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

1095 days, 26,280 hours, 1,576,800 minutes.... a lot has happened in just 3 years!

February 8th 2013

My date of sentencing in the Crown Court.
You have walked and read this journey by my side, you know my dates all too well.
There are many.
Etched in my mind, for eternity.

25th May 2012 - I walked into a police station to declare what I had done
27th May 2012 - I turned 25 years old
ON BAIL for a loooooong time, whilst my case was passed from Magistrates to Crown.

February 8th 2013 - day of sentencing, bag packed, ready to take my place in HMP Styal for up to two years....
Spared prison and handed a suspended sentence of 2 years, suspended for 18 months with mandatory probation, drug rehabilitation, mental health intervention and compulsory compensation order for nearly £10,000.00

End of March 2013 - I was sent on the Virtuous Bread baking course for 3 days by Greater Manchester Probation Service

May 12th 2013 - I got a job with the University of Manchester

May 27th 2013 - I turned 26 years old

June 21st 2013 - I had my first bread stall ever, at Levenshulme Market - we sold out in a few hours; The Barker Baker was born

August 1st 2013 - I had my first interview on the BBC after the lovely Matt White called me whilst at work, I almost dropped my spatula!

September 27th 2013 - Back on the BBC talking about bread, business and criminal justice

October 3rd 2013 - I started this blog - it got over 200 hits in the first 30 minutes of being live

I worked my little socks off baking, working at the University, whilst on probation and completing my drug rehabilitation, I attended possibly the worlds worst mental health group of my life and have since campaigned to ensure no-one else fall foul of it.

It is not something I have talked much of, but now time has passed, it seems safe to do so, I have a deep seated anger within me, which isn't always rational, and over time, my lovely Sarah has taught me to put time and space between my judgments & feelings until they settle and I know its not my sheer lunacy of a mental health problem that is what causes such emotion.
I have a tendency to feel... offended, undermined, overlooked and I have done all my life, entirely rational when you look at where I have come from and how I have lived my life, however such distorted perceptions leave me open to make the wrong choices.
In this case, I was entirely justified to feel this way from the beginning.

When I went on my baking course, I baked with a variety of other people, all exoffenders - more than that, all part of a mental health group of which I had no knowledge... my probation officer thought it a good idea for me to attend this group in lieu of our weekly probation meetings.
Cat had thus far steered me in the right direction, so I was happy to do so.
I soon realise that this group had nothing to do with mental health, it was a room full of people not making any progress, not accepting any responsibility for their actions and being soothed by people who didn't provide tangible advice, support or prospects.
When I started The Barker Baker, I was seen as selfish within this group, as I had decided to go it alone, build my own business, bake my own bread. The head honcho told me as such and asked if I would set aside my own ideas and ambitions and be part of the group, help build the exoffender bakery within the mental health group - a nice idea, but as I was the only one who had a) fallen in love with baking b) actually baked a fucking loaf since attending the course and c) gained actual funding by way of an application of O2 Thinkbig to launch my idea then really, the answer was NO.
A huge faction of my personality that I wanted to address whilst attending this mental health group was the people pleaser in me, the person who gets into trouble for saying yes, knowing full well I can't for-fill empty promises I have made, but I make them anyway for hope of being liked and loved.

What a clever way to catch me off guard, and strike my soft spot, the very thing I had been trying to change about myself. It was then I realised this group was no good for me, it was masquerading as "help" when really it was debilitating and ensuring dependence not independence. I did not fit the bill. I was a middle class, university educated, first time offender with a drug problem that was no longer a problem and a mental health issue that would require serious intervention, not horrendous cups of tea and a bit of a chit-chat. I wanted actual help. What I got almost broke me.

"People like you can't change Fran, this idea you have of The Barker Baker and all these markets and all these ideas you have - they are just that. Francesca Barker fantasies, they won't come to anything, with your condition, it's just not going to happen"

- it was the "people like you" that got me.

Who are these people like me?
It wasn't anyone I had met in that room?
Anyone I had met on my drug rehab course?

