which truth be told, I adore, because despite some teachers finding this a laborious task to add into a lesson plan, for me, teaching digital marketing and technologies, it's a natural point of conversation. Every. Single. Lesson.

In a world of technology, social media, and constant conversation, it's a natural topic of conversation. In the past few weeks we have talked about CyberBullying and freedom of speech, why and how? Jesse Nelson's "Odd One Out," gave us an abundance of theorising and philosphising. Immense pause for thought and unfortunately for the students; the perfect opportunity for me to roll out my new favourite team building exercise a la Legally Blonde - SnapCup.

(actual footage of me in class on Friday)

The SnapCup gets rolled out in times of need, when I notice the students need a lift, and so I put them through the immense social torture of writing down something positive about eachother and then reading it out to one another; and whilst it sounds utterly cringing, and it is, it is also beautiful to see the kindness and thoughtfullness they each put in to saying something kind. In a world where we are not always kind. Especially online.

Kindness is something my students are not short of.

Those of you who know me, will not doubt have heard me waxing lyrical about their latest endeavours, both in and out of the classroom - the BeeHydrated bottles.

BUT, I imagine the majority of you don't know the reasoning behind it.

It is an inescapable message of late, that plastics are killing our planet, suffocating our oceans and plaguing our futures. Single use plastics in particular, have become known for their fickle and disposable nature, reflecting upon our own behaviours of being too quick to throw away and too quick to stop and think, to stop and care.

Cue my digital marketers class 2019.

Coursework project for their portfolios was to design a brand, a product, a launch, a 5 page website, with coding, tracking, analysis, a marketing plan including socials, content, seo etc. It was all bells and whistles, testing their forsight, knowledge skills and behaviours, a test of their communication in a group, their innovation, their problem solving, but primarily, their creativity.

It was designed to be fun and packed full of purpose, as all learning should be.

(although I wish someone had shared that methodology with my teachers back in the day!)

And lo' their resuable stainless steel water bottle was born, unders a different name and design, only after the conversations of democracy, freedom of speech, equality and diversity, did the idea arise - Rainbow bottles.

Why rainbow bottles?

Because they were big, bold, in your face, loud and proud.

I LOVED IT.

They go further, if with my help, they could transform their idea from paper to product, could they do so, not for profit, but for purpose?

What purpose I ask?

They want to create something that will directly feed into the LGBT community, and here in Manchester, after their research of where they would want their money to go, their logic took them to the LGBT Foundation.

BeeHydrated was born.

Rainbow bottles, produced and sold in the UK, designed to reduce single use plastics and to raise positive awareness of the LGBT+ community. To flaunt love and equality in the face of rising hate crime statistics and reports. 

The loop.

Sarah and I got married.

A beautiful day.

The students saw the photos and whilst they adored the happiness and the frivolity, there was treperdation in their voices. Worry.

That even in Manchester, Sarah and I may one day come a-cropper, may be put in danger, may fall foul of the rising tides of hate and become victims.

It's my job. My job, to worry about my students.

To worry about the girls on the dating apps, going on dates with dishy men.

To worry about the boys getting into online gaming wars with dodgy hackers and trackers and trolls. 

To worry about the impact of social media on their young minds, body images, self-worth, validation and hopes.

It's my job to worry.

Not theirs.

But they took it on. They ran with it. And they created a beautiful bottle concept that is rolling out across the UK as we speak, slowly..... and I mean slowly.

Having had my own business, I know what it is to run before walking, to stumble instead of stand.

I know.

I know the frustrations, the headaches, the hurts, the hurdles.

But I also know the joy and the hope and the change.

I was disheartened today, to see some negative backlash against my young ones.

Don't get me wrong, as a consumer, I too find myself wondering what avenue to pursue when pissed off and let down by something, but that's usually directed at my late online shopping, at a corporation that should know better, at streamlined, trained, financed and finessed people and processes.

Those of you who know me, will know my fiery temper, and my lioness approach to protecting things that matter to me.

So it's taken the majority of my will power to remain 110% professional, because actually, what I want to do is shout at the top of my lungs STOP IT.

Stop it.

Yes, you ordered your bottle in 1969 and yes, its 2019. I know.

But holy jesus Manchester, London, Great Yarmouth, Jersey, Newcastle.

3 kids. And maybe that's patronising, but they are.

3 kids have taken a product from a classroom to a webstore that has sold in the thousands, and they are posting the bottles like Father Christmas' elves working overtime on Christmas Eve!!!!!!!!

Working full time in apprenticeships, studying one day a week with me, and outside of that 40 hour week, is the packing, posting, branding, and processing the bottles and dispatching them up and down the country.

Which to any startup would be a mountainous task, this a task that was expecting, a couple of hundred bottles to sell and that be a success, not a couple of thousand.

Cue negociations with printers, for pricing and produciton and fast turn around.

Failed quality checks, poor printing, charlatans taking advantage of the need for speed, re-print, rebrand, resend.

Pack, post, postoffice runs, every single day after work.

Customer service, social media, refunds, complaints, more posting, packing, post office runs.

They say, don't bite off more than you can chew - they ate the whole dam bar.

With just cause. The bottles are INCREDIBLE.

The purpose is INSPIRING.

The 60% profit to LGBT foundation is LIFE CHANGING

Their processes and naivety? - Chidish and expected.

So for those of you lighting up social media - calm the fuck down Sandra.

What have you done today that changed the lives of many, through the alturism and vision and knowledge?

Drive, passion and purpose?

These guys are game changers. I have never known such heart, such drive and hope.

So I'm Postman Fran - posting, packing and legging it to the Post Office daily to get this thing off the ground.

Start small, think big.

And team; you've got this.

And I am so so so so so so so so proud.

What have you done today, to make you feel proud?

Either you read the title of this blog and heard Heather Small singing the absolute M People cracker, or you heard Stevie from Miranda singing her version - either way, you get the gist.

But in all seriousness, where has your pride gone Manchester? London? World?

The profits boomed, the rainbows were waved, the glitter was a-plenty and now the corporations pockets are heavy with pink pennies, the flags are no longer needed and are folded away until next year.

NOTHING infuriates me more than when I see a crumpled, creased, unloved pride flag.
The amount of businesses that role out the half arsed rainbows and drape them over tills and counter tops and blue tack them in windows with their obvious "I've been living in a box for 11 months," creases - quite frankly, it pisses me off.

Because those creases say everything about what pride really is to big business.

It's something they roll out once a year, flamboyant and inclusive, with love and kisses, and rainbow coloured lattes, cakes, shakes, cocktails, bags, bracelets and fluff, and they sell sell sell the idea of love and equality but bank the bucks that don't return to the LGBT+ community.

Corporations dedication to pride is as deep a dedication to Boris Johnsons dedication to democracy.
Both as fickle and shallow as one another.

The logo's emblazoned with rainbow colours are gone, and the dreary corporate branding returns; but in its lack of flair, at least it's honest.

The flags are taken down, the rainbow streets are no more, and life returns to normal.

The fight continues, the movement, the change, the surge and passion for equality, for safety, for kindess and acceptance. So where are you now? With your solidarity and support and your commitment to the cause?

