New Year, New Me? Don't you just hate that

It is an interesting thing to sit at my laptop on New Years Eve in 2021 and write, because 1) this is the first public blog I have written since coming home and 2) I'm very aware that the content of my blog is watched, read, re-read and even aired in court on occasion. So for those of you reading for the joy of reading and not some sense of barkerbaker voyeurism - welcome :)

We were all steam rolled into 2021 thinking 2020 was the worst of what the world had to offer, and for many, including myself, the tumultuous nature of 2020 was the gift that just kept on giving.

December 10th 2020 saw me in the back of a prison van, locked in a little cubicle, driving through the dark streets of Manchester to HMP Styal, Christmas lights dotting the road and turns I have learned to love and known all my life, now seen in a totally different light.

In the bleak, cold, stark journey from court to incarceration I had the joy of seeing my own fair abode from the blacked out van window and it occurred to me, how odd I always found it growing up, glancing up at the same windows on the winding motorways of the United Kingdom, wondering what demons lay within and what monsters were off to be put in their cages.

Me. I was the monster off to be caged. Caged, what a Manchester Evening News word, one that has continually filled me with fury in my many moments of anti-establishment, feminist, political cries for equality in a justice system - where women are painted as failed and flawed creatures, where crimes speak lounder than stories that came before, where words in court warp the true sense of truth, and completely undermine whatever we call justice, or whatever justice victims really seek.

So I sat in my cubicle, a bottle of water rolled under the locked compartment door - no handcuffs, just shaking hands and a one track mind - this can't be happening. How is this happening. It's all a big mistake. The continuation of my unrealistic inability to accept the severity of my actions and holding onto the words of a legal team who failed me more than I failed myself and awaiting a press parade of public humiliation that would mark me, marr me, and forget about those I left in my wake, my family, friends, employer, colleagues, students. So quick to print, so quick to run articles that once found fame and now projected shame. The irony. The press prints I've collected over the years, the awards, all locked in The Barker Baker suitcase in my apartment, so that one day they might find the light and I could remember what it felt like it was all for. But in the stark, dark, winding roads of Cheshire now, it was clear to all, even me. It was all for nothing.

A welcome of her majesty's prison during Covid-19, not lockdown at this stage in Greater Manchester and Cheshire in early December 2020, but in the prison system, a convenient and extensive choke hold on all who reside there, for the pandemic opened up a vulnerability - an easily exploited suffocation of the freedoms and dignities that can and should be found behind bars. Eradicated, decimated and masquerading as duty of care. There was none. 

"Don't worry it's nothing like what you see on TV, it's not like Bad Girls," said the prison officer opening the third gate leading to the cell block, and my "wing" - perhaps she hadn't watched Bad Girls, because this was like for like, door after door, slots to speak through, noise like that of a zoo, screams like that of a mental institution or psychiatric ward, and smells like a kennel.

A plastic bowl, a toilet roll, a bar of soap, toothbrush, sachet of shampoo and laundry tablet were handed to me - I must have looked confused. The prison officer tapped the sign on my cell door - my name, prisoner number, prison photo and date of entry. "Shower is day 8 and exercise is day 5, press the bell only if an emergency, that will be all, IN,"

This plastic bowl was a thing of facination for me throughout the prison journey, never more so than when crouching over it to wash with little dignity in my cell, only thankful I wasn't padded up with another inmate and thankfully on my own. The same bowl now to wash what few clothes I had brought with me to prison, having not truly anticipated I might actually end up there. Washing knickers, lady parts, cups, plates, hair. So this is my Christmas. This is my New Year.

I watched the fireworks all through December, split sparks in the sky, blighted by bars. Beautiful in their freedom and mocking in their location. Across the cold starry skies on New Years Eve 2020, Wilmslow never looked so beautiful and so tragic all in one. 

So what of 2021, truly.

What of New Years Resolutions in prison? I wrote on the back of my prisoner pin number sheet my new years resolution for 2021, anticipating my stay at HMP Styal would be as harrowing for the remainder as it was for the beginning, and in my sad handwriting, there is only one word, a piece of paper I brought home with me in September.

Survive

To be honest, on the eve of new year, here now as I sit, my new years resolution is not dissimilar. 

It just requires a little tweak, 2021 saw me survive, 2022 will see me thrive. I have no doubt about that. What infuriates the few, inspires the many - and that has always been a modus operandi I can live with. For those who frown and fight to find flaw and undermine the positive and the progress, there are those who uplift, who stand by my side, who take steps with me, for me, in the right direction. 

Since coming home, I have received, as I knew I would, a barrage of abuse, from strangers and just plain strange. Social media was once the forum of which I centred my universe, the projection, the protection, the falsehood that self-perpetuated the shallow nature of all that had come to pass.

Whilst I was away, I was severed from practically every kind of communication unless a good old fashion pen and paper, and in Styal you didn't receive your actual letters for fear of spice making it's way into the prison - a laughable notion when the level of drugs making their way into the prison system was neither a letter from a loved one to worry about or other!!! Bigger fish to fry HMPSS! 

