Little cherry dress

She loved me once.
My mother.
She did.
She fell so in love with me, as I did her. The day we met. I'll never forget it. She can let me go, she can loose touch and watch me fade away, but for me, forever, she will be Christine Barker, my mother, who's heart I broke. But the only woman to truly break mine.

I don't think I know what love is, not really. It's always been masquerading as need, as acting out of fear of loneliness, to not be wandering in the dark, all alone.
I worry, I don't have it in me, to understand feelings, to understand other peoples hearts. My lack of empathy throughout my life has inhibited the need and purpose of saying "I'm sorry," - it's always a mechanism. It's what people say when they see tears, when they see hurt, they say sorry.
I've said sorry so many times in my life, I thought it had lost meaning; the fact of the matter is, it never had any in the first place. I never understood why people got upset by the things that I did, the things that I said. I always thought it was their weakness and vulnerability of emotion that allowed me to be so destructive.

Why are you crying? I would sit and think.
It's not the end of the world? Is it?
Do you really know what pain is? Because this is temporary and you get it for a moment of two.
Selfish being, oh silly silly you.
Push push push, and I destroy whoever was first in line.

So I suppose in that we are similar, because I have never seen her cry.
I don't know if she does.
Does she sit at home and see a bedroom I once occupied and cry? The loss of her daughter, her one true love, once upon a time.
Because I sit, surrounded by memories and keep sakes I salvaged.
Daisy duck sits pride of place on my 29 year old me grown up bed.
A small piece of my heart. She has chocolate on her ear, because I was always a greedy kid.
I dare not wash her, because she would loose that memory, that piece of me.

There's the box of stuff my dad dropped off, a mish-mash of the life I had before.
It's me.

There are 60 wine labels rattling around the bottom, I collected them year after year. You guys drink too much!
There are keyrings, from school years, badges, beer mats. I collect like a magpie. I still do.
I attach meaning to strange things. Sarah and I have a collection of receipts, acorns, leaves, obscure nik-naks.

I search through the boxes he gave me, there are photos of us 4, smiling at the camera, theres cake. No surprise there.

Does she love me? Like I love her.
People fall out of love all the time, they switch from love to hate.
Maybe thats what we are now. Enemies of this sorry state.

On Sunday, just gone, I met a woman who knew me, when my story began.
She knew me as the cute, blonde, cockney twanged, little Fran.

I asked her if she thought I was broken, even back then.
She said, no, despite all the horror, I was a kind and loving girl.
With my brother as my soul mate, I was Fran, Jay's little mother hen.

And then she said something that made me laugh out loud.
You are the little girl who was always "fine"
You would fall down, hurt yourself and then get straight back up, hide your pain, and I'd ask you,
Fran Fran come here sweetheart are you ok? And you'd rub yourself down and say "I'm fine," "I'm fine," and be on your way.

Then a beautiful man who cared for me so well back then, Jed, he said something I'm half tempted to get as a tattoo

"You are the little girl who always had tears behind her eyes, but would never ever let them fall,"

This is a man who knew me when I was 3.
Just 3. A little, little girl.
So broken. So lost. Looking for a new mummy and daddy and a bright new world.

And off we rode into the sunset, little brother and me.
To Cheshire, to happiness, to the big house, the mum and dad and the world at our feet.

I lost them.
They lost me.
And my heart breaks wondering why.

Nothing is unforgivable.
Nothing that can't be undone with the right foot forward, an apology and actions that speak louder than words.

I asked my foster carer if she thought my mum loved me.
She said yes, that she was head of heels at the thought of a little girl.
She was scared to be a mother, she was scared it wouldn't work.
Maybe she knew back then, we'd clash, smash and break each other apart.
She'd break mine, and I'd break her heart.

She gave me a photo, of me, in a little cherry dress, with a silly white hat, the epitomy of what a little girl should be, if you had to pick one from a crowd.
That was me. Perfectly blonde, loud, happy go lucky.

That's the dress, the one that made her fall in love.
I asked her if she would be mine, asked her if she wanted to be my mummy.
That is the only tear I have seen, in this long long 29 years.
Just one, a happy one, as she said yes.