What did you do with your pockets full of profits raised off the back of the LGBT+ movement?
Donated it to Stonewall? In celebration and respect of the 50 years of blood, sweat and tears?
Shared it with the LGBT foundation to educate and promote positive attitudes and raise awareness for much needed issues both in and outside the community?

Or at the end of your rainbow, is there a pot of gold thats fed back into the corporate machine that had a "pride marketing plan" for July and August, but has now moved swiftly onto the Christmas push?

What stops us from enjoying the beauty of pride all year round? Celebrating love and indviduality in all it's forms?
Every day doesn't have  to be a parade, it just has to be MORE.
More care, more dedication, more authenticity, more than just a PR boost, a nice idea, a colourful addition, a self-assuring, conscience stroking move in the right direction.

Why can't primark continue their beautiful rainbow and trans themed clothes line and accessories all year round, to be sought out by those of us who want to share and show our association and adoration all things LGBT+, to showcase our sexuality, pride, gender, love, and hopes in small ways.
A little nod to who we are, who we were and our ability to be out and proud and know that the world is changing and evolving and that in a time where crimes against the LGBT+ community, particualarly hate crimes against the trans community are at an all time high, with a rapid rise over the past 12 months - that support is not an annual opt-in, its a hand in hand, side by side show of faith and hope, that we are all in this together.

Profit or purpose, it requires more than fluff and rainbows once a year.

It requires PRIDE, to show support and respect and dedication ALL year round.
Until the world changes, it has to be more.

Such Fun

It's that look.
That "Oh Fuck!"
Look.
The good lord,
It's the gutter rat,
The fucking twat.
She is looking REAAAALLLLY fat.

Don't say hello
Don't say hello
Be sensible
Just turn around and go.

Here she is.
The broken child.
The wild.
The not so meek and mild.
The havoc
Hurricane
Whirlwind of pain.

Excuses excuses
Sad face
Look at me.
Mummy and daddy were so mean you see.

It's that look.

"Ignoring me?
I ask with a smile on my face
The look of hate and utter disgrace

We've danced this dance
One hundred times before
But like some sadist,
I keep coming back from more.

Because unlike you,
I haven't closed the door.

I look fit.
Like shit hot today.
The kind of face,
That'll just blow you away.

On point.
A total snack.
The kids have taught me well.

Brows on point.
Tits are fine.
High waisted jeans,
To cover the lie.
Chunky little bod,
Curvy and cute.
You hate it.
I can see that you do.

The shaved head.
The ring in my nose.
The ring on my finger,
The girl on my arm.
I'm everything you feared.
With my beauty and charm.

The danger.
The liar.
The defacer of hope.
Thats the lie you tell yourself
As you tighten my rope.

I'm not her you know.
The liar the cheat.
I'm just your daughter.
Wanting you to see me.

I wanted to be you
I wanted to be strong
I wanted to be invicible.
We both got it wrong.

You're weak.
You're meak.
You're old and your frail.
And I don't give a shit anymore
That you would never have posted my bail.

You told me you're happy
In a world without me,
And for the first time,
In twenty years,
Your words set me free.

You see.

We want to make a baby
Build a life of our own
Create love, family, and a beautiful home.

And I've earned it
I've fought.
I've lost and I've failed.
But I stand up
I fight back
And I always prevail.

Because I believe in true love
Unconditional
Regardless of past
That it's forever
It's impossible.
Its brutal
But the hard parts don't last.

I asked you once to be my mother
You said yes and took my hand
But you bury me,
As I'll bury you
With your head in the sand.

Naive.
Silly.
And so full of hate.

It was great to see you.
Such fun.
We must set another date.

The Speech

I LOVE the movie Father of Bride. It's literally top 10.

But of course, it was clear in the months leading up to Sarah and I's wedding, the childhood fantasies were that of unicorn's and magic carpets.

That's no bad thing.

We performed our own miracle.

The most incredible wedding on a shoestring budget, almost entirely DIY, thrift and craft, with friends chipping in with cakes and bits and bobs. I turned my hand to making boutinerres and bouquets a-plenty and we got married on a community farm.

Nobody said budget meant basic. It was a thing of beauty.

My wedding dress for example, cost £47.00 - you read that right.

I saved this dress to my Pinterest board, easily 3 years ago, when Sarah and I began fantasising about potentially getting married, despite having been engaged for YEARS.

And lo' like fate, utter fate, the very same dress I had saved to my Pinterest board in 2016, was ON SALE on Asos.

I bought that fucker quick time and it was with me the next day.

My only hesitation? Nobody wants to be a size 18 on their wedding day.

But alas, my chubby little ass had shrunk from a tettering on 22, to an 18 and that would have to do.

And there is no doubt - NO DOUBT, I looked beautiful. Beyond that, I looked the best I have ever looked in my life.

I have been a size 10, a 14, a 22, but there on a sunny day in May, in my size 18 bargain dress, I looked EPIC.

So it's ironic that as the music played to signal Sarah had made her way down the aisle and every part of my body was shaking behind a large oak door at our venue, my father looked at me, with a fatherly look and I waited, with baited breath for the words - the father of the bride words.

And he spoke.....

"You should probably get your money back on that diet plan,"

The big oak door swung open and all eyes were on me as I faltered at his statement of support, and began my walk down the aisle.

He stepped on my dress, we fumbled, stumbled and I ploughed on, striding most independently towards my wife to be.

The photos say it all - look how happy I am to see her <3

I have added the lovely emoji, as my father warned me, should any photos showing him be seen online, whether social media or otherwise, he would "sue me until the end of time,"

Which I have to admit, once I had gotten over the shock, made me laugh.

Hunni, I ain't got no moneeeeeeeeeeey!

Anyway!

Look at my happy little face.

The registrar decided to do something off-the-cuff that I wasn't happy about - she asked our parents, or in my case, my dad, to stand before everyone and affirm their love and support of mine and Sarah's marriage.

In any other situation, any other person's wedding, this would have been endearing and a sight of love and adoration.

In our case, my dad affirmed such things and then whisphered to me before he sat down 

"You're on your own now,"

Which again, once I had got over the shock, made me laugh, because I've been on my own for some time now, I don't think an hours attendance at my own wedding denotes to a supportive family unit (that quote is for you Sarah)

So we plough on, I cry, profusely, through our own vows, but we get there, we are married.

It's wonderous.

After all we have been through, all I have put her through, here we are. Together.

And we face the room.

Happiness on every face.

My brother, in the front row, beaming.

This makes me happy.

More than happy.

My foster mother, crying, with joy. She is beautiful.

And our friends, raptuous applause, everyone relieved, that we are here. All together.

What a moment.

What joy. We are blessed.

The milling commences, there are canapes from the vegan cafe that Sarah loves, and pink prosecco from the venue, I wow everyone with a cheeky suprise from an American rock band and it's so Fran and Sarah and fucking out there, it's almost silly.

My dad asks me if he can say a few words. I honestly don't know.

It's momentous, but his behaviour so far should alarm me.

But the little girl in me wants to hear what he has to say, so I agree.

He stands, before our friends and family, and by our, I mean mine and Sarah's because other than that, my dad doesn't know anyone at my wedding.

That tends to happen if you miss out on a decade.

He begins.

He cries. No words come out.