People like me : A really fucked up 20 something girl who had a pretty shitty beginning, didn't have it dealt with, got angry that it was never dealt with, lashed out at everyone who meant something to me, destroyed my relationships, lied every single day of my life to try and appear normal, liked and loved, decided that cocaine was the answer as it allowed me to be free and not care what anyone thought until I went too far and ruined my life and almost that of the only girl I have truly loved and has truly loved me.
Sounds doom and gloom - HOWEVER - people like me.... to have lived that life and come out of the other side, to have begun discovering who I am at the age of 25 and start my life a-new, to have kicked a drug addiction that almost killed me, to have got a job fresh out of the crown court and earned respect for my hard work and dedication.

To the lovely Sue, who almost broke my hope... I know the person I am, and you were right, people like me don't change - they grow, learn and live.
I know as I write this 3 years on from my day in crown court that there are streaks of who I am that I will never change, that the little girl who tells not so little lies, lives deep in my heart. I'm OK with that. I know shes there, its a case of management, support networks, hard work and love. When I am happy and secure with who I am, what I do and know that the people I have around me are the right people, silly little Fran doesn't need to be anything other than herself.
When I met you, I was exactly how I felt in that moment, a worthless, useless, convict, druggie ex prostitute who had no hope in hell of becoming anything more than a piece of paper.

I am Francesca Barker, I built my life up from the ground, from the ashes of my own burning, I am The Barker Baker, the girl who built a business off the back of a suitcase full of bread at the local market.
I am the award winner.
I am the entrepreneur.
I am the ambassador.
I am the change.
I am new. I am free. I am exactly what the judge wanted me to be when she spared me from a prison cell.

Jeeeeez, I've been wanting to get that off my chest for a while now!

I think the essence of this post is that there will always be the nay sayers, especially for those of us fighting to overcome a label, whatever it may be, but it all reality, it doesn't matter, if you strive to stay true to yourself, there is no greater reparation.

On with my timeline....

February 2014 - I was in the Manchester Evening News for the first time, a lovely piece written by a reporter who I have grown oddly fond of, she saw the beginning and has since reported on the successess that have followed

March 2014 - I speak at the National Youth Offending Conference and have the eyes of hundreds of young people watching, listening and waiting to hear how it ends. - it ends with a baking session in the kitchens and a few of them asking for work experience with me. Mind. Blown.

June 2014 - We fly away; my beautiful Sarah books us a holiday and off we go. Our first time abroad together, she holds my hand whilst I freak out about flying. All is well.

August 28th 2014 - I win a national business award, as chosen by some of the most successful people in the country. Francesca Barker - Best Female Entrepreneur 2014.

September 19th 2014 - I go to London to receive said award and meet Michelle Mone in a board room, she hugs me and tells me I'm an inspiration. I try not to focus on the fact that she is potentially one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen and actually listen to the incredible things she is saying. Sarah takes me for a glass of champagne to celebrate at and old favourite of mine from back in the days where I was a London girl. This is much better.

September - December 2014 - the press goes off the hook, with BBC, Daily Mirror, local news, national news, it's a circus, overwhelming and humbling all at the same time

December 2014 - Sarah and I drive to Littleborough to see a house, we stop into the estate agents, view the house and then pop the village bakery for a pie (she is a Wiganer!)
We take said house and move into our countryside back to back terrace. It's heaven.

January - March 2015 - we are fully booked with baking workshops, with youth offending teams across the north west, I get to spend my days teaching people how to bake and to help them start a new journey

February 11th 2015 - I win Business Newcomer of the Year 2015, as chosen by people like Hilary Devey; one of my big inspirations and one of my favourite Twitter followers, shes one hell of a woman! If I have a business soul mate (if that is a thing) then she is most definitely it.
The business pops up in The Metro and the BBC call me...!

March 3rd 2015 - I meet my sister. My actual, biological sister. The girl who's name I've read on paper and never thought I would ever meet.
There is a knock at the door and I open it - she looks like me. Thankfully she talks a lot more than me, so there wasn't an awkward silence to be had. She's pregnant and beautiful and loved. Couldn't have wished for more.

April 18th 2015 - I meet my entire biological family - IRISH! theres a 101 aunties and uncles and cousins, and I get to see, for the first time in my life, a photo of me, from before I was 4 years old - better than that - its the first ever photo I have seen of me as a baby. Something so simple, I have wanted all my life, and then a teary aunty hands it to me. Sarah loves it, she sees me in it, still. She sees our children in it.

May 2015 - We have the BBC filming in the kitchens, for The One Show with Mary Berry.
The workshop is a great success and I meet incredible people who really have the knack of baking!