Just a little girl, but I'll never forget.
We loved eachother once. A long time ago.

But we clashed, from day one. It's a strange thing.
I was moderately threatening, with my territorial love of the only love in my life, Jay, he was mine, and I was his, until the end of time. If he would fall, he would come running - to me.
The only word he would speak was my name, Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnn, screamed at the top of his lungs and then just a little giggle, wanting nothing but a look.

The first time he ran to her, it broke my heart, I didn't understand why, or how.
She tells the story, about how I was a little devil, and that it was then she knew I would be trouble.
As she comforted my brother, I bit her. Right on the boob.
She never forgot it. She never let me forget either.

It's 2016, and even I can see why.
She never understood me, or why I did what I did, or was who I was. She never tried to.
We never talked, we never hugged, I've never said I love you, and nor has she.
Is that what parents and daughters do? Because it's lost on me.

Why am I mourning the loss of a woman I never had?
And if I got her back, what would that even mean?
So we could go on and exchange cordialities, and menial conversations, about work, weather and nothing more.

I think I'm the girl in the little cherry dress, waiting for a mummy, full of hope and heart, and it just doesn't come.

Did she get more than she bargained for? Was she right to keep me at arms length? Because I can wallow in self pity and blame it all on her and not me, but I know who I am, I know what I did, I know I was wrong, but I know that love is deeper than any of that. That there's no lie to great, no hurtful word too strong, to say forgive me, I love you, I don't want this anymore.

Driving to meet my foster parents, I spoke with Sarah in the car and I asked if she remembered how my mum looked at me at my grandmas funeral, she said its something she would never forget and it occurred to me, I do not remember a moment in the past 10 years where my mum has looked at me any other way.
She looks at me with disappointment, frustration, resentment, that she wasted her life on something so pointless.
She looks right through me, like I'm a stranger, like a homeless person she passes so easily on the street.
And I sat there, in the car, zooming down the motorway, racking my brains, trying desperately a time where my mother had looked at me with love, with pride, with hope, as a mother does.
And I sat, and sat, and the memories did not come to me.
Because they don't exist.

Why would you work so hard to have children?
Why would you search out the right ones for you?
Go through the processes to become parents?
Only to give up half way through?

Yeah, I cost them a shit load of money, with private schools and holidays and I never ever went without, I was so fortunate, I was blessed, but I would give all of it back.
Every fucking handbag, every ponsey dress, every skiing holiday, all of it.
I hate that thats all I have to remember them by, memories of bullshit.
Holidays with people who wont even say my name, with friends who were supposed to love me just the same.
There are people I've grown up with, who won't even look me in the fact. Who ignore my very existence and go with the mainstream view - that it's me, the destroyer, who brought a world of pain, of shame, fire burning down on my perfect family.

Well they are now.
Just those 3.
My mum made that pretty clear when she introduced her son to strangers, stood right next to me.
She doesn't have a daughter, someone once said to me.
"Christine Barker? I didn't even know she had a daughter,"
It cut me like a knife.

I once sat in the hairdressers chair and a neighbour who had known me since I was 8 years old sat in the chair next to me, she asked how I was, because I wasn't listed on the Barker christmas card anymore.
Erased.
No photos.
No christmas card name signed from Christine, Kevin, Francesca and James.
Now its just three names.

I suppose thats how it should be, after all this time.
She got the family she always wanted.
A husband and a baby.
I've lost count of the times shes told me it was buy one get one free.
That the adoption people wouldn't split us up, but hey everyone needs a consolation prize.

I feel the rage rising, the resentment and the pain. And if she ever read this blog, she would laugh out loud, at my wallow and say "my god you haven't changed"

And I suppose shes right in a way.

Sunday showed me one thing - that if I could go back in time and understand what love is, it's all I would have wanted in the world.
The hugs, that talks, the "how was your day"
The "whos the new boyfriend, girlfriend"
The sex talk, the girl talk, I didn't even know what a period was.
I don't want the best friend mum thing, that kind of creeps me out, but I want a woman who knows me, and loves me no matter what.

Because actually, despite the shit storms, I someone to proud of.
I'm someone to say "she's my daughter" with a smile on her face.