I run up to support him and hold his hand. He grabs my arse and laughs, facing the crowd

"Christ, that's a big arse,"

There's awkward silence. No-one knows where to look.

"This is the first big life decision Francesca has made, without the support of a social worker,"

An interesting first sentence.

An an inaccurate one at that, the last time I had a social worker was when they foolishly let the Barker's have a daughter and not just a son.

Regardless, I stick with it.

"We gave Fran the best of education. Private schools, holiday's abroard. But she was always too clever. Give her a book, she would read it in a day. And you would ask her and she would tell you what sentence on what page," 

"Give her anything, she would absorb it and memorise it, always so clever,"

"She took her GCSE's and she came home and said 'Daddy, the questions were wrong,"

"Because Fran is always right,"

And then there is a waffling bit of bollocks of which I can't remember, and he finishes with an emotional declaration of 

"I'm so proud,"

Which everyone gives a semi-supportive applause of, because it's the closest thing to fatherly he has said.

Relieved, I step down and return to the crowd and he pipes up again

"Sarah," He asks

"Traditionally in a marriage, the groom carries the bride over the threshold, and for your sake, I hope it's Fran who's carrying you,"

I watch, as the room lurches forward in an agressive "WHAT THE FUCK" motion.

My friends, and family, all react in horror.

The speech was bad enough, but a second fat joke in less than 5 minutes? Nobody is impressed.

My brother puts his head in his hands, exasperated.

He looks up and mouths "Sorry," to me.

His girlfriend slaps my dad on the arm and says what everyone is thinking "What the fuck?"

My father slinks off to the bar, hiding from the crowd. Quite rightly.

I thought I had got over this shit storm and Barker pantomime as I had assigned it in my own mind as "Just a Barker,"

Just another episode of what we do as a family.

But also, breathing a sigh of relief that the people I surround myself with got to see him, in all his glory, the patriach, the father, the perfect man, show himself.

The fat shamer, the "she was never good enough", and that all I know and all I remember, is real.

Yesterday I learned from someone I love dearly, who knew me before the Barker's even came into my life, that my father, on my wedding day, whilst milling around the crowd, began operation "hate Fran" once again.

This is a tactic my mum likes to operate, where if she meets someone who has something positive to say about me, or tells her how well I'm doing, or how happy I am, she quickly follows up with 

"BUT did you know that Fran did this? and this? and this? and this? and this?"

It seem's it's a family wide tactic, I just didn't know that until yesterday.

On my wedding day, my father managed to make me feel fat. Feel small. Feel embarassed and ashamed. Alone.

And when he wasn't doing that, he was busy telling anyone who would listen

"Fran did this and this and this and this and this and this,"

"She's a nightmare becase of this and this and this and this,"

Not 

"I'm so happy she found the one,"

"I'm so proud she got here,"

"Isn't it amazing how far shes come?"

"Doesn't she look beautiful?"

"Isn't she lucky to have all these people?"

Nope.

Fat. Thief. Fraud. Drugs. Hooker. Liar. Nightmare. Life ruiner.

Happy Wedding Day.

So, I'll be watching Father of the Bride 1 and 2 eating Ben & Jerry's in my wedding dress if you need me

So over it

I have stirred my coffee into a vortex this morning.
It's whizzing around my cup as I move my spoon round and round, staring off into the distance.


Still hot though, thats progress.
There has already been one cup of coffee fall victim to my meandering brain this morning.


It's Tuesday.
And like some sort of medium, I booked Monday off for a rest day, to gather my thoughts and mind, reset and recharge and press pause.


Sometimes a day of self care is much needed, but in the realms of mental health you don't feel justified to call it a sick day, because those are for days where you are.... sick?
And whilst mental exhaustion is a totally valid reason in a world where employers are more accepting - a day of annual leave is just what the doctor ordered.


And thank fuck I had yesterday. For me.


Because I sat in my dinosaur pyjamas morning, noon and night and spent most of it, crying and / or eating take out on the sofa, whilst occasionally laying in the lap of my wife, who stroked my hair and watched trash TV with me.


There's context, I'm not a total fruit loop - this is not what I define my usual self-care days!


My Sunday started like a dream, I went for breakfast with my lovely Sarah, met her friends at a local farm, chased chickens (it's my new thing) and stroked sheep.
Then in the afternoon we took Sarah's mum and dad to a gay pride event - yep, you read that right. We took the Mills family to a gay pride event.
And what a day.

I had my beautiful Valerie singing her little titties off to every drag queen that graced the stage, whilst drinking pink gin, sat on a bench in the sunshine, and it was amazing.
The very definition of inclusivity and love and hope and a vision of what the future could be.
Happy, gay, safe.


How ironic.
I glanced at a man who looked familiar, but I have an unhealthy habit of seeing "that face" in the fact of many who are not actually him.


But no, in the middle of gay pride, there he was.
Smirking.
I asked Sarah to confirm, is it him, am I seeing things.


He walked past us smiled and blew me a kiss and went on his way, partying to the same drag queens my mother in law had fallen in love with just hours earlier.


I felt sick. My hands were shaking. I didn't know what to do.
I looked at Sarah and she cried.
Floods of tears.
This stopped mine.
I was in shock, but she was in pain.


Crying.
She was angry, and upset, and mourning a past life where she felt she could have saved me if she had been in my life.


Tears turned to rage and I had to hold her wrist to stop her from running over and smashing this man to the ground. Utter utter rage.


I knew how she felt.
I was stood in a park celebrating a safe gathering for the gay community, coming together to share in love and peace and hope, and there in the middle of it, was the man who stole my youth.


I had thought of this moment often, what would I do if I saw him again, what would I say?
And my thoughts were more aligned with that of some murder documentary on Netflix and therefore not the place for public discussion.


The audacity, to see me now, in 2019, and to blow me a kiss. When I'm stood with my wife, in a safe space and he is there. Smirking. Like I'm 19 again and he can still have what he wants.


Sarah's raging and wants to kill. To protect.
And me? I'm surprisngly calm. A switch in my head has flipped and I'm past angry and I'm past hate.
I'm in 2019 and I'm not letting that man have another second of my life.
Not one more.
Especially not now.


I have fought harder than most I know to be able to stand here, to have a life, a wife, a family, a job, a house, a hope, a friend, a future. And that creature, that fucking Thierry Mugler Angel smelling doused bastard, has no place in this world, not in my life. Not now.


He is the boogeyman. He is the bad man. He is the nightmare that creeps in the darkness.
He is the man who stole my innocence, who broke my fertilility, who laughed when Police questioned him.


And if any rage remains, it's at the absolute failing of our justice system.
I rant about this on the way home to Sarah.


"I should have gone to prison, so that says it all,"
The system doesn't work.


"He should still be in prison, he isn't,"
The system doesn't work.


"Bad people are supposed to be locked up until they realise what they've done and fix it, until you feel truly sorry and make it right, you're not supposed to get out,"


And here we are nearly 20 years later, and he hasn't learned his lesson.


Should I commander justice and fight him again? Should I be the protector of other women? I feel guilt, that I left him standing there. Potentially to go on to attack again.
But I'm tired.
I fought.
I did.
I did what was right.
I can't keep doing it.


He stole my 20's.
He's not having my 30's.


Not one ounce of my happiness or my hope.


He can stay in the darkness and remain a nightmare.