The detox was beautiful and I genuinely believed when I came home, I would be better, I would see it for what it was, a gentle poison that more often than not, smells like a perfume so you let it in.

I fell right back into my own trap, so overwhelmed by the negative press, the comments, the hurt, the hate, the words, the messages, it went on and on and on and my only weapon was to play "look, everythings ok now,"

Naive and delicately broken as always in it's essence.

For the record, on the eve of December 31st 2021, I'm neither ok, not am I concquering the world the way I would want you all to think I am, but what I am doing is putting one foot infront of the other with a kinder heart, and quite frankly, that's a Christmas miracle and a beautiful thing I can take into the new year, regardless of all the horror 2021 has brought, it has brought love, true, real, overwhelming, life changing love, friendship, honesty, reality, humanity and hope.

My new years resolutions are not to make promises for me, for those I love, they are to make moments and to take steps to bring about something that is more than me.

The political, anti-establishment, feminist, lgbt+, equal rights and justice warrior is well and truly in situ.

Campaigns and lobbying are afoot. Being TheBarkerBaker brought me into contact with the people who make the change, who change the narrative, en-mass, one by one. So the power of that can be it's true legacy. Not what the papers say. But what the change can be.

2022, for you, for me, for every woman still trapped in a cage, mental, physical, financial, emotional, abusive, drug ridden, addicted, who feel they have lost their power because our justice system took it. Power and freedom are concepts. It's voices that get people really scared.

So raise them with me.

Happy New Year Friends <35

To Grieve

When I was 8, my beautiful cat Portia disappeared.

I was distraught.

I looked in all the usual places, even the sports bag he once travelled on the school bus inadvertently in.

Not there.

Days passed, tears ran, hysterics firmly in situ.

I was distraught.

It became apparent that Portia was not going to come home.

Dead or alive, gone for good.

And my tiny little brain, couldn't cope.

I had never known loss like it.

I couldn't comprehend it.

Why? How? Was it me? Was it my fault?

The pain of losing something I loved so much.

It was something I remembered feeling, but didn't understand.

My mother wrote a letter to my teacher, to explain what had happened.

To explain my behaviour.

My tears. My trauma.

And she was annoyed.

That I couldn't or wouldn't pull myself together and get on with things.

That was my first memory of what death or loss felt like.

The second time I remember feeling such pain was my grandfathers funeral.

 I stood next to my mother in a church. Front row. 

And she did a Melania Trump.

Stoney face, grief stricken, hidden under a pair of Chanel sunglasses.

I reached for her hand and she slapped it away like I was Donald Trump.

Bitch please.

Barker's don't cry. Barker's don't really do emotion of any sort unless it's anger.

I know this all too well.

And for the duration of my grandfathers funeral service, I too was stoney faced and cold.

Stalwart in our silent grief.

And then his WW2 service hat felt off his coffin as it was drawn into the fires and I leapt from my church pew, in hysterics, tears streaming down my face, red, puffy, devastated but not understanding why, and placed his hat back ontop of his coffin, panting

"He can't go without it, he needs it, he needs it,"

That memory stands firm in my mind, whenever I think of death and I think of grief, I wonder what it is to process, in a normal fashion, because when I hear of death, I am consumed with a backlog of grief and emotional baggage and it overwhelms me in ways I still don't understand.

Let me explain.

On Sunday just gone, I saw friends, actual human faces, amidst this ongoing pandemic, and in Tier 3 - panic not; social distancing was of course observed - Sarah and I are fairly tenacious regarding Covid as you can imagine.

Walking around in the cold, we trudged around Hollingworth Lake, our old stomping ground and I was consumed with a different emotion all together.

Immense relief and gratitude.

I have moments in 2020, 2019, where I have an outer body experience, and I look at my life and it feels like someone else's because it's not something I ever thought I would have.

I sat on the sofa in our little festive flat this evening, and I cried. I said to Sarah

"I can't explain it, you couldn't understand what I mean when I say, I've spent forever, before you, with you, trying to find who I am, know who I am, and now I have it, I feel like it could all unravel," and I faltered, with immense emotional cracks. My chin wobbled. And I couldn't contain this strange emotion.

I'm happy. Happier than I have ever been.

Walking around a lake on a cold december morning with the kindest people I know, who I treasure, more than I thought possible, I realised just how far I've come.

That the life I have, the life I live, is of my making. The people I fill my days and heart with, are beautiful and fill me with joy. I really am happy.

But it's never easy. I am yet to know a period of my life where I could say it was easy.

We live our life with demons day to day, and its all consuming and sucks joy from the smaller things, no matter how much safeguarding we put in place.

So cards on the table friends, 2020 has been a shit show.

We are a year on with baby making plans, the grand ambition, get married, start a family. Stalled.

The diagnosis of PCOS for me was a short lived relief, the knowledge of having just one ovary to work with, and limited at that, was a suffocating pressure - literally, all of my eggs are in one basket. And if that basket doesn't have many eggs left, my grand plans of being mother of the century are swiftly out of the window. 

Heaven forbid it was easy.