June 2015 - The One Show goes out on BBC One, the press goes off the hook and the BBC have me in their sights for bigger things!

Week in week out, I get to talk to the lovely Sam Walker on BBC Radio Manchester, she called me whilst I was at work one day and asked if I could be the "real life stories" person for a few weeks, a few weeks turned into months, and we ended up speaking all year long, with the people of Manchester avidly listening to what I was doing and where I was up to, so much so, the lovely listeners now pop into my shop and say hello and see what I am up to face to face!

August 2015 - The shop.
I was walking through lovely Littleborough when I say that Warburtons Estates was for rent. Tiny space. Cute.
The very place where I signed my tenancy for the house Sarah and I chose in Littleborough before going to the village bakery for a pie.
It was a good price.
It was a nice spot.
Business woman Fran pounced.
The shop was mine.

A blank canvas and a small one at that - 200sq ft.
Two incredible builders and 2 months later, I had a fully fledged bakery shop and kitchen, exactly how I had imagined it.

November 25th 2015 - The Barker Baker launch. I open the shop with snazzy beer, free bread and great people. My sister drives all the way from London to be there with the beautiful Mya and lovely Rog (which is a miracle as she doesn't do up North')
The launch is a huge success and people from all over the place turn up to see The Barker Baker shop and indeed, me.

A local lady pops in and tells me she saw me in the paper and that it was a lovely article, she buys some bread and is on her way.
She pops back in the day after with said article, which she has cut out for me, she places in my hands and says "You should put that up in your window so people can see how far you have come, you should feel very proud of yourself"
She squeezes my hands and smiles and leaves.

Thank god she does as I need a somewhat sneaky cry.

I look around. My shop. My little empire. I have done it. And it's just the beginning.

Business booms in the run up to Christmas and we have regulars popping in every day, every other day, lovely people, sharing their stories and histories with me, its exactly what I wanted.

I walk down the high street and people give me a wave, it's like something from Beauty & the Beast - 'there goes the baker' - that would be me. I try my best not to skip and sing......!

December 2015 - Sarah is at her happiest, she buys the biggest turkey in the land, free range and organic from the butchers, the turkey epitomoises her struggle, silently working away in the back ground, holding me together and somehow pulling out the most amazing degree results, landing a great job and watching her little ducks line up.
We have her family over for Christmas Day, we are exactly who we want to be, where we want to be.
Cooking a mammouth turkey in our warm and loving home, for people we care about.

The floods come to Littleborough on Boxing Day and we throw our most waterproof shoes on and head down the hill to the village, throw open the bakery doors and get the coffee machine on. I have a load of mince pies in the freezer at the bakery from Christmas so we fire them up and hit the streets making sure people eat and drink and know there's always help and support.
We wash pants, socks, charge phones and laptops, I cook enough soup to feed the 5000 and slowly the village returns to normal.
A strange way to spend our days off together over Christmas, but we realise its who we are, the weirdos who like to give back, knowing there was I time when all I did was take. She makes me a better person.

January 2016 - Business grows faster, I expected a lull, wintery woe and less pennies for spending - there is no lull, there is a boom.
We launch Pizza night - its a sell out. I get to be chef and baker - living the dream.

And now its February, closing in on the doom date of February 8th.
Will it be doom date forever? Or the bench mark I remember when life changes as much as it has.

It is February 2nd 2016. I have love. I have security. I have family and I have hope.
Every wrong decision was worth it, to know that I could work my way up to this point.

#positivesovernegatives

Thank you to the people who have helped me grow, learn and love
<3

Imagine all the people........

Littleborough, the lovely place I now call home was hit hard this week; with a flood that wiped out peoples homes and businesses; but those effected in Greater Manchester and the Calder Valley, have pulled together like something you see on a postcard or read in a history book - where community spirit drives people forward and brings everyone together.

I am no stranger to the community spirit that is rife in this village today, I have felt it over the past few weeks, in peoples kind words, hugs of support, thumbs up and of course, the insane amount of bread this lovely folk have been buying on a daily basis.

I said in an interview a few weeks ago, I was cautious, a little apprehensive that this little village of mine wouldn't be too appreciative of a criminal setting up shop and selling bread. How wrong I was. My caution was soon put to bed, as opening day came, and people literally lined to the streets to meet the girl who turned her life around.... not the girl who fucked it up. How refreshing.