But on this tuesday morning whilst my damn coffee has gone cold.
I'm working.
I'm focusing.
I'm keeping my shit together.
Because if I don't.

I'll cry in a coffee shop.
And I don't do public crying.


So it's work.
It's Sarah.
It's friends and family.
And that man, is just a bad dream I had once.

To be gay in 2019

"I'm not homophobic,"

......... "anymore,"

I think that says it all.

A few months ago I met my father for a coffee, whereby he proceeded to tell me what an enlightened human being he had become, and that due to this evolution of self, he would be happy to attend the wedding of his gay daughter.

How gracious of him.

And it's a phrase that has burned in my mind since he said it.

"You have to understand Fran, things were different 20 years ago,"

Interesting.

Because it's 2019, and despite my father declaring his open mindedness and acceptance of gay culture, or more specifically, my sexuality - his growth as a person is very much reflective of the society in which we live.

I had huge anxiety on my wedding day, not because I was getting married, of course not, I've been waiting for this day for the past 8 years, the countdown to marrying my best friend was a thing of excitement, not anxiety.

No, the anxiety arose from my fathers attendance.

Althought, as the clock struck 1pm and he was not in attendace, despite my marriage taking place at 1:15pm, I assigned myself to the fact that more than likely his disapproval and distaste had forged it's way to the front and this new sense of self had disappated as quickly as it had come.

Alas, he arrived.

And his state of unease was apparent.

My anxiety grew. 

You see, my father has never seen me kiss a girl.

Never seen me with a girl.

Never seen my love and affection for another woman.

Never seen me in any sort of relationship that was allowed to grace the light of day, because for my entire teenage years and into my early twenties, that part of my life stayed in the shadows.

Growing up and realising my sexuality was a difficult thing because I knew it was not a conversation that could ever be had.

Falling in love, first love and wanting to have a relationship like any other teenager, holding hands in public, dates, meeting the parents.

It was forbidden.

I was never allowed friends who were girls, I was never allowed sleepovers, never allowed to sleep over at a girl who was a friends house.
I was never allowed to share a relationship. When I had my heart broken, I had to hide it and pretend all was ok when what I wanted was to cry and it be known my 17 year old heart was breaking.

When I fell in love and found the one, I wanted them to know and share in the joy, my Sarah.

A wonderous example of how we deal with my sexuality? But remember now, my parents are not homophobic. Anymore.

I was 21, I had the shit kicked out of me by a group of twenty something men, just outside the gay village, I was walking back to my apartment, and when one of them shouted at me
"Are you supposed to be a boy or a girl?"
A rather drunk me on my way home from a night out uttered "fuck off,"
Which wasn't receieved well.
There's no doubt about it, they were waiting. For a boy, or a girl, anyone, to play with.
I happened to be there.
Cue a punch to the face, regardless of my gender, it was about my existence, the afront of ambiguity, and lo' blood flies, my lip is burst, I swing aimlessly, bewildered as to what is happening, I land blows on bodies and scrape a wall as I hit the ground, they laugh, they leave, and I sit on the pavement examining my own fate.

It could be worse I think to myself, and lord knows I'm not stranger to brutality.
I get to the MRI hospital, and I'm stitched up, they ask me who to call, I say my father. He doesn't answer.
I leave the hospital the day after and call him again, asking to come home, he says yes.
With a condition :
I am to stay upstairs in my bedroom and stay out of sight as they have friends over for sunday lunch and they don't want to explain that their dyke of a daughter was gay bashed in the gay village. Imagine. Thats enough to put you off your foie gras isn't it?

So I sit, in my shame, in my teenage bedroom, a bedroom that has not been kind to me. My lip has paper stitches across and is swollen and raw, my hand has paper stitches to hold the gash closed, its gross to look at.
It's a battle scar.

The man who raped me, told the police, when referring to me, that "the lesbian girl was the cherry on the cake," and it's something that makes me sick to think of.
It's not that the man is a rapist, oh no, that is abhorrent and makes my skin crawl, that he created a life inside me whilst taking part of mine, even more so, but no, it is the very arrogance and pride he must have felt when he uttered those words.
The lesbian girl.
He must have found it quite an accolade knowing he could take the only thing I would never give. My sexuality. My sense of self.

Because this is who I am.
Every time I see the scar on my hand, my now married, with wedding ring hand, I wonder what the state of the world will continue to be.

My students, debate, frequently, an open forum as to the state of the world, and the story of the girls attacked on the london bus comes up, and I share my dispair and disappointment that the world still hasn't learned that love is love and it's needed more than ever.
That teenage boys are still making their mark because they can, because they want to, because they are right and we are wrong.

I look down at my scar in my friday classroom and I'm sad.
It's 2019 and the world hasn't changed.

We talk of Gentleman Jack and how life affirming it is for all in the classroom, the boys and the girls, the strength of self and love that Suranne portays as her iconic stalwart Anne Lister.
Such hope in love and such pride in identity.

A woman who wanted to marry, for love.
We are all transfixed by the beauty of it, my students who range from 17-26, and me, their 30 something tutor, in discussion about the power of love and its epic portrayal.
Don't get me wrong, we had the same conversations when Dr Foster aired on our screens, but this is something different. This is something more.

I'm a woman who wanted to marry for love, and it's by some miracle we have at least managed that.
My students wanted to know every detail, how did we meet, how long have we been together, and one inspirational little soul, when explaining to a new student in class "Who's Fran?" proceeded to narrate the barker baker tale, and I was in awe that they dare to know my past whilst I teach their present and their future and then she spoke the words "The only thing you need to know about Fran, is Fran loves Sarah,"
It was so powerful, I told a friend of mine and the exact same quote cropped up in her wedding speech to me on the big day.
I am blessed to teach a group of kind, open minded, beautiful people who will grow to change the world in a postive and loving way. My job is not just teaching syllabuses, it is teaching love and kindess, perhaps they have taught me this too.

But what will come of it?
My married bliss.
Do I have to consider that holding my wifes hand in public may offend to such an extent we are in danger?
Not just the usual danger of judgement, dirty looks, stares, the usual "ew" shouted from an uneducated mass of chavs that roam the streets with somehow more right and sense of entitlement than we do.

Do we bring a child into a world where things won't get better, where they will be ostricised and judged? In danger?
Will our Tory government move mountains to strip us over time? Who knows.
If Trumps America continues to filter across the oceans that the pollution that he and his politics are, then perhaps our rights will filter too. Disappate.

Perhaps as long as there are strong women in the media, who pose as positive role models, of love and life and hope and self, then there is a change we can change perceptions and shape minds.
To break barriers and hate.

It's pride month, and I am proud.
But I am worried.

Worried that rainbows and glitter are not enough to see us through this storm.

Sing with me : "Sweet Home Alabama, where 22 men got to fuck you"

We all know the song.
And I have to say, when I hear the song "Sweet Home Alabama," it makes me think of a cute Reese Witherspoon, little blonde bob and a romcom that you either loved or hated.

Now when I hear that song, I will think of a Trump era, and how the world is literally falling apart around us.