I know that when the time comes and Sarah and I have the chance, no child on this earth will be more loved and adored.

She did what she thought was best, there is no doubt about that.
And I'm not shaming her for giving up on me, I'm just highlighting that I never would.

Conscience calling

Am I good?
Am I bad?
The conflict drives me mad.

Are my decisions the right ones?
Am I making them for myself?
Are they selfish?
Careless?
Caring?
I don't know who I am.
I have lost my way.

I thought I had my life mapped out,
I was feeling so safe and secure,
And now I can't breathe,
I want to just lie here on the floor.

I'm suffocating, in sin, in sadness, in fear,
Where did I go?
What happened to the person I fell in love with?
The person I became, to be good, to be kind, to be sane.
I just don't feel the same.

Give me all the medication,
Maybe the drugs will sort me out,
Because inside I'm screaming,
And there's a version of me trying to get out.

Is this the life I live forever?
Smothering demons and darkness inside.
Living a good life, a nice life,
But in fear these lips will tell lies.

I'm proud. I've achieved such greatness.
So why do I feel this way?
That one wrong move, one false move,
Will wash it all away?

The self for-filling prophecy,
The ticking time bomb,
The eternal self destruct,
The button I love to push,
To watch it all blow up.

Why?
Why?
Set this all on fire,
For what?

The cycle,
Over and over,
Break it,
For the love of god,
Shake it.
It'll destroy everything you love.
Everything you have built.

It's the good, the bad and the ugly,
And they are all game for a fight.
In head and in heart,
Tearing you apart.
It's soul destroying, suffocating.

You trust yourself to be better,
You believe it,
Because its true.
This version, this you,
It's pure, its kind,
It has to stick.
It has to hold,
Because there's so much good to come.
Don't let it come undone.

Don't believe the bad people say,
What do they know anyway?
Mistakes. Paid.
Bed, Made.
Work harder,
Prove them wrong.
Prove them right.
Just don't give up the fight.

It's exhausting.
Being constantly at war.
Defending yourself to the world and his dog,
Defending yourself to your own core.
It's draining.
It's hurting.
I'm tired.

Try, try, try,
Cry, cry, cry.
Why, why, why.
Just don't tell lies lies lies.

You're better than that now.

Do you believe them when they say you are better?
That you should be proud?
Do you hold onto the shit and the hurt and let it cloud?

Who are you?
Only you know.
The good, the bad and the ugly.
Fight for the right.
Fight for the true.
Fight for the kind and honest you.

It has to be.
It has to be.
Please

The Coco-Pops Theory

I call it the coco pop theory.

Because it's a simple way to explain the way my brain has worked for over 2 decades.

I love coco pops. I think they have been my favourite breakfast cereal all my life.

I'm happily sharing this fact with you, because it's the truth.

BUT. 

What did you have for breakfast? And do I look you enough to change my answer.

For a long time, my mentality and personality was completely shaped around people pleasing, the ability to bend and shape who I am, true or false, to any given situation, friendship circle, work environment, family friends. Whoever, wherever, I was 101 different versions of Fran. None of them 100% real, all of them with flickers of honesty, quickly snuffed out by lies.

I have a void. An empty space. A need. 

To have people like me, love me and let me love them and do whatever I can to make their lives easier, happier, when in reality, it ends up the complete opposite.

I have come to see this, all be it, a little too late in life, that lasting relationships cannot be built on lies. False hoods and fabrications are not stable structures to create love, friendship, memories, because it's always tainted.

But, for a long time, with a little girls behaviour trapped in an angry teenagers body, long term never really mattered, it was in the moment, it was rose tinted happiness, it was enough.

It's only in the past few years that I've come to realise that what I really want, and wanted, all my life, was meaning, was honesty, friends, family, love.

And all the while, I was making each aspect impossible.

The coco pops theory.

Prospective friend "I love Weetabix, I had Weetabix for my breakfast this morning, I think they are my favourite breakfast cereal? - What did you have Fran?"

Me (knowing I had coco pops and love coco pops more than any other cereal, acknowledges that this new person prefers Weetabix and that if I want that person to like me and find a common ground quickly the right answer is as follows)

"I had Weetabix too, they are also my favourite cereal"

Thats the simplified version of what goes on in my head.