What about Sarah you ask? The perks of a gay relationship, two potential mummies.

Alas, running alongside my fertility saga, hairy faced drama, weight gain/loss/gain/loss fit/fat/fit/fat, comes something much more harrowing.

My darling wife, superstar to all who know her, rock, absolute pinacle of all that is good in my life, received much more life changing news.

We're all about the polycystic in this house - Sarah was diagnosed with autosomal dominant polycystic disease this year; something shes grappled with more and more so over the past few years, but has become more prominent over the past 18 months - and much like my PCOS, she knew something was afoot and finally got the answers she was looking for. Many tests, scans, pokes and prods, and lo' a diagnosis that brings with it fear, anxiety, lifestyle changes, dangers and ultimately a life limited disease that renders our plans to grow old and grey and saggy naggies together into our 80's less likely as we grow old disgracefully together.

In a year that has served up drama left right and centre, a global pandemic, family ill-health, mental health, infertility, an abundance of negative pregnancy tests and crying on the toilet, now serves us a year into our marriage - a shorter happily ever after than we planned.

So for anyone who fancies lending us a kidney or an ovary, just say the word.

I digress.

2020 has been a shit show.

But it has also shown the true depth of strength as to who we are. I've always regarded my bounce backs and the fact I'm alive at 33, is due to some inbuilt strength - in reality, that's not it all. My existence up until recent years, has been entirely thanks to a land of delusion, a mental health disorder and drug addiction that has supported a disengagement with reality, allowing me to exist and cope in my own backwards way.

Who I am now, is a person of resilience, in the face of this drama, trauma, chaos. Something has changed. I keep expected to break. Because who could juggle this?

We can.

We can. I talked to our friends as we walked around an almost frozen lake, and their love and solidarity, warmed my heart and gave me hope.

We can. There is nothing we can't face together. And no matter what the weeks, months and future brings, I am hopeful.

Last night, we received news, of loss, of pain, of death, in the family.

And it should have, could have been the straw that broke the camels back - but we sat together, held hands together, and felt grateful, that in the face of loss - we were oh so lucky to have the life we have together.

And of course it provoked my need to write - because my unfamiliar processing of emotions peaked - what is it to grieve?

I was consumed with sadness, for Sarah, for her family, for what it is to lose a loved one. I was overwhelmed with pride at the work she does in fighting cancer on a daily basis. But as she lay asleep in my arms, I was wide awake.

Ever since I was a child, I've never understood what death is. That someone or something is there and then gone. Remembered and then forgotten. The ceasing to exist always boggled my brain and continues to do so. 

Covid makes it particularly difficult, as we can't rush over and hold the family members that need it. We can't hold the hands of those who want it. We can't mourn together en-mass and remember together.

It's the cost of this chaos.

Whenever someone dies, whenever theres a funeral to plan, to attend, I panic. I worry. I pick up my phone and want so desperately to call my mum and dad and check they are ok, alive in the least, because I know if they are dead and buried, no-one will have told me and it will be up to me to check.

There have been family funerals I've been barred from attending.

There have been family funerals I wish I hadn't, banished from gravesides and the right to mourn.

For the love of god, I only found out my Nana had passed recently and she had been dead for two years - this is the curse I carry as the black sheep and cast out. The life I chose and the family I left behind to build the one I now call mine.

On my wedding day, the family member we lost yesterday and I had a moment.

He took more photos than our photographer. He kissed me and told me how beautiful I looked.

I told him how happy I was that he could be there, and he cried, hugged me, and was so glad he had the chance to see Sarah marry me.

So what is death? It's memories like that, which will forever bring joy and remind me that the family I have now, the family I have the priveldge to be a part of, to build my own with Sarah in whatever way we find possible, makes me the luckiest person in the world.

And no matter how much time we have, every second is worth it, and I won't regret a single one. Never again.

I know who I am. 

Pound of Flesh

 

I shake as a type,

Don’t believe the hype.

Misinformation is everywhere.

And it may well have come from me.

If you could see, me

The one that exists now,

Maybe you’d fight less,

To take away my crown.

But to want, to restore

Justice and glory to your tribe

You come at me,

Harder,

To take what’s mine.

Maybe you see it as yours

After all that’s come before

But it’s not.

I built this post apocolpyse

From the ashes and the dirt

From the breakdown

From the psych wards,

From the closed doors,

Its unfair they shout

Why her they pout

It’s not fair they share

Amongst the war rabble

Gather

Gather

Closer in

Suffocate

Eradicate

All that she is

Pain and pleasure

So intermingled

It’s justice they harp

Aim for the heart

And burn it all

Apart

Tear them

Scare them

Brutal in the truth

Your right

I’m wrong

It’s your line

My song

But your beat

On the battle drum

Fran your time has come

End of days

End of nows

End of futures, pasts and present

To strike you back

With full attack

In a way most unpleasant

Stick you in that room

That will consume

The good the hope the dreams

Because its your fault

YOUR FAULT YOUR FAULT

They scream and scream and scream.