With Brexit being the contagion that has plagued the United Kingdom and our fellow friends across the seas for what feels like an eternity, the utter horror of even contemplating a future where Nigel Farage et al have any say on what we the electorate want and think, worse yet, or not so different, the working man's Nigel Farage - our racist, fan to the flame of hatred, Tommy Robinson - such prime examples of what Great Britain is! IGNORANT AND MISINFORMED time and time again.

For those of us who choose to read the Daily Mail as opposed to wipe our arse with it and those of us who listen to twats like Piers Morgan for general insights into what is going on in the world, is there any wonder we are on the precipise of chaos?


Since Trump came into power, there has been an uneasiness across the world, those of us with brains, and souls, and morality, sit with baited breath waiting for the next PR boob he comes out with; or grabs.
Is it to be expected when a President says

“If you go with what Hillary is saying in the ninth month, you can take the baby and rip the baby out of the womb of the mother just prior to the birth of the baby,”

And with President Trump very aware he needs to secure some serious loyalty, his sure fire way into securing a second term (ironic phrase given the topic) is to pander and protect the radical Christian aspect, the evangelicals, the pro-life loonies and all that goes with it.

So it got me thinking.

What kind of world are we living in where abortion is punished more harshly in the eyes of the law than crimes such as rape?

Is this a world ironically that we want to bring our children into?

In 2007, as those of you who read my blog will know, I had an abortion. I had the free choice to do so.

Don't misunderstand me, it wasn't an easy process, there were checkpoints along the way, but mostly to safeguard ME. A woman in my right mind, making decisions about my own body, and why is that the most critical aspect?

When someone rapes you, and takes away your choice, and leaves you powerless, is it not your right as a woman to resume that power and make your own choices as to what happens next?

IF you are as unfortunate as I was and end up pregnant because the arrogant monsters in question don't offer you the courtesy of premeditation and wrap their weiner, then joy of joys you are left with the afterthought of the traumatic event that almost broke you. A pregnancy.

I was 20 years old, in my second year at University and I had two choices.

1) Choose to have a child I never wanted nor created, but was forced to conceive by accidental and grotesque circumstance. Put my life and my future on hold for something I never asked for, never gave permission for. Surrender my hopes and dreams to the future of that growth of cells forming inside me. To forgo my education and dive head first into financial chaos of raising a child that I knew in my heart I could and never would love no matter what, because it would always, always be the creation of something I wanted to forget.

2) Choose my life, my body. Choose my hopes, my dreams. My future. To not allow this thing to develop and become a person one day, that I could only ever remember and acknowledge for such sad reasons. To bring a child into this world, is to love, is to give every piece of your heart and create a future for. If you can't promise that, you shouldn't do it. And in the case of rape inparticular, how can you ask that of women who have already been abused and used and ask them to give up their body and mind for something they never asked for? When there is a safe choice that puts them first, as it should be. We should be protecting women, not shunning them, punishing them.

How can the state of Alabama ask women to accept this? To conform? To bow down to the idiotic, shovenist, short sighted, dangerous and damaging bullshit legislation they dare to call law?

Are we a global society that will sit back and allow this to continue? Let these men, these selfish, uneducated, archaic assholes decide for us? For the women of the world? This is a war.

It begins with the Trump-esque pussy grabs and the jokes about banging his daughter and it escalates into aboortion clinics being hounded, doctors being hurt, women being demonised and all too soon the coat hangers are coming out of the closet and women are in the back alleys and hiding, in shame, in pain and in horror.

How very Handmades Tale.

This is who we are in 2019. Goverened by ignorant men with selfish desires who steer us into the sun and destroy all that is good, and kind, and hope.

We are a society of love, of decency, at the core. I believe that.

So we need to make a stand. It needs to stop.

Enough is enough.

Pride. Proud. Proof.

As many of you know, I teach digital technologies and digital marketing.

When I asked some of my students to do a SWOT analysis of their own digital skills, one of my brood, said she couldn't write.
She felt her content writing skills were crappy and that blog writing was an alien concept.

WELL. Move over kids.

This little diamond in the rough smashed it out of the park.

On the day of the unveiling of the Emmelin Pankhurst statue in Manchester, I took my students, to watch the moment in histroy unfold - with an ulterior motive; I wanted them to absorb the atmosphere, take some photos and duly write me a super duper, SEO maxed out, engaging piece of content.

Hey presto, in week two of her digital marketing course, the wonderous student that is Grace, created this; so I'm sharing it with you guys because when I think about International Women's Day I think of girls like Grace, who are the future, and the hope, that women move forward in postivev ways every day.
In education, in employment, in equality and that is its the Grace's of the world who will bring about a brighter future.

"Looking around me, surrounded by my fellow strong northern females, a huge sense of pride filled my body. Singing along at the top of their lungs to the 1985 hit by the Eurythmics and the late Aretha Franklin, who set out to create the feminist anthem ‘Sisters Are Doing It for Themselves!’ Amongst the vast sea of suffragette themed straw-bonnets, sashes and feminist slogan signs, the overwhelming feeling of freedom and strength for women filled the busy streets of Manchester. Although the true meaning behind this magical day was not just for celebration, but in fact the remembrance and honour of a truly remarkable woman and the legacy she has left behind, Emeline Pankhurst.

December 14^th 2018, will be a historical landmark for any Mancunian, and one that I hope to one day share with my future family. On that day females of all ages stood proudly together, and I was a part of it. It is a day that marks the first statue of a woman in Manchester in 117 years, to become the second within the city. Which in reality, is an upsetting yet somewhat not-so-shocking fact.

From an early age I have always loved History, and learning about the events that has shaped the world we live in today. However, I cannot ignore the fact the majority of what we learn and what we know about our past seems to only praise the success of men. Winston Churchill, Charles Darwin, Martin Luther King – all undeniably key figures throughout history, and children across the world learn about their work and success.

But what about all the women who have made a difference? Why are they not celebrated and taught to our children in such detail? This day has shown me just how bright the future really is for young women like me. There are no limits to what I can do - I think that myself and others owe that to the suffragettes and the pain that they went through.

One of the most significant things for me about the unveiling of the ‘Our Emeline’ statue was the diversity of age amongst the crowd. The past, the present and the future stood together as one all sharing the same sense of joy and watching on in awe of how unified our city can be. I couldn’t help but feel proud to be from Manchester, not to mention the home of the brave woman that is Emeline Pankhurst.

An exceptionally informative video, educated the 6,000 strong crowd in depth on Emeline’s journey and how it all began. It’s something in which I can only begin to imagine, being born into a world where your parents wished you were a boy and that as a young women you were only ever told ‘no’. Although, the rejection is what undoubtedly gave her the fuel and the passion in her fight for women’s rights.

As the ‘big reveal’ drew closer I didn’t think the ceremony could make a bigger statement – or get much busier! The sound of footsteps, stomps and spine-chilling chants filled the streets surrounding me “WHAT DO WE WANT? EQUALITY, WHEN DO WE WANT IT? NOW!” school children bellowed. Boys and girls of all ages, in their thousands, carried their hand made green, white and purple suffragette themed signs. ‘Deeds not words’ is one of the most famous phrases coined by the suffragette movement, which was reinforced by the huge turnout and could be read on the signs carried by hundreds.