These days as I grow to understand myself, who I am, what I want, it's easy to answer that question.

I had coco pops. Or I didnt have breakfast because I was baking bread.

And more than that, I don't really care if you don't like coco pops - I do and thats all that matters.

In 2014, I wrote a message to a lady who I thought might be my last ever foster carer.

Last night she read it, replied to it, and was indeed the lady I hope she was.

Now, I had foster carers from hell. An old lady called Aggie who I will never ever forget. She was a horror, Especially for a little girl who had been torn from her soul mater, her little brother.

And then we were reunited, at a farm, with lovely, kind people.

The reason I wanted to find this woman was to ask her : what was I like?

I'm fascinated, tracing my life, my behaviour, my decisions, the cause and effect, in some hopeless endeavour to put it all right, to put me right.

I want to know, was I this broken when I was with them at the young age of 3?

Was I kind, was I hurtful, was I upset by all that had happened?

Did I miss it? Was I needy? Did I lie? Did I cry?

Living the life of a compulsive liar, it often becomes blurred. Was it real? Or was it something I made up?

I second guess myself, I trace backwards evaluating what was right and what was wrong.

I worry that the memories I have are not real, that its imagination, that its my version, twisted in my own head.

I remember so much. From so young. Its too much in one mind.

This woman, had me at the age of 3, she gave me my first ever birthday cake. It was small, white fondant icing, with a red number 3 on it, and a small fondant teddy bear, with one candle.

It was magical.

I had never had a birthday cake before and hadn't understood the fuss of a day of the year having meaning. Not Christmas, not Easter, not birthdays.

I felt special. I felt loved.

I was adopted, birthdays got bigger and better, but nothing compared to that first cake.

I grew older, images, names, places. voices, memories, all floating around in my head.

Some I was fond of, I drifted back in time and stayed there a while, some horrific, that falling asleep, I'd be trapped there for a night and wake up confused, disgusted, ashamed.

I thought there was something wrong with me, to dream such things, to think it real, that it happened.

And lo' 25 years old, reading a court case file ready to be sentenced for fraud and there it all was in black and white, the stories, the images, the places, the names.

Not imagination.

Fact.

It was sickening and reassuring all at once.

So, to get to the point.

I messaged this woman, she wrote back, and I asked her one of the burning questions in my mind, which given all thats happened in my life may sound trivial, but I had to know.

While I was in foster care, was there a horse and a donkey, one called Dusty, and one called Frosty, and was there a field, with a broken chair, green, that spun round, that we would play on for hours on end.

I've grown up thinking it was escapism, fantasy and that no 3 year old could remember such things, let alone hold onto them until the age of 29.

...

The speech bubble appears on Facebook, what will she say...

"you're so right about it all, we had lots of horses, and we did have Dusty and Frosty............"

So I'm not mad. It wasn't a dream.

The good and the bad, it all happened.

So what do I do now?

29 years, still non the wiser.

Happy Birthday,
Daughter,
Your 29th birthday,
How great.
I'm sorry for the text at midnight,
I just couldn't wait.

To tell you how proud I am,
How wonderful to see you grow,
To see you older and wiser,
And filled with such hope.

What are we doing?
Where are we going?
What time, what place?
Let's go, lets celebrate,
Go on stuff your face!

Oh shit.
It's ringing, the alarm in my ears.
Its May 27th,
It's 29 years from 1987,
And it's time to wake up.
Look.
Phone.
Grab.
Hope.
Wish.
Blank.

No messages.
No wishes.
No love you's, no kisses.
My father has forgotten,
It's my birthday.
It's as it was last year.
A heart break.
A tear.

Silly silly,
We did this again.
With hope in our hearts,
We deluded.
We fell.

It's worse this time,
You text in ahead,
"Hey daddy, hey daddy, don't forget, don't forget, I'm 29, I'm not dead,"
Well said Fran, well said.

Not desperate at all,
Not needy,
Not sad.
Oh no, I'm course he read that and thought,
Of course, it's my Fran!
I wouldn't forget,
The date my daughter was born,
My little girl,
My hope,
How could I forget it at all?

