Bucket list for a Milestone

Husband mentioned bucket listery the other night, after I had a new piercing. What a jolly good idea, thought I, as I eyed the pimms and bemoaned the lack of lemonade. After all, life begins at 40, or so they say, but personally, I think they say that to stop us making like lemmings off the pier. So without further ado, I wish to set in black and orange the list of things I wish to do or achieve now I am reaching this milestone of misery. I know this list seems selfish, but it's a list for me, for things I need to do, because my clock is ticking, and this is not a dress rehearsal.

1)  Join the WhippleClub.  

A nipple piercing. This does NOT mean that I eat babies or run naked around campfires in forests. It just is what it is. A whipple ring. I have a pink sparkly one. It hurts less than breastfeeding did,  tweezers, pliers and freezing spray notwithstanding, which just proves how crap I was at milking. 

Status; DONE

2)  Learn to drive. 

Because I want to feel the wind on my face without having to bother anyone else. Plus I have plans. I can actually drive well and smoothly, but sadly I have the road sense of a hedgehog. Thankfully there doesn't actually appear to be a licensing authority in the world who would grant me a  provisional, but I want to learn and pass the test, even if I never own a car.

Status;

3)  Go on a Road Trip.

If I can drive I can then share the load. We must wear headscarves and sunglasses, but I think avoiding hitchhikers might be a good idea. I don't think we should drive off any cliffs, either. Everyone else can be Thelma and Louise, I'll be an elderly Lydia in the back. 

Status;

4)  Go to a music festival.

I have never ever been to one. Partially because until now I haven't really liked music, partially because I prefer proper toilets, and partially because, well, crowds. Bloody terrified of them. 

Have never really been into concerts let alone crowds. I was once dragged to a Plant&Page show at Wembley to make up the numbers. Spent the entire time smoking in the toilets until Stairway to Heaven came on. Was in a varied group, one of whom thought me "unwholesome" but I think that's because she fancied my then boyfriend. I occasionally angst about her denouncement of me, fifteen years later. Which is why I need to get a life. Which a music festival will help me achieve.

Status;

5)  Go to Bruxelles to see my lovely.

We joke about debauchery - snorting sherbet dibdabs off the bald head of a dungeon sex-dwarf at 4am in homage to Freddie Mercury - but really I suspect it will be moules et frites et vin. With lots of chat and maybe the odd croissant. Though I wouldn't be adverse to a dungeon. Being unwholesome and all that. 

Status; I HAZ EUROS AND EUROSTAR VOUCHERS.

6)  Get a job.

My brain is atrophied, and I do not like this. I would be an excellent addition to your workplace. Except a)I make shit tea and b) I'm allergic to zebras and children. But I am a fast learner, and loyal, adaptable, fast thinking and good with people. (Even though I'm a bit scared of them). Am creative, artistic, and good with sequins and glue. Gissa job.

Status;

7)  See Muse in concert.

Because I very like them. I know, I know, I've come late to the party but boy do I like it.

Status;

8)  Be myself once more.

This involves losing the weight caused by motherhood, depression and inertia, and getting my sparkle back. I have started wearing red lipstick again which is always a good barometer, and possibly why Ms HolyBarbourJacket thought me unwholesome, but to be fair the black velvet thigh boots and stockings probably didn't help my cause much either. Or the heavy smoking and evil smile. BUT ANYWAY. I want to be me again. This lumpen misery is not me. The unwholesome strumpet look probably is though.

Status; Dieting. Gym joined. Two stone down.

9)  Go Out.

I'm on this! I now go out at any excuse and have even been to ThatLondon on a TRAIN. Yeah. Fear me. I have discovered vodka and crashing at my Lovelies then toast and Friends in the morning and this pleases me. Had a Sunday brunch with pals last week for the first time EVER. You see how little I had previously made my life? I have decided to accept all invitations, to feel the fear, then do it anyway.

Status; DONE

10) Make stuff and sell it.

I make pretties. I have not judged them pretty, others have, and enough to buy them in a couple of cases. I use glitter, sequins, glue, canvases, felt, all sorts of stuff and make pictures and bags. Sometimes I revamp fashion dolls but I doubt MxxxxL would appreciate my dubious talents, as I although the bejewelled mermaids might be ok, I doubt the dominatrix would be. Would probably put money on their ire actually, so stick with nice safe furniture and accessories in 1:12 and 1:6... but whatever, I WILL make stuff and I WILL sell the odd thing. To learn confidence if nothing else.

Status;

11) Go PLACES.

Not just out on the lash at the weekend, but explore. I have a hankering to see Whitby and to tweet up with some of the lovely people I have met on twitter. As other websites have taught me, the chances of all sixty people in the pub being cannibalistic serial killers called Dave are actually quite minimal, and indeed, have met some proper lovelies through social media. (One of whom is my lovely du Bruxelles). So I am going to acquaint myself with bus and train timetables and explore this sceptered isle. And Sweden, to see another recently migrated social media lovely who became so very dear to me as well. 

Status; Getting there.

12) Learn to be happy.

What it says. To walk in the light, not grim shadows of self-loathing and doubt. To be the best mother, wife and friend I can be, and stop seeing myself as separate to my loved ones. That way has lain madness and despair. 

Status; seeing a counsellor

13) To see the Statue of Liberty with my eldest.

Again, what it says. Since we saw her come to life to save New York in Ghostbusters II we have loved her, and we just want to see her, if we do nothing else. I don't know how, and I don't know when, but one day, we will. I know I will cry and dissolve in to puddle of snot bubblery, but hey ho. It's my ultimate dream, and hers. 