I was filled with nostalgia as I thought back to the days of learning about these courageous women and how they ever so radically fought for their right to vote. They were bold and they were loud, and I think some of that was channelled on this day in commemoration of all the women who fought. But this was done in a much more peaceful manner; a breath taking service showcasing heart-felt songs, and a whole host of speeches including one by Emeline’s great granddaughter Helen Pankhurst and also the talented sculptor behind the monumental statue Hazel Reeves. However one of the most poignant speakers at the unveiling was 12-year-old Fatima Shahid who spoke so articulately, as she told the crowd that she hoped this was “just the first” of many Mancunian women who would be honoured in sculpture form. It was incredible to see such a bright young girl speak about her future and the future of our city during such a poignant day.

As an 18 year old woman, who has grown up in Manchester, I never really knew just how close I have always been to the heart of the suffragette movement. I didn’t expect to feel so overwhelmed and empowered by the service. As the statue was revealed to the thousands cheers and claps consumed the crowd. Helen Reeves chose to portray Pankhurst standing on a chair as she rallied a crowd, similar to scenes you would have seen back then. The statue helps you see how tough it really would have been for a young woman like Emeline to have been to be so fearless and strong willed in a time where that was not accepted of women.

The unveiling of the stature marked 100 years to the day after some women got the vote for the first time in the UK. I can only image the determination and the fight all those women suffered all those years ago. Today we live in a world in which many of us take for granted, a world where we now have a female Prime Minister, a world in which women are now 35% more likely to go to university than men. It’s something I’m sure Emeline Pankhurst, stood on her wooden chair, would have thought seemed so far away from achieving, yet never gave up the hope of it becoming a reality. I think the women of Manchester, and women across the world owe a lot to the suffragettes. They embody ‘Girl Power’ and the very principle of standing up for yourself and what you believe in. I think we should all be more Emeline.

I am blessed, to have a job I love, that I work hard for, and that I get to work with such a great group of people. Who just so often, surprise and inspire me when I least expect it.

A proud tutor, thats me.

Happy International Womens Day

Lifers

I was brought up to understand that there are good people and there are bad people. It was always very black and white. A bit like coffee in the Barker household. You can't sit on the fence.

There are those that live within the law, and those that break it.
Then it's jail.
Do no pass go. Do not collect £200. You're done.

Which is ironic, considering I was living in a house built upon shaky morals and interesting manipulations of that very concept. I think good and bad are perpetually open to interpretation and generally twisted to fit our own morality. These things change over time and evolve, shaped by the situations we find ourselves in.

I was a bad egg.
I was the apple that fell from the tree, undoubtedly said apple from the garden of Eden, that lead to the downfall of two virtuous souls.

Such things will happen if you pluck the unwanted puppy from the pound.

I grew up in awe of the powerhouse mother, the champion of women, the career woman who had it all.
The looks, the family, the house, the job, the car, the dream really.

It occured to me as we approach another International Women's Day, is it our mothers we gravitate towards and when asked "who inspired you?" are they the first people we think of?
For me, yes.

What about for others like me?

For people who lived their lives the wrong way, but didn't know how to flip it back to the right way?
Or for those of us who were so set against living the right way, that we hurtled down the road to ruin never looking back with ferocious determination to set the world on fire.

Every day I get my coffee from the same place, I'm a creature of habit as you all know, and if the coffee happens to be good - well then you've got me for life (ask Sarah!)
But more than good coffee, I'm drawn to this place, like it's my own personal Mecca.

You place your hand on the glass door and feel the irony of cold glass, and wonder how many people touch the windown pane and expect to see and feel iron bars.
I feel warmth, I open the doors and in the vast open space, there's women dotted around, like little worker bee's in a hive, busying themselves with one task or another.

I have been coming to this place for some time now, and there's always one smile that radiates across the room - her name is Chrissy, and she is sunshine on a rainy Manchester morning.
We have got to a place in time, where I don't need to ask what I want, and she has already hit the coffee machine to make me a hot cup of loveliness.
General chit-chat ensues - the british banter, the origianl banter, good lord, I hate the word banter, I sound 100 years old whenever I use it, and whilst seeing it on my computer screen, I find it all the more cringeworthy. I have been teaching teenagers too long.

Who is this woman? How did she get here? Why is she always so damn smiley - the weirdo.
We have an affinity you see; she's the baker! She's the super star cake maker. How could I not be drawn to such a gem?

So this International Women's Day I decided I would write about Chrissy; because every year I write about who inspires me, motivates me, who has made an impact on my life, and I can safely say that in 2019 - it's this lovely lady.

There is a not so subtle question that mars the life of any exoffender, people don't ask "how are you?" "who are you?" - they always, without doubt ask "what did you do?"
I hate it.
So I don't ask - the differene being, Chrissy tells, and the fact of the matter is, I don't care. Who am I to poke into her past and the roads that lead her here? Does it change how she cheers up my day with coffee and cake? No.
I think what inspires me about the girls who work at The Clink Cafe is that they are so happy to do so. We as exoffenders exist with the noose around our neck, for life, we are lifers. We carry the guilt and the chains that bound us, forever. Don't kid yourself in your millenial world that beacuse the prison gates and the probation centres are long gone, that we forgot what we did and we are free.
We are never truly free, but it is our ability to look forward that sets us apart from the stereotype.
To hope where there has been none and challenge what the world and what we ourselves think about who we are and who we should be.

These women work HARD. Every single day. They work with grace, and kindness, and honour. They take pride in every single thing that they do, and they never ever take such opporunity for growth for granted.

That is what International Women's Day is about for me, it is women seizing the opportunities they never thought they would have, and holding onto them, nurturing them, like a little plant in the spring, it grows, and evolves into a life.
An opportunity becomes, a life. A future, a hope, a way forward.

There is a strange vein of thought in this country that people who have been to prison don't deserve opportunity and second chances and it fills me with sadness, which was once upon a time, rage.
These are the people who write on forums and article comments, about leopards not changing their spots, about an exoffender cafe serving up porridge. The uneducated, ignorant masses that shout "Count your change!"
Fuck you.

I asked Chrissy what she wanted to be when she grew up - she tells me she wanted to care, for children and the elderely, and that she did, and the look of happiness and nostalgia on her face tells me it's a dream that she remembers fondly and achieved.
This makes me happy.

When asked as a child what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would tell people that I wanted to work at TGI Fridays - obviously. That was a job that came with a jazzy shirt, a sash, reward badges and ice cream sundaes. Much to my mothers despair. A privately educated Cheshire girl does not work at TGI Fridays; she eats there and make sure no-one sees or hears about it, and for the love of god, orders the salad and not the fries.

I think about my own mother; not the Cheshire powerhouse, the cockney criminal. The biology that coarses through my veins and I sigh. At the ineptitude of her. At the lack of care she gave herself and power she gave others, to just fail. To give up and give in and become everything the system said she was. She's no Chrissy that's for sure.

Chrissy's pride and joy is her daughter, and that beautiful look of pride shines from her face as she talks about her, about her passing her driving test, getting a job, for just being downright wonderful; this Chrissy credits to her own mother. Her inspiration. Her International Women's Day wonder.
A trio of women working together, in different moments in time, supporting one another through the rough, the tough, the good and the bad. Regardless of stints in Styal, they pull together, a fusion of love and hope. This is women. This is solidarity. This is what we are. Together.