You are blonde again,
You've lost a little weight,
You've gone a little feminine,
You've got those trendy HD brows,
You've got love in your life,
And your something to make them proud.

How strange.
You've ticked boxes that were laid out.
Said sorry.
Made promises.
Stood by them.
Stood tall.
Accepted your mistakes,
Hell you've even taken the fall.
The rap.
The shit.
The hate.
The words.
Lost your family.
Your love.
Your entire world.

And what?
Now you wait,
Another day,
Another year,
For a silly text message,
Like it will set your world alight,
And pave the way for things to be right.
Silly Fran
Silly girl,
You will really never learn.
The bridges burned,
The tables turned,
And you are the demon,
Not the daughter,
Your some lying toxicity,
That can't be cleansed with holy water.

29.
Old enough to know.
It's done.
It's buried.
As they will be too.
And about that my Fran, little girl,
There is nothing you can do.

Forgiveness, it's in the bible

I'm listening to this song as I write : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qhX1AZCo2Sg
I suggest you do to.
Its a clear cut window into my mind


The first hurdle I faced yesterday was where to sit.
In the church.
The house of God.
In a church I have sat many times before.
Still as uncomfortable as ever.

"Reserved for family" signs on the first two benches - I  never dreamt I would sit so close to the front when I decided I was going to her funeral.
So I sat on the benches behind those reserved for the rest of my family. I didn't want to offend by sitting there, it would have been welcomed as distasteful, obnoxious, and a classic Fran being a provocative bitch.

I also chose not to skulk at the back, like Judas waiting in the wings. I loved my Grandma. And no fucker in that church was going to take that away from me.
So I sat, with my little service sheet in my shaking hands, looking down at her smiling face and some seriously debatable glasses choice; it was an old photo.

The music starts, the coffin comes in, and its not just her thats dead, its everyone else whos carrying her.
My father, tears streaming down his face, my brother, handsome as ever, concentrating on where he is walking. My cousins, faces I haven't seen for over a decade - older.
My poor uncle, heartbroken but steely faced and brave, all walking.

Following came the family, from the funeral cars, aunties, non of them will look at me, some of them look through me. Then there is a sigh, it reverberates around the church, people turn to see where it came from - my mother. She looks at me.
I wish she hadn't.
Such hate. Such hate. Words can't describe.
And then a miraculous thing takes place before my eyes, people comfort her, place their hands on hers, on her back, sharing her hate and supporting through the sheer anguish of having seen me.
People who used to know and love me.
Sharing in this car crash.

No-one is concentrating on the grief for a few moments, oh no, it's all eyes on me, Judas.
I thought we were here to mourn, I thought death meant more.

Sarah grasps my hand, I pull it away lightening quick, I can't hold her hand in a church, not my grandmas church, I can't hold it infront of my family, it would flame to the fire.
But god I've never wanted it more.

The service is beautiful, but nobody sings, nobody cries. My dad maintains his composure,
My aunty reads something she wrote about her mum, its honest, she cries.
Its poignant - "Mum wasn't perfect, but who is, we loved her"
Its still ringing in my ears.

And then the service is over, everyone stands to follow the coffin from the church, they are taking it to the graveyard to be buried with my grandfather.
The firey eyes continue as my mother looks at me, as she leaves, she breaks her gaze of disgust and goes to talk to people who had attended the service.
Help me.
I'm in limbo, surrounded by people I want to hug and reassure; "I'm sorry for your loss" is something strangers say when they hear awkward news.
I grasp my Uncle, I say those words "I'm sorry for your loss"
The whole thing is hideous, no-one wants to engage me, but they all have the social awkwardness of having too.

My brothers other half walks over and hugs me tightly, its the best hug I've had all day, I barely want to let go of her. Shes kind, and shes above the family politics, but she wont realise her mistake until later.
Jay follows and hugs the two of us, asks if we are heading for the drinks, I say yes, he laughs and tells me not to get a pint - heaven forbid, the lesbian, with her lesbian partner, drink a pint, at a catholic funeral.
What would grandma say?
She would probably get another round in.