2015 has been a year of ups and downs, with epic highs and dramatic lows, but it has been the year of life.

I am in a place where I never thought I could be. I am living a life I always dreamt I could, dreamt I would.

The beautifully kind and loving girlfriend, the house in the country with that idiotic and adorable cat, the dream job that makes getting up exciting not dreary, the friends who love and support me, the family, from past and present all somehow settling into their place in my life. Could it be, that I am in fact happy? After 20 years of distorted vision and expectation, I am living the life of Francesca Barker, and it is a truly blessed one.

So as I walk around the streets of the village I call home, there is destruction and loss piled high on pavements, Christmas got washed away in the mud, in the flood.
But people are smiling, because its still just... stuff, and the fact remains, no-one got hurt, everyone stayed safe, so whilst the bin men come and the electricity fades and flickers, it doesn't really matter.
Because these people have something more magical than Father Christmas, they have eachother.

I am exhausted, with a business that has sucked every ounce of energy from my bones, but I sit, I type in my little bakery non the less, on a day off, a day I would happily spend in bed, but I am better placed sat right here.
The coffee machine is on, there is soup cooking in the kitchens next door, the heating is on full blast, with my suitcase; THE suitcase stacked and overflowing with clothes of Sarah and I's past.
Yo-yo dieting epitomised as I offer jumpers in all sizes from 12 - 20, who cares, there are they are they are help, they are hope.

Why am I doing it? Why do people reach out a hand to hold anothers?
For me, its selfish.
I was so so alone once upon a time.
With a Christmas 5 years ago that landed me in the hospital, left me broken and taking step one into chaos.
The Christmas that lit the fuse to my own self destruction.
I was swooped off my halls of residence kitchen floor by a porter who didn't want to be working Christmas day, carried to the hospital in his arms, and brought back to life.

I didn't realise the value, I didn't care about the purpose. I just wanted to be gone.

5 years ago. Almost to the day. I walked out of the hospital and back home, alone.
And there she was, Sarah, the girl who saved me.
She put me to bed, lay next to me and stroked my hair.
Safety. She was then and forever will be.

No flood took away my things, I watched them all wash away. My family, my friends, my things.
Gone.

I am sat in the warmth of my shop, MY shop, its pure insanity to think.
I look around and there is my personality in its true form, from the design to the stock, to the descriptions of bread lining the walls.

I am so so lucky, I am loved and I am safe.

For a long time, I was neither. I was homeless, I was hurt, I was... well you've all read the blog, you know.

If sitting in this shop on my day off makes someone feel a little hope, a little reassurance, then I'm spending it the best way I can.
If making a pot of soup, takes the weight of someones shoulders for an hour or two, then lets get cooking.

Having lived a life of selfishness, I've come to realise, the most beautiful thing there is, is kindness.

I've not been very good at it, but I'm giving it a bloody good try.

Together, we rise.

(no bread pun intended, but how wonderfully apt)

Hello

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fz4MzJTeL0c

A few weekends ago, I was sat in a room full of family.

Celebrating a birthday. Someone getting older.

Every one was happy to see me, interested in my life, my love, my business, what I was doing.

I was hugged as soon as I walked through the door, bought a drink or two, I spent my evening laughing, looking around, feeling grateful and yet somehow desperately sad.

It wasn't my family.

Whilst it is a beautiful thing to be part of Sarah's family, it always invokes a great sadness within me.

So after a lovely evening spent at some social club in the depths of St Helens, I got back to Sarah's parents house, turned the laptop on and started to write.

It's been over two weeks now, and I haven't had a response.

I wrote to my father.

Sharing much the same as this blog.

"Last night I went to Sarah's uncle's 60th birthday party in Billinge; and it was lovely.

Sarah has an incredible family, who all get together for birthdays and Christmas' and whatever excuse they can find.

Everyone was pleased to see me, they wanted to know how the business was, tell me they'd seen my on the BBC, asking about our wedding plans and what we are doing.

And I missed you. So much.

It is a strange thing to be part of a family, but that family not be mine.

This morning I woke up and had coffee with Sarah's mum and she showed me hundreds of photos of Sarah and Dan when they were younger. Holidays. Birthdays. The day Sarah was born.

