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.
Tuesday, 26 February 2019
Thursday, 31 January 2019
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!
Monday, 7 January 2019
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
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
Saturday, 29 December 2018
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
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
Thursday, 25 October 2018
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?
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?
Wednesday, 22 August 2018
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.
Monday, 9 July 2018
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.
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