My mum see's this. There is a lady she knows stood next to me, she marches over, dragging my brother with her "Oh hello, its so nice to see you, how nice that you came"
                           "This is my son James and his fiance" she looks at me as she says the words, theres a slight smirk on her face.
Well played mother.
Introducing my brother to people whilst I'm stood next to him with nowhere to run.
More embarassing is that the woman later asks if I am Francesca, Christines daughter. I don't know what the right answer is. No, I don't think I am. In fact, no, I'm not.
My mum doesn't have a daughter anymore. I do not exist, and shes made it her mission to erase me.

My father comes over, hugs me, says hello to Sarah, thanks us for coming. I'm grateful. It gives me some credibility to be there.
I ask if he is ok, he says hes fine. Then goes to greet other people.

I want to go to the graveyard but see there is no way I would be welcome, so like the snake I am, I slither away. Back to the car.
Still, I don't cry. I barely talk. Sarah tries to engage me. Whats the point.

We drive to where the drinks and buffet are, now it's another test.
Where does Judas sit? With the disciples? Or cast out on a table far far away?

I chose far away.
For safety.
For fear of it being misinterpreted if I sit in the for-ore of people.

My brother comes and sits with us, brave, stupid, he will pay for his choice later.
He's lovely, and kind, he jokes about how awkward it is.

I sit here looking around the room and a terrifying thought enters my head.
This is exactly why I loved drugs.
This is exactly why I loved lies.
This is exactly why I loved being a total fucking fake.
Because to sit here and be myself, and feel ok with that, is IMPOSSIBLE.

I feel hated. I hate myself. I feel like I'm stood in the crown court again.
It makes me feel sick.
But I smile on.
Drinking my wine.
Trying not to reach for Sarah, I keep forgetting.

On and on it goes, the occasional acknowledgement.
A lady asks Sarah at the bar "Are you Francesca?"
Sarah says no, and that I'm sat over at the back.
The lady tells her she wants to meet Francesca, as my grandma spoke about me all the time.

Its the best part of my day.
So I did exist to someone,
I was right to come.
And what I wrote on my flowers for her funeral day couldn't have been more true.

I go to the bar, ask my father if he wants a drink, he looks like shit, drained, tired, sad.
I buy a pint of bitter for my uncle, who hugs me once again.
He and a few obscure family members ask me to sit with them, so Sarah and I move from the outskirts into the centre.
I warn them they are making a mistake.
That they shouldn't sit with me.
And I'm right,

My mother grabs one of them at the bar
"Don't be taken in by Francesca," she laughs whilst looking at me.
"She's a decietful little liar"

This is hear.
The rest is lost in the noise of the room.
"She's even brought her disgusting little lesbian friend"

I feel like I've been kicked in the stomach.
She hates me so much.

The table of people I was sat with, diminishes one by one, and they leave me, to sit with her.
And then it's Sarah and me.
Again,

I have lied, I have cheated, I have stolen, I have broken, I have been the biggest bitch in the world.
I have wreaked havoc on my life and the lives of the people I love most.
I have broken hearts.
I have.

I live with that, every day.
I lived with that in a court room. On probation. In rehab.
I know what I once was.
I know why I was that way.
There in lies my frustration.

None of it is me anymore. It never really was.
I have a good soul, I am a good person.

So why do I hate myself so so much today?
I woke up at 4am, short of breath, sticky eyes.
I lay there. In my lovely bed with my beautiful Sarah, and for the first time in years, I wanted to get out.
I wanted to put on my shoes and just walk, run, scream, cry.
Do I not get this?
Do I live in limbo for the rest of my life?
Do I watch the people I love live and then die?
And never ever get the chance to grieve? To mourn?
To feel?

We drove, so fast, away from that place.
To the graveyard.
The sun was setting, it was beautiful.
I walked through the mud in an incredible pair of high heels, I stomped, to find her grave.
It's not like anyone would tell me where it was even if I have asked.

There were several mounds of dirt, many people were buried and lost today.
I half wish I was one of them, my heart hurts. I don't know how I will overcome this feeling.