Hate

So much hate

And youre right to feel that way

But that person

That fantasy

Doesn’t exist

Not today

So youre punishing a memory

A night terror

A monster

That stalked the night and day

But your adamant

So adamant the monster has to pay

Take it all

Take the hope

The life, the liberty

Take the friends, take the love,

Destroy the family

She deserves it

Punish her

Push her face into the ground

Suffocate her

With our honest truths

So she can’t make another sound.

Danger such danger

The words that she can speak

And the lies she tells

Just watch her

She will start to leak.

The façade the mask the lovely face of day

It’s fake you know,

We’ll show you so,

We will wash it all away.

In flames of fire and integrity

We will show you who she is

The demon the defrauder the monster deep within

She got married you know

God help the girl

Who fell for her lines

Because shes poison

Yes shes poison

And it starts from deep inside

Smiles, All smiles

As she lies to your face

We will protect the world

TO make so sure

They don’t suffer the same disgrace.

 

Stop this please

JUST LOOK AT ME

LOOK AT ME AND SEE

 This demon, the monster,

It really isn’t me.

You got caught in the storm

You washed ashore

And I promised a life line

But the life line

The rope

It chokes

It broke

It died.

Stop this please

Stop this now.

I can’t breathe

You’re consuming me

You’re killing me

And taking all that’s good

I hate myself

I hate it

I do, I’ve paid the price

To live with this

It’s costly, its penance enough

So pounds are paid in cash and flesh

And still you want more

You won’t stop

I see

I know that now

Until I’m back down on the floor

Under foot

Under stood

To know my place

But you don’t know me

You don’t see how I’ve changed everything but my face

I worked

I fought

I drowned

Then swam

And floated back up

To breathe again

I can’t sleep again

I’m scared again

I can’t

Please stop. Just stop.

I can’t do this

I’ve given you all I’ve got.

I’m good

I’m kind

I’m here.

I’m sorry

Please stop being so blind.

Christmas Card

I got a card in the post one Christmas,

It had a photo of boy,

With eyes like mine.

Merry Christmas

From a stranger

Who's name was Edward.

I don't know anyone called Edward.

But I do love a good Christmas card.

I read it ten times or more,

Sat on the piano stool practicing my scales.

Then like a scene from Harry Potter,

The Dursleys snapped what was mine,

Precious in pen,

And it disappeared never to be seen again.

Why though

How though

Who was this invisible boy?

Why did he write to me?

Was he a pen pal?

Maybe he was looking for a friend,

I know I needed one.

What perfect circumstance brought you to my door?

Well now you're embers in the Christmas family hearth

Burning,

Like the questions in my heart.

And then there's your name again, in type cast,

Council special.

The kind of black and white text that says "worry"

The kind of black and white text of NHS letters,

Bail notices, court orders, and social services supreme.

E d w a r d

Brother.

Oh there you are.

And look there's more.

Trawl the typography and you'll find her.

Donna.

I've never heard that name before.

Who are you?

Sister.

Well this is new.

A family on page two.

I would have liked to know you.

I suppose better late than never.

I wish I had understood your letter.

The postmark,

Where you were,

Why you wrote.

I feel like it's not just time they stole.

It's the hammering,

Chisling in my heart,

To widen and deepen this hole.

I know I have parts missing

And I've been looking for a link

And there you were,

In pen and ink.

I've been wondering why I don't feel myself,

Why I don't fit here,

And it's only now it makes sense.

Because I've got you here.

And I hold you dear.

Love.

For pieces that got lost along the way.

For parts of me that never got a say.

We're like a jigsaw

And you can tell we were made by the Irish

Because none of the pieces fit quite right

But theres something in the silence of knowing you,

That makes me feel like things could now be alright.

I wrote today that I wish I could have grown up with you

And that's a childhood dream,

But I wouldn't change it, because you wouldn't want to see what I've seen.

I wouldn't have wanted to be that person,

The one I was before,

Because I was cold and mean.

Time has taught me to be kinder,

Hopeful.

Love harder, softer.

And open up parts of me that have never seen the light.

Because I trust that you are me, and I am you,

And we always win

We always fight.

I've done things wrong,

That I try to put right,

And you hold up my integrity.

Through your love of me

And you see all that is true

Because your family

Because you are you.

I wanted to know what love meant

And I spent years trying to find out

I made friends,

Lost more,

Broke my heart

Broke theirs too

It was all the long road

The long game

Of fate leading me to you.

So hello brother

Hello sister

I've missed you

And I'm so glad that your hear

Because it's 2020

And when covid says we can't breathe,

I can, for the first time in my life.

To love you

My wife,

I've built my little nest,

And I've gotta tell you,

It really is the best <3

World Suicide Prevention Day - a little late

This week was "world suicide prevention day" and I saw an abundance of moving stories, blogs, vlogs, status updates and I wanted to write my piece, but I couldn't.

I only write when compelled, when an emotion evokes my need to. I call it my exorcism. Often when I am overwhelmed, caught off guard, suffocated by past, present and future and as much as I wanted to write, the words wouldn't come.