Women have the inate ability to champion one another.
Whether it be baking cakes at The Clink or sending love heart emoji's via social media to rally one another.
We are love. We are kind. And we are in this together.
We are Chrissy. We are women.

So as I sit here and type a little story of a woman I met, who makes my life a little happier, I urge you to do the same, spend a minute today and feel grateful, feel pride, feel love, for yourself and for the women who make you great - go one step further, thank them <3 I'm sure they feel the exact same way about you.

Crisis Point

There was a time, a time that feels alien, as I sit and type this on my laptop, whilst marking my students work, and thinking ahead to the lessons I have planned for them throughout this week and next.
A time when I wore the same clothes for two weeks straight, until I hit Primark with a tenner like Victoria Beckham storming Selfridges.
A time when staying a night in a hotel with a strange man, was a free night in a hotel with hot water and a warm bed, regardless of who was in it.

But it's now 2019 and my mind is a-buzz, whirring with 101 exciting prospects of how to ignite digital technology passions in these optimistic young souls.
And I look at them, each on the precipice of a great adventure, a bright future, so much choice and opportunity. Their little optimistic faces as they talk of their dreams of becoming the next Bill Gates, or Rockstar games latest coding hot-shot.

Yesterday in class, one of them was so pleased with the web design work he had done, he took his wire frame home to show his mum - bearing in mind, these are not school children, not anymore, the sense of pride and purpose was a thing of envy.

I think the last thing I took home to show my mum was an edited report I had doctored in 6th form so that she wouldn't see my poor attendance percentage.

I had a conversation with Sarah the other day whereby I expressed my immense sadness at the lack of purpose in my life, which is inaccurate, given that I have a job that I love, friends I adore, and a life I never thought possible.
I should feel grateful, and full of pride; and I am, but I feel an emptiness and a void that lingers.

I look at my life and all I see is wasted time and wasted opportunities. I am bright, I always have been. I am tenacious.
Once upon a time I was supposed to go to Manchester High School for Girls, the Oxbridge, then become a lawyer, get married to a nice rich man and have some babies.
In a parallel universe I am living an unhappy life, as a successful lawyer, with two children under 5 and sleeping with a man I probably don't love and certainly don't want, but I stayed the course and I chose the path of least resistance. I became the Barker child.

Who am I now? A late blooming professional, forging my path and my name in an industry I never expected to fall into, let alone fall in love with. A failed business woman, with a mountain of debt that keeps me awake at night, that chokes me in my sleep and in my waking breath and feels an impossible mountain to move, and a chain that Jacob Marley would laugh at.

I am a woman of few friends, because I don't know how to make them, let alone keep them. The ones that have survived the fires of Fran, remain true and kind and blindly supportive of the car crash that I am and the ones who burned, either by my fire or theirs, remain ashes that linger that Pompeii. Historic, tragic and where something died.

Sarah looked me in the eye as I wallowed in my self pity at being less of a woman and a person that I felt I should, given the choices I've had, I told her I had seen the most beautiful girl on the metro who I went to 6th form with and that time had made her even more pretty and a thing of awe, and in my chubby gaze, I glanced at her on public transport and thought "there's a girl who's got her shit together, she always did, at 16, and 30, and here I stand, no-makeup, hair tied back and a bristly grizzly face shirking behind the collar of my coat in the hope she won't recognise me in my less than fabulous state.
Sarah scowled and scorned, scalded me, with a look and a laugh and said "I'm sure that girl had a family who loved her, when she went home from school, she went home to supportive parents, friends and love, she went on to do what she wanted to do, and grew. She didn't run away to London and live on the streets, she wasn't homeless, hopeless and alone,"
With that in mind, I suppose it's a miracle I am who I am now, that I have a roof over my head and have escaped my past.
But it hasn't left me.

Today I had an email "Your payslip is now ready to view"
Always an email met with excitement and dismay, for my salary tends to be carved and served up on silverware for all those who invested in me and my fledgling limited company - oh joy. The crash of the company meant the finances crashed down around my ears, and despite me working in a joyful, lovely job, my wages don't remain my own, they leave the door faster than they come in.
I work my full time job, work my titties off, I work harder than anyone I know, truly, overcoming my own brain mental health psychosis on a daily basis to get up and out is a miracle.
A daily fucking miracle.

So when I get paid, I think HURRAY, I can pay the rent - I have a roof. I can buy food - I have food, I can live like a normal person, who does normal things, who at 31 should be doing.
I can function.
And then I slice the cake 101 which ways and pay everyone whats due as they shout MORE MORE MORE MORE MORE MORE MORE. It's never enough.
I count my change and stretch it as far as it will go and pray for normalcy and that Sarah is happy, that shes truly happy and that money isn't everything and we can live like this.

Should we live like this? Forever? Chained to the mistakes of a failed dream? I don't know, I just don't know.

Regardless, today - the clanger. Good lord. The kick in the fanny I truly did not need.

Attachment of earnings deduction - what fresh hell is this? £147.60 - how bizarre? What a strange amount of money. For what? For who? Why do I have no idea?

DWP payroll tells me.
Alarming - I have never had a benefit in my life.

So I call our governments finest entity and am told it is the collection of a crisis loan taken out in 2009 by me, when in London.

I almost drop my phone.

I ask what the fresh fuck this man is talking about - he tells me that I attended a job centre in Bayswater London in 2009 and received a giro cheque for a crisis loan, registered address at the time - a dingy dodgy fucking hostel, that at the time was the lap of luxury, once you had ducked and dived the polish ladies washing line hung from bunk bed to bunk bed, it was practically a Hilton.

I ask him, why has a crisis loan payment been deducted 10 years later from my now already stretched and hard worked for salary, he tells me this is standard practice and that DWP collect on old debts as and when they "loop round," and that a letter had been sent to my address - again, said hostel, to inform me.

I screech, in posh blaspheming and anger.

To summarise - when I was homeless, and living and working as a delightful lady of the night, and duly decided I couldn't stomach the streets or the dodgy brothel where we locked in day and night by Steve the Italian pimp with a mole the size of Sicily on his face and sought the help of our fair country by way of an emergency crisis loan to help me get a bed for another few nights in the hostel and not just the one night of luxury I could afford at the time.
This, yes this, wonderous life saving payment of £147.60 has now ten years later been taken from my now full time wages.

In a time where I budget every pound and every penny to pay The Barker Baker bullshit, the DWP decide to remind me of who I am, who I really am.

I am the scraper. I am the borrower. The beggar. The drain.

So whilst I'm sat marking my students work, and evaluating the delightful deduction of £147.60 from my now diminished paycheque, I'm angry and I feel totally worthless.

Will I never be free of the worst parts of me?
Or am I just the street rat who works to pay the past over and over and over until I die.

Such optimism.
Such joy.
I'm so glad I got out of bed today to face a brighter and better future.
It's what I work so hard for right?

Thanks DWP, alongwith HMRC, you've really had a good month on me! Don't spend it all at once.

Feed the beast

In the infamous words of Ross Gellar - "I'm fine," seems to have been my go-to phrase this week.

But am I fine?
Easy answer - no.

Why?
Medication, medication, medication.
That sounded a little Tony Blair didn't it? As we approach a potential no-deal Brexit, that's a statement loaded with political satire.