I find her mound of dirt.
Patricia Anastasia Barker.
It's strange, theres flowers on her soil, and a little space, and my flowers fit so perfectly, its like it was meant to be.

I ask Sarah to give me some time, and I stand in the soil and the mud, with no shoes on, talking to a newly buried grave. A piece of wood with a shiny plaque.
I stand there and I talk.
I tell her whats happened today, and I tell her I'm glad I came, that I wouldn't have missed it for the world.
I tell her I'm sorry.
I tell her I love her,
And that no-one will understand.
That because of who I am, and what I have done, it seems I'm not supposed to feel this way about her.
I'm not entitled.
Entitled is the word I use.
If she were alive she would have told me off.
If she were alive she would have shot my mum down after her first words of hate, whether justified or not.

I laugh and tell her about my Aunty's ironic speech in church, I tell her about the concept of forgiveness in her precious faith, and that it doesn't ring true.
That I don't believe it possible.
I tell her I've lost them, and that I won't be going to anyone elses funeral.
That they will all die, and it will come to nothing.
That I'll die, and no-one will come, no-one will mourn.
I have angry tears running down my face, self pity, what an ugly quality.
But I find myself believing it.

I once thought if I died, in death maybe they would mourn me.
So I tried to hurry the course.

I once thought if I was sick,
They would have to stand up and start to care.

None of it made a difference. In life and in death, I am Judas.

I don't quite no how to find my way back to who I was on Monday, on Tuesday, on Wednesday.
Because I'm saturated with absolute self hate.
I feel sick.
That I can make a room full of people who are supposed to love me, turn to hate, and loathe, and I don't know how to fix it.

I know who I am, I do.
I am Francesca Barker the girl who began to exist and understand at 25.
I am Francesca Barker, set to marry my incredible Sarah, the poor girl.

If yesterday shows me anything it is that I am proud, of who I am, somehow.
I introduced Sarah to my Aunty as my partner yesterday.
I have hidden that part of me from my family all my life.
It was liberating,
I was proud. Because she loves me. And I am blessed, I am grateful.

So maybe thats the answer, I can't be a Barker anymore. They don't want me and I'm not sure I want them.

A Barker-Mills perhaps, we will build something great from the ashes of my past.
And hope to hell no-one else tries to set me on fire.
If I don't hold the torch myself.

Wilderness

I'm loosing all my rights,
I'm doubting my own mind.
I'm loosing myself,
Because of my silly little lies.

Is it fair?
To pull these memories from my brain?
To make me feel like I'm crazy?
And I dreamt up each and every day.

I find myself in silence,
Faced with walls you put up high,
You block me out, lock me out,
Make me feel I did something wrong,
For god sake, some has died.

Why are we fighting?
Does any of it matter now?
Can't you hear me?
My fear.
Screaming.
I love you.
My heart is breaking.
I need to keep you close.
Because your the ones I love the most.
But your fading into the distance,
Like she has,
Just become another ghost.

I've had punishments,
From courts, from love.
From powers above.
Yours is everlasting.
Taking my memories,
Taking my nostalgia,
Taking it all away.

They took my shoes laces,
They took my engagement ring.
And your taking whats left of me.
My love.
My family.

You say I broke your heart,
With who I am,
What I turned out to be.
But I'm not the monster you paint so well,
I'm not.
I'm the little girl you wanted,
I'm just 20 years too late.

I won't keep apologising,
Because it wasn't all my fault,
You can lock me out,
You can shut me out,
You can tell everyone I'm the demon,
That broke you with lies and disguise,
We both know thats not true.
That your faux-chivalry and heart ache are a facade,
Because we both got burnt when the fire took it all.

Stop pretending I don't exist.
Because I'm here.
I'm everything I want to be.
And I will keep pushing
I will keep trying
Because I won't let time take you too.
I won't answer the phone to find out you were next.
That I can't go to a church,
I can't hold your hand,
I can't love you,
Don't you understand?

I'm trying to salvage,
Whats left of the life I had before,
I'm trying to show you it doesn't have to be this way anymore.

Life's too short for mistakes and hate,
I'm your daughter,
And I'm pretty fucking great.

You don't own me

I thought this would be the easiest blog post to write...