And then today, whilst lying on a doctors table, he asked me to take down my jeans and it triggered two responses in my brain - 1) I once read in my child court case records that the first time a doctor asked me to do that after I was rescued from the horrors of biological parental care, I screamed the place down and refused and fought the poor man off.

And 2) I slid my jeans down, first thought, my thighs are tighter, the gym is paying off, they look GOOD, but they remain scared, and whilst the doctor did his thing, finding out whats happening with my fertility, I focused on the scars on my thighs and I was caught in a paradox in time; there was a Fran on this earth that used to cut those beautiful thighs and hide them, and now there's a Fran that see's the scars, remembers the pain and every reason, for every white line, every cry, but it's not me anymore, this Fran is lying on a doctors table getting the answers Sarah and I so deserve on our road to baby making.

World suicide awareness day; a strange thing isn't it? In 2020? When we talk about it all so openly, I didn't think as a teenager I would ever see the day where people who had suffered in silence, were able to step into the light and turn something so heart wrenching into something so magically positive. We are all survivors, and we stand side by side, through the mediums of social media, sharing our words, our stories, our pain and we heal, together.

Two poignant moments in my life where suicide was more than a cry for help, it was a goodbye.

Christmas Day 2010. Alone, in halls of residence, no family. Cut out and left to sit for the first time in my adult life, lonely, surrounded by gifts I had bought my family.

I drank and I raged, I smashed up my flat, I launched the Christmas tree across the room, smashed my phone on the kitchen floor, and then swallowed every pill I had in the house...only to be found in a puddle of purple sick by a concerned porter who had heard the commotion and duly took me to the A & E that was literally and thankfully, directly opposite my flat at the time.

I spent Christmas night 2010, with needles in my arms, pin pricks in my feet, holes in my body where they couldn't find a vein, like a voodoo doll. Alone.

My marks and spencer turkey a thing of the past, and 20 cans of strongbow cider, tracing my steps like an alcoholics version of Hansel and Gretel showing the way I came.

I lost my mind.

I broke.

I've only felt like that twice in my life.

The first was that Christmas Day, alone. And the second was in 2017 in the fall out of the business collapse.

The second time began with alcohol, pills, not enough, so I got angry, a kitchen knife, cuts, running out of the house with my then fiance on the phone to the police trying to get me some help. I ran, faster than I ever have.

And there I found a bridge, and I let my feet dangle over cold cold water. Looking at my drunken angry lost and broken reflection. My hands gripped the brick, the dust stuck to the palms of my sweaty hands. Mascara down my face. Who was that girl looking back at me? Because I didn't recognise her? I don't recognise her.

Do it.

Drop.

Like a stone, to the bottom of that cold canal. Take a deep breath and fall through the air. And all that pain, will be gone.

All that pressure. All that hate. All that debt. All the lies. Hopes. Dreams. Failures. Wash it away like it's a page from the bible and sink to the bottom, because that darkness that ripples and reflects back at you sat there on that bridge, it's in you and drowning is easier than this.

Sirens.

Lights. They zoom past, up to our house, our home. The home I broke, with the knocks on the door, the screaming the shouting. The bullshit I brought to our door. I took your safe place and the only way to give it back, is to go now.

I step off the bridge, walk round the tow path, and dangle my legs over the side, toes touching the water.

Phone ringing. Sirens louder. They're getting closer.

And as if held back by something that's not there, I lean forward, shoes in the water now, and I answer the phone. Policeman. Come home.

I sit.

I breathe.

I stand up and I walk home. Wet.

Then it's hospital.

The part of my brain that tears up the good parts of my life doesn't exist as much these days, with therapy, lots of therapy, medication and the most work I've ever had to do to change, it's quieter, but it still whispers on dark days.

I stood on our balcony last week, in the pouring rain, looking out over the city lights and it was like a cold hand on my shoulder, creeping into my safe place, my happy heart, and I hushed it before it spoke.

The dragon, stoking the fire.

"You're still her and the world would be better without a girl like you,"

"You're still dangerous, no-one believes this new you, you don't do you?"

And I turned the ring on my wedding finger and breathed in the first cold nights air, September breeze and before I had chance to entertain the chaos, there were arms wrapped around my waist and a kinder whisper of reality from my wife "come inside,"

And a song, that's kept my brain in it's safe place - I'm obsessed, and everytime I listen to it, it inspires something new in me, but more than that, it strikes me to the core, and if there was ever an anthem thats appropriate to my emotion writing this piece its this https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CsiVvkzCdSI

Every so often in my life, I find a song, and the lyrics, tone, tune, all of it, becomes this celestial moment where everything the artist is singing, entwines with how I feel. Well, tay-tay, you've tapped into my heart on this one. It's changed my perspective. But more than that, it's given me hope. And I really, really just needed it.

Sometimes, in the dark places, spaces, when we entertain the concept of death, the end, the better offs, the what ifs, it's love that pulls us back, and that's a beautiful blessing.

Sometimes, and more often than we care to admit, it's just us. Staring our choice down. Swim or drown. And it's only in those moments you realise that what you brought here was never weakness, it was the coming back that was always your strength.