And so the slow drum in the back of my mind begins to beat, a reminder, an alarm, a prompt - feed me, feed me, I need it, I need it.

Like a fat girl with cake on the brain (again me) - I have a one track mind - literally.

Citalopram is it's name.

My cure and my curse.

Oh to be so life dependent on something I deem renders me so weak. Weak minded, weak bodied, just weak. Am I not better than this? Stronger than this? Is it not mind over matter? When my brain fires up, and is put to good use; there are no limits to what I can achieve.

It is what makes me great - at times, and what brings me to my knees just as well.

The multi-award winning business woman, who crippled her own empire through lack of self-care, support and proper medication. Genius. Is there an award for that?

"World's most arrogant twat?" perhaps?

The last time I did this - and by this, I mean conquered my demons, my mental instability, my drastic depression and soul destroying anxiety - yeah, all of that. I did so, for a few weeks. Unstoppable, unmedicated, unchallenged, unchanged and powering through life like a nice "normal" person.

This culminated in anger, frustration, uncontrollable emotion of all varieties and the final port of call - sat before a very unimpressed doctor who gave me the : "If you were a diabetic would you not take your insulin because you were 'having a good day' "

That's not how I see my mental health, I see it as something that's managed, on a part time basis, because I like to think I'm not such a fruit cake that I can't function without chemicals.

Key word - chemicals.

That's exactly what is missing from my brain - and duly, what has caused this colossal pause in my momentum of late; Serotonin Syndrome 

Because I have more or less been taking Citalopram consistently for the past 6 years, my brain has become used to it, no, dependent upon it.

When I don't take it, I wake up, my brain wakes up, and as my stomach cries for my breakfast, my brain cries for its happiness invoker.

The little pill that provokes the serotonin to start flowing and take me to a more positive place, or at least a more rational and balanced one.

Problem is, if you stop taking your meds, your brain stays hungry, not hungry, desperate.

The main symptom aside from being an emotionally unstable fruit loop?

It genuinely means the brain doesn't produce serotonin as it should, because its waiting for the trigger, the happy push in the right direction and when it doesn't get it, it goes the other way.

Welcome to sad Fran land.

Where all is doom and gloom and greyscale. Or in more dramatic times of thought, stark and black and white with no forgiveness, no consideration, no appreciation and just a selfish, wallowing, woe is me black whole that consumes me and those around me.

What a joy to be around.

Suffice to say - FEED THE BEAST.

We moved, I didn't change over doctors surgeries, I ran out of my own medication at some point in November and duly have been snaffling tablets of my other half here and there, perhaps one or two a week; bearing in mind I'm a 40mg per day kind of girl, I don't think the sweet treats a la tic-tac of 20mg per pop have really been helping the situation and certainly not helping the other half.

Problem 1 - changing doctors requires immense human interaction, first by phone, then by form. I don't like phone calls. I don't like forms that ask my life history. I don't like the first meeting of a new doctor where you explain your life's history, its a depressing carrousel of crazy.

Problem 2 - I hate taking my medication. I hate it. I really do feel like I should be better than this, that I've grown so much as a person over the past few years, that I should be better? I should be kinder, more mindful, more appreciative, more honest, more focused, more... me?

The irony is, I am all of those things - on a good day.

I still lack to the basic understanding of what true emotion is, or what it is to other people. I don't have a filter, I tend to speak before I think, I'm insensitive and what's worse, I lack the ability to recognise when I'm the one in the wrong, because I'm blindly stubborn and as you remember "Award for World's Most Arrogant Twat,"

And yet strangely, I'm evolving. Like some sort of serial killer you see on Netflix, I watch these shows and think HOLY FUCKING SHIT, am I that disconnected? Do I lack empathy?

Don't get me wrong, I've not looked at the cat and thought "you're next fluffy," and I don't fantasise about killing my boss - no more than the next person (although I really don't because I LOVE my job)

But I am little empty at times and it scares me.

HOWEVER, before you all run for the hills and cancel your plans to see me for coffee, let me share with you.

I am better.

I am kinder.

I am doing more things right than and I doing wrong.

That's progress. For me anyway.

Someone I loved very much died recently, and normally, death doesn't impact me to such an extent, but for some reason, this one crippled me.

Not because of the sheer sadness of death, but because of the pain of others.

I couldn't bear the thought of the sadness that must have taken over their lives, the empty space, the loss of a love, and I cried.

Like I've never cried before. I didn't know if I would stop.

And it was liberating.

To know I was human, I did feel what other people feel. 

Absolute total and utter love, and moreover love for those who I know needed me, to listen, to care, to share, to support.

(all without medication might I add)

However, I sit and I work, and I love what I do and it occurs to me that this week has not been my best week, and a colleague said to me when I made clear I was put out at my lack of 110% attitude this week

"You can't be perfect ALL the time Fran,"

Well one - thank you :) a total compliment and testament to my mad passion for my job.

And two, I think that is why I suffer so so badly when I don't take my meds.

Because everything feels like the end.

Like I failed.

Like it's all my fault.

When in reality, every single day is a small step in right direction.

They would be bigger steps with my medication.

What is the moral of this Thursday story?

Don't suffer in silence.

Don't let the silence take you.

Don't let people make you feel less than you are.

Be proud.

Be brave.

Be you.

Own your mental health, don't let it own you.

AND TAKE YOUR DAMN MEDICATION!

 

Man Hands

Burly man hands,
Crinkled and firm.
But with such softness and warmth.
Not like the new daddy,
His hands are girly and quaint.
They don't have the reassurance yours do.

His hair is soft and bouncy,
He reminds me of a Ken doll.
Leather jackets and jeans.
Silly man.

I asked you once, not to leave,
You said you wouldn't.
But you did.
I'm sure it broke your heart as it did mine,
But we were destined to live different lives.

I stayed with new daddy and you became daddy superstar 2.0
What a wonder you must have been.
Burly hands and all.
Stories, sat on knees, curled at your feet like kittens.
I hear you make good crumpets too.
What a man.
I always knew you were.

I came from a world where daddys were bad men.
Scary and rough.
Where daughters were not safe.
Where laughter was not heard.
Where futures were scarce.
You changed that.

A farm.
A cow.
A sheep.
A horse.
A donkey.
You had it all.
With the kindest eyes and the softest touch,
You calmed one and all.
Animals, and the wild creature that was me.

A gobby cockney Eliza,
Brought up north and at your door,
With questions a-plenty
"Yeah but why though? But why?"
You had answers for all my questions.

If time could reverse and we had a second chance,
I would squeeze your burly hand and not let go.
When I asked you to stay in the big posh house,
You tucked me up in a bunk bed and said goodnight,
I'd sneak out, I'd grab James by the hand,
And run, run back to the farmland,
With you and your warmth and your pure soul.
You could have changed me, made me, a better woman than I am.

What fortune, what luck,
To find you again,
To appreciate you in all your glory
And understand what you said.
To know, to love, to see all that you did,
The family you raised,
The life you lead,
If I got 5 minutes of that,
Well then I'm more fortunate than most,
Because you, dear Jed, will never be a ghost.
I held you in my heart,
For nearly 30 years,
What is 30 more?

You kind soul,
You wonderous man.
I am so lucky to have once, been your little Fran