That it would be full of optimism and hopefulness.
To be honest, after the week I've had, I'm just grateful to be still standing, let alone typing!

SO my friends, the big bad wolf from 2006 will no longer linger in my mind, he is now confined to the darkness he deserves.

I have spent the past ten years in hiding, in worry, in destruction, in hate, in a cocaine fuelled haze (not lately!)

When I was 19, I felt I had my whole life ahead of me, I was at University, I was making friends, I was away from family and learning to be myself, liberated in my sense of self and in my own sexuality.

And then it all came crashing down. One night that ruined me. That destroyed my little bubble of hopefulness and determination and dreams.
And I remember every second of it in vivid detail.
It has haunted me for such a long time.

I lost myself. In lies and promiscuous-ness, selfishness, and nothingness.

I am the girl who was destined for great things, a great big shiny career, the house, the life, the shallow existence!
.............And I ended up a hooker in deepest darkest London, in a warehouse full of Eastern European girls, a horrible pimp and enough mice to scare off Dick Whittington.

I feel lighter.
I feel free.
I feel.... me again?

Is it possible that after 10 years I am liberated? That I truly the person I once was, but with the added bonus of being good, and honest, and grown?

That man took my heart. My body. My soul.
But piece by piece, I've taken it right back.
More than that, I took his.
This week he got to look into my eyes, on my terms, and I'm the one that was in control, I was the one with the power, the truth, and just like that, gone.... gone from my life, from my mind, my heart.

I'm free. I am born.

Now it feels like another chapter of the sad story of my life, that I occasionally pick up and read and wonder how I got here.

I was once a 19 year old girl, who was raped by a monster of a man, who didn't have the decency to not prevent a pregnancy, or an STD, who left me battered, bruised and bleeding in a heap, with clothes torn off my body, carpet burns etched in my skin, a bust lip and bloody on my face.

I was once a fucked up 20 something who was more interested in snorting hundreds of pounds worth of cocaine to forget that I was in fact once a 19 year old girl who was raped by a monster of man.....

I am now a 28 year old woman.
And bad things happen. Bad things hurt. But as the old saying goes,, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

I've been in A and E departments throughout the last ten years, with slit wrists, with drug overdoses, with angry attempts at ending it all and for what?
One night? One man? One selfish ignorant act?

I have to admit, it wasn't exactly Christmas to find out after a heavy night of drinking to forget that the doctors in the hospital told me I was pregnant.
And it certainly wasn't fun to lie to my parents that I was some sort of whore who had fucked a random man at University and gotten my self so silly so silly Fran, pregnant.

As for my mum hating me for having an abortion and not knowing why I had to, it broke my heart.
I would have given anything to have told her the truth - but when I had this conversation with Sarah recently, what would Mrs Barker have said to her dykey daughter who had been raped by a big black man and was now pregnant with the added bonus of chlamydia?
If she had thrown her arms around me and held me, told me it would be OK, taken me to my abortion appointment and demanded justice - I would have told her, in a heartbeat.
But more likely would have been disgust and disdain, that the dykey daughter had gotten herself into such a dangerous situation in the first place, that that "canal street" only brought about bad bad news.

Oh well.
The whore daughter seemed the easier option!

And now I'm older, I wish it could have been different. I wish still, so much, I could hold her hand and feel reassured that its over, that I'm free.

Some things are not so easy to put back together.

Alas, I have my beautiful Sarah, the ever faithful total idiot of a girl who loves me unconditionally with more baggage than Heathrow airport, she stands tall and proud, mine, always.
She's bonkers.
But I am blessed.
I love her with all my heart and she has held my hand through it all.
Dope.

So here I stand, a few days and the weight of what happened this week sinks in.
I type this as I sit in my little shop.
I type this writing up an article.
Writing up the rota
The payroll.
The plan for the coming weeks.

My life is great. My love is unstoppable.
And this week is just another page in the book.

Speak up, shout out and never give up.

- I chose this song to be played on the National Prison Radio this week, because it is exactly how I feel right now in this moment.
I want to throw on a white fur coat and march down a New York street arm in arm with Goldie Hawn and Bette Middler singing my tits off!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q_oFL_b719g