So for those of you who hear the whisper, even in the best of times, when we are all smiles, and life is good. The devil on the shoulder plays havoc no matter what.

Remember, you chose life. Even if it took you to a hospital bed, wired up. Even if took you to feeling your feet in the water.

It's too cliche and too disrespectful to say "you're alive, feel blessed, live each day like it's your last, life's a gift," when happy clappy fuck wits and therapists say that to me, I try not to laugh.

It may well be, and it may be viewed as wasteful, squandering to throw it away, once, twice, twenty times, it doesn't matter. No-one has the right to tell you you were wrong, and that you're ok now.

Forever and a day, it will always be ok to say

I'm not ok.

The bearded lady

Pee on a stick

Pee on a jar

Pee for the doctor

Pee.

It has become an every day part of my life.

And I am little prude when it comes to discussing things like that, so it's been quite the journey thus far.

I am resisting the urge to go into the city centre and buy another pregnancy test.

1) I'm alarmingly skint, on month 4 of furlough salary and

2) There is literally no point paying £7, it is literally pissing money up the wall.

See what I did there?

I've lost count of the amount of pregnancy tests we have bought, let alone the cost.

We've tried every brand of ovulation test under the sun, every app, a little chart that lives on our fridge, all of it.

Being married to a scientist ensures a procedural like methodolgy to baby making.

Times, temperatures, dates.

I've become a living breathing experiment.

Fertility denied our referral based on the fact they think it's "likely" that I am indeed ovulating, my so-called regular periods denote as such.

Then why, oh why, after our 1,000,000 attempt at getting pregnant, are we no closer?

The doctors ran a full blood panel and told me I had such low progersterone levels that ovulation was an inpossibility.

Prior to that, an a few years ago, the doctors told me I had the hormone levels of a post-menopausal woman so that doesn't exactly inspire confidence.

So I am frustated.

Sat at my kitchen table, now working part time, I have thrown myself into work and I am excited to regain my structure and my purpose, any more at home doing nothing time and I would have lost the plot.

But there are still moments in the day, due to working at home, where I can't escape wondering.

What is wrong with me?

Is it the weight?

Because I see much fatter birds than me pushing prams a plenty

Is it the hormones? If so, why do the doctors keep ruling out PCOS?

Guys, I'm going to share something that only my darling wife knows and loves me for regardless.

I am a bearded lady.

I kid you not, were it not for my handy friend gilette, I would look like that lady in the greatest showman by mid week.

My hair, my once beautiful hair, falls out, beyond measure. And no matter how gentle I am, what products I use, handfuls leave me on a daily basis.

The irony, too much fucking hair on my face and not enough on my head.

How's that femininity?

I think we have become so obsessed with the "expected aesthetic" than many of us who are not particualry "normal" hide our 5 oclock shadows,.... in the shadows, for fear of mockery, shame and perceived lack of feminiinty.

Don't get me wrong, I can be a big butch dyke when I want to be, and I own it, I am proud of who I am, and I use that word as a positive identity, not a negative slur.

But equally, I love pretty dresses and lacy bras, and makeup and shoes, just as much as the next girl. Which is hard to pair - the heel with the stubble.

The flat with the hairy leg

The flowy dress with tarzan swinging by.

So when my hormones are literally failing me, I am irrationally pissed off.

I can gym it, slim it, and eat a vegan diet until I'm an NHS worthy BMI, yes I can, but lord help me, someone fix me.

I spoke with the doctor yesterday to ask for help, we've done our research, I've had the scans, there are no cysts on my ovaries, but I do have a hairy fucking face and insane periods that lurge from one extreme to the other.

As I type this I'm on ady 33 of my cycle, which used to be a normal 28 predicted to a T situation.

Some months I can hit the gym, go for a swim and barely notice it, other months I feel like auditioning for Carrie.

TMI.

I know, I'm sorry.

But you know me, open book policy and sharing is caring.

I feel like I'm failing.

We took our most recent pregnancy test on Sunday and I closed my eyes and made Sarah look first, we were both still that little bit hopeful despite promising ourselves not to get our hopes up.

I cried as soon as I saw that glaring singular line staring at me, and of course, as any hopefuly hoping to get pregnant lady will do, I shone a light and looked at that damn test in every which direction, squinting for the sign of a second line. ALas, if it's not there on first glance, it's not there.

It's so frustrating.

I lay in Sarahs arms in our bed and the only words I could muster were 

"I'm sorry,"

And she laughed and then gave me a stern look.

Sarahs stern looks are serious business.

So I got a little grumpy with the GP on the phone.

He says no chance of ovulation, therefore, not producing an egg, which makes our monthly attempts rather silly.

Fertility clinic say, yes, could be ovulating, no reason to think otherwise.

No reason other than a big fat blood test result that says so.

I had a little rant about my hairy face and my erratic monthlies and that these factors were major playerse when it came to PCOS and that just because a random ultrasound "x" amount of years ago, showed no cysts it didn't mean there were no issues.

I mean, for one, constant flare ups of pelvic inflammatory disease for one, thanks to undiagnosed "clap" from delightful sexaul predator, the irony, the gift of a pregnancy and an STD, neither of which were welcome.