Status; 

So here we are. My 40 List. Some might happen, some might not, some will always be a pipe dream; but I'll be damned if I carry on letting myself die before I stop breathing, or crying in the dark.  It's done me no favours thus far, and it's hight time I got a life... 

To borrow a line - we were born to die. Time I filled that space with goodness and life.

The opposite of sad.

Hello, my name is Mrs Miggins and I live with depression. 

Yes, I am fully aware that it might seem a selfish disease but hey ho. We do not choose our ailments. And no, I do not feel this way to spite anyone, it's not to make anyone feel bad, it just is what it is. My mind is my enemy and every day is a battle against that. Caused by a chemical imbalance that makes things...difficult.

I was born with it; Indeed, I cannot remember a time when I didn't feel like I was on the outside looking in. And I have a long memory.

Thus, things which might seem of no consequence to others become a huge mountain to react against. I do not want to feel this way. I want to feel normal, whatever that is. 

But my days are filled with rage, resentment, boredom and pain. I thought I had moved away from the really dark thoughts, but on Wednesday, shopping with one of my babies, I was on the escalator heading to the basement, when I looked up the the top storey. And looked at the bottom floor.

And unbidden, sprang the thought. 

Would it be enough of a drop.

Yes. I am fully aware of all the shit that goes on in this world, every second of every day. My heart clenches because I cannot help anyone, and because I have the selfishness of soul to be feeling like this. I am fully aware of how much I have compared to so many. So the guilt makes it worse. 

Counselling has helped a lot; but I still have so far to go. 

I think..the ennui has a lot to answer for. I need something to wrap my brain around, because I am so cold inside. Frozen if you like. My heart is frozen, and my soul is pretty much too. When not feeling rage or despair, I feel nothing. This is a frightening sensation. 

Although when at what I thought was my worst, I did wish for a magic switch that would stop me from feeling anything. Be careful what you wish for. It's not pleasant. Almost frightening, in fact.

Of course, I am acutely aware the looming milestone is magnifying the negativity.  But I do just want to escape.  To get on a train and lose myself in passing scenery. To hide. For hours. Days. Weeks. And I do not want to die. In fact, I live in terror of it. I think that awful thought was just a symptom of...I don't know...wanting to just stop for a bit. Take some time out from being me.

But I can't go back on the pills, God no.  They are not healthy. But nor is sitting in a dark room full of strangers, drinking vodka to escape. 

So yes, I need stimulation. Mind, body, spirit. Maybe if they were not bored, literally to tears, they could unite and unfreeze my heart. The ennui is, of course closely related to depression, and I do know that when my mind was engaged, I was easier to manage. No disrespect to anyone, but endless cunting cartoons do not engage my brain. I need to be challenged. I need to feel loved and accepted for what I am, not for what anyone thinks I should be, then is angry because I am not that person. 

No. I do not feel loved or accepted. I realise that this is no doubt another symptom of the beast, but I feel only coldness. I don't feel like I count for anything amongst my nearest and dearest. More like an invisible grey lady who always gets everything wrong. I'm wilting by the day and drowning by the hour AND I DON'T WANT TO FEEL LIKE THIS. Nor do I feel this way deliberately  or to 'get' at anyone. I don't write this shit to 'get' at anyone. I write to stay sane, to keep focused, to keep what little there is left of my brain in some semblance of working order. It's not a judgement of those who would know me best, but a judgement of what a horrible damaged human being I am, a complete fuck up.

And yes. I do feel like a caged butterfly - or in my case, moth - and my wings are aching to take flight. Not in a negative pack my bags and run away type way really. But just to get out there, to see and experience and think and feel. To be me. Not what they think I should be. To feed the animals and dance in the rain, have interesting conversations, and just...just be me. 

But most of all, I want to be held, and told that actually, I'm ok.

These foolish things

First of all, I love my family. Before we go any further, we must be clear on that. I would fight a great white with my bare hands, or stand in front of an express train to protect any of them. Cliches yes, but so very true. In my maddened state during Bizzy's illness, I had half formed thoughts of killing myself so they could take what they needed for her. When any of them are ill, I do not sleep; hypervigilance is the price I must pay to try and ensure it doesn't happen again. I love my husband with all my heart, and as for the cats and bunnies? Well, they're ok. 


I try so very hard to be what they, society and my heart says I should be. But I can't tell what it is. Mindless drone? Stepford wife? Ma Larkin? Vicky Beckham? TELL ME WHO I NEED TO BE. Because well I just don't know.


I know that I am expected to take the slings and arrows without hesitation. Difficult when you are being kicked, punched and screamed at by a very strong toddler. I have bruises on my bruises. Oh I ride the storm, and cuddle him down from that impotent little rage, then, once calm again, clean off the snot (off both of us) then carry on. But it is hard. Not because of any lack of love. Just because having seven bells of shit kicked out of you before 9 am on a Monday morning is really fucking Meh.


I adore them all with a passion and really would die for them. Indeed, some days I think a part of me already has. I just need...something...more. As an accompaniment. NOT a replacement. I am a wife. I am a mother. But am nothing else. In short, I am unfulfilled. In every way. In fact most days, I am empty. If you scratch the surface there is nothing there. It is all so well buried, subdued and dominated that you would have to mine me to find it. 


Yes. I am having a midlife crisis. 


Turning forty next month fucking hurts. And, yes, I feel like it's