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.