And now, I suffer from the fall out on both fronts.

THANKS.

I want to run to the shop and buy doughnuts.

And eat a pack of 5

But I'm not going to.

Because what good would that do? Aside from put me further back from my goal?

When we got another negative on Sunday, I had my cry and then got up and at it, went to the gym and smashed through a 700 calorie workout.

Not a doughnut in sight.

For me to get to a NHS worthy BMI, I'm looking at loosing 4 more stone, thats still quite the mountain to climb, but whilst we are waiting for them decide what the hell is wrong with my baby making equipment, it gives me some time to keep at it.

We have sickening stresses in our lives, both Sarah and I, things that go on behind the scenes and would keep even you, my avid readers up at night.

Stress leads to high levels of cortisol, high levels of cortisol reduce progesterone levels.

Stress leads to fucked up fertility.

Theres no amount of citalopram on planet earth that would take out some of the major stresses ongoing.

Stress of big shit.

Stress of little shit

Stress of fertility shit.

I'm surprised I don't have grey hair - well, depending on how long it lasts.

So after much grumping, I'm going to drink a glass of water, have a decaf tea and get back to doing what I'm good at - working my ass off.

For all my hairy faced sisters out there, stay postive, we are all in this together.

It can be absolutely mind numbing and heart breaking for you and your partner, but the pay off will be so so worth it, no matter how it happens xxx

I Eat

If you open my cupboards on this sunny tuesday afternoon, you will find an abundance of long haul, safety net foods.

We are talking tins, pastas, pulses, rice, the whole nine yards.

We've got protein bars, healthy snack bars, enough fruit, nuts and seeds to feed the pigeon population of Manchester (aside from the scalding danger of £150 fine of course)

In the freezer you will find meat, fish, veggies, leftovers, the same goes for the fridge.

Laden with jars, and tubs of essentials to ensure never a meal is lost, or missed, or yearned for.

Why?

Because I'm a chubby fucker?

No.

Because since holding down a job that I love, or any job, for that matter, and having ensured an income of some kind for myself, thats reliable, no matter how big or small, the one thing that will always be wherever I am is food.

This is not some fat girls neverland, where the cupboards buldge and strain under the weight of a tesco shop gone mad.

This is a scared little girls habit.

For as long as I remember, food has been a priority. Stashing it, stealing it, hiding it, keeping it longer than it should be kept, to the point of disgust.

Buying it, storing it, eating it.

When I was first adopted into the middle class land of the Cheshirite wonder couple, I began taking food from my plate at meal times and stashing it in strange places in my bedroom. Under the bed, in my knicker drawer, under the wardrobe where there was a little alcove.

Bits of sandwiches, satsumas, all of which would crinkle and rot and stink out the place.

My mother would follow the scent of sad foods fate and find green and scary looking bits and pieces dotted around the house.

She called it my most disgusting habit. Her favourite word was "slut" and it made me giggle up to my teenage years for the fact I thought she had misunderstood its meaning, alas, she soon came to apply it in both terms of "slovenly, slut," and "slutty mc slut pants, living the lesbian dream,"

Needless to say, my strange relationship with food has been a lifetime affair.

And there is a perfectly good reason for it.

Many times I self reflect and look at my behaviours and think "why the fuck did you do that?" "why did you say that?" and I'm left mind boggled with no bloody idea other than that, "it just happened"

But where food is concerned, it's really quite clear cut.

Pre-adoption I bounced around foster homes, some good, some bad, some where food was plentiful and wonderful and some where food was a punishment and a chore.

Before foster care, was life in London town or indeed up north, where food was the last priority on the list.

My brother and I were born into a turbulent and abusive family, where alcohol and drugs took precedent over the basic needs of a child, like food, water, cleanliness, hygiene.

My child court case records cite on so many pages the lack of sanitary care applied to us as children, and as its most relevant to this piece of writing - the complete malnutrition we suffered at the hands of two people who just didn't care.

Horrors upon these pages talk of abuse, physical, sexual, and the absolute absence of safety and basic childcare necessities.

Stories of bedsores, piss stained children, dirty bodies and matted hair, scantily dressed, if at all, empty fridges and cupboards, and social worker notes that even on paper sound horrified by the conditions we were so often found in.

I write "so often" as social services for some unknown reason let us go back, time and time again, the prospective mother had turned over a new leaf and decided she fancied another crack at having children, only to read three pages on, that I, for example, had been found in the care of my sexual predator of a father, who had a knife in his hands, and had the police talk him down from suicide and violence as I sat on his knee. I delightful read. Not quite Stephen King, but equally as harrowing.

Alas, the food.

Ah, the food.

Or lack of it.

By the time I was put into foster care, my brother was hooked up to a bunch of hospital machines to get him better, such was his malnurtition and bedsores from lying in his own filth, that we spent what felt like forever as a little girl, apart.

I was alone for the first time in my life. With strangers. And my only solace, was food.

The fact that there was food, was a marvel, a novelty, I was greedy.