I want to do that. I want to sit down with Sarah and Val and share my life with them, because despite how things turned out for us as a family, you are a huge part of my heart and you made me who I am.
I'm aware I've made 100 mistakes and told 100 more lies, that I've hurt you and disappointed you; but every part of me that's good and kind and honest, you and mummy created, somehow. I take all of this on my shoulders and I say I'm sorry at every opportunity. Are you not? We can't do this justice if its always the black sheep who broke the Barkers.

I miss you. When I find out things like jay getting engaged through bloody Facebook it breaks my heart. I am his big sister. It should have been me that found out first. Not last.
When mummy gets ill, I should know about it, not find out from uncle bill when it's too late for me to do anything about.
I'm scared that we are so far gone and so far down the road of no return that I don't know who are you all are anymore, what you do, if you are well, happy, healthy.
I worry about you all the time.
I worry I don't see you enough, don't talk to you enough and that as we grow older, I loose you.
One day you'll be old and grey and I won't be there to hold your hand and tell you you look like an old fart!

I keep kidding myself that we can find a way back, that I've changed enough for you to see me for who I am.

I'm living a life I never thought possible. I'm happy. I am loved. I am safe and I am secure.
But I don't have you.

The three of you mean more to me than anything or anyone. Not having you in my life breaks my heart every day. I think about you all the time and I wonder how to make it right.
I can't live my life in mourning or regret and I won't punish myself for things that have come to pass.
I will fight for you and try for you and hope for a way forward.
But if you could be honest with me and tell me if that's never going to happen it would be a lot easier for me to let you go.
I've spoken to counsellors and psychologists who all advise the same thing - let it go. Let you go.
I don't want to.
I love you too much.

So what do I want?

I want to have more than a half an hour coffee with my father.
I want to talk to you about my life not just my work, your work.
I want to hug you and not feel like a stranger.
I want to see mummy look at me like a person not a mistake.

Jay loves me, he tells me so, and I'm aware we have a lot of ground to cover but given time, there may be hope for us. We have time.

What I would like, whilst you mull this over, is photos.
To borrow some photo albums for a few hours, so I can show Sarah the life I had (because the memories I have are starting to feel like I've imagined the whole thing)
Photos. Of us. Of me. Of jay. So I can snap shot them on my phone and so that I have a piece of my history.
To show my children.
I don't want you to be a story I tell.
I want you to be a part of it"

Despite being hopeful of a response, it never came.

So I suppose thats an answer in itself.

I've spent the past few months pin pointing absolute turning points in my life, events that changed my course, decisions I made, that I shouldn't have.

I made a promise to myself to make as much right as I could, salvaging friendships from the ashes and reaching out to people I lost along the way.

I am 28 years old and I've broken hearts throughout my life, not in any sort of egotistical manner, through being a sheer car crash of a human being and wreaking havoc on those around me.

At Sarahs uncles birthday, I looked around the room, full of people who love eachother, and I realised I didn't want to get to 60 and have noone of real substance to share it with. I want a room full of friends who have been my side all the way through, I want people there who have shared my life.

So it began, the tracking down of the broken hearts and the apologies and the hopes of bringing back the people who meant most to me. And my friends, it has been with great love and success that the people I have loved most in my life, have found their way bak to me, and me back to them.

The space in my heart they once occupied, its once again theirs and will stand to be for a long time to come.

A test of true love, that no matter how much time passes or how much a wreck you have been, the people who are meant to be for life, always will be.

I have lived a long time in regret, that when I lost my family, I lost everything that meant most to me. The friends I grew up, the people I had known all my life, disappeared and I was left wondering whether I had dreamt it all.

Sometimes I still do.

I wake in the middle of the night and think it was all some dream, some ridiculous Fran-ism and that there was nothing that came before this.

I think about the family holidays, the friends in the sea, the drinks, bars, bbq's, birthdays, weddings. 

I was a bridesmaid, I was a friend.

None of it exists anymore.

Not a Barker, not a part of it.

It wasn't just family.

It was all of it.

Every person I had come to know and love, evaporated.

I had never been so alone.

And thus is the true test of time, the people who I needed and wanted, have come back, the ones I met at University, on a Warrington canal in a rowing boat, my friend from school.

I am loved.

What is it they say?

You can choose your friends but you can't choose your family?

Well thank fuck these people chose to love me.

I am blessed.