When we were together again, we enjoyed our best friends forever relationship, Fran and Jay against the world, we had overcome such horror together, that nothing would stand in ur way, and we would do it all, together.

Cue, excellent foster parents, truly, the dream, and food, so plentiful. More than, love.

And an understanding of Fran the secret stasher.

I had the absolute pleasure of reconnecting with my foster parents a few years ago, and having thought often of my food habits, I asked freely : "if I had stashed food the same way with you, what would you have done?"

My beautiful foster mothers response? "Put a little lunch box under your bed with things in and change it as often as needed to make sure you knew there was always something there,"

THIS my friends.

FUCKING THIS.

This is the response of a loving mother.

Not "slut"

Not "disgusting"

Not fat shaming, behaviour shaming, undermining, belittling.

My delighful mother could never grasp the roots of my strange food addiction, despite having read, seen and heard the full horrific accounts of my beginnings, my mother, my dirty pig of a father, and despite being a woman of the law, she lacked the basic empathy that would have made her a decent comrade and confidante.

We were never meant to be friends, or understand one another, because she was too preoccupied with perfect as opposed to perversion.

I sit now, at 33, writing at my kitchen table, aware, that at my weight, being obsese, as per the bmi scale, that something has gone horribly wrong.

And I know it.

That my relationship and dependence on the security and comfort of food, my one true best friend, is as devastating to my health, as my addiction to cocaine was.

At least with cocaine I was thinner!

I eat when I am happy.

I eat when I am sad.

I eat when I lack purpose.

I eat.

Because it is a huge part of who I am.

I didn't engage with my parents growing up, I was too troubled, and they were too focused on their own priorities and specificities of raising a child should be.

My brother was a clean slate, and recovered brilliantly, slotting into the perfect family ideal with issue and this remains true to this day.

He doesn't have the same toxicity for food, or anything else for that matter, becasuse he was shaped by a family that I do believe genuinely love him, for who he is, because he is theirs.

I am not.

I am many things.

Drastically successful despite hurdles.

Drastically regretful and consumed by ghosts.

Desperately apologetic for all the shit that has come to pass.

And still, entangled in the fatty wonders of the world.

I could eat and eat until I feel sick.

And I have.

Filling a literal void.

An emotional one.

I didn't know how to build relationships for a long time, so my relationship and longest lasting to date, is that of me and Mcdonalds, or Mcvities.

When I was homeless, food was paramount. A sandwich here, a tin of cold beans there, and when I was living in the depths of depravity in a brothel, the McDonalds burgers given to me by the delightful Italian pimp Steve for doing "a good job" were literally heaven.

I once lost my temper with Sarahs father, well and truly lost my temper. I was enraged.

We sat at a McDonalds drive through and he ordered a multitude of things willy nilly, ate them without pause or thought or thanks and I thought, you ungrateful prick.

I watched him eat two double cheeseburgers in mere minutes and I thought "do you know how many hand jobs I would have had to give to get two fucking cheeseburgers?"

The gratitude I would have felt to be allowed to eat.

Locked in a dodgy warehouse in North London surrounded by sleazy men and Eastern European women who would sooner kill you for your burger than praise you for a good weeks work!

And I thought, am I wrong? Is this irrational?

How do people treat food with such fickle nature?

Such disregard and lack of appreciation?

Now I am settled, I am home, I safe, I am stable, I am loved.

I cook with love, and adoration for all that I do, that I share.

My favourite time of the month is when I do the big online food shop, this is my task and honour, and mine alone, I stock the house with things I know Sarah loves, that I love, that we will cook together and I admit, yes, lately, the big online shop has been so much better for us.

Less Turnocks teacakes and much more lettuce. This is good.

Slowly but surely, I am moving away from my dependence.

I have had outrageously sad times of late, manically depressing moments, mental health has taken hold of me, stress has savaged and ravaged me, but my inclination to eat it all has faded.

I make better choices, but the relationship is still there.

Now I choose calorie deficit and less gross foods.

As opposed to lurching from one extreme diet to the next.

I used to favour the maple syrup diet, obsessed, truly.

It was brothers 18th and I knew my parents would berate me if I came home from Uni fat, and I had been living the ladette life of lesbianism, ciders, snakebites and pints a plenty.

So two weeks before returning home, knowing there was a size 14 Karen Millen dress that required my attention, I hit the maple syrup diet, dropped two dress sizes, wore the fuck out of the little black number, wowed everyone and then was back in Wales in boxers, baggy jeans and pizza boxes before you could say boo to a goose.

The yo-yo of "what will mummy and daddy think"

And we all know how wonderful tactile my father is when it comes to fat Fran. If the man can't muster a compliment on my wedding day, I'm pretty sure dropped to a size 10 won't make any difference.

Now is the time.

Now is the only time.

I am getting older.

And if I have hopes of a long, happy, healthy marraige and life with my wife and our future plans, I am going to have to breakup with my one true love, not Sarah of course, food!

I'm sorry McDonalds, and KFC, your profit margins are about to dip, because for the sake of my family and my own happiness, it's time we took a break.

Truly,

It's not you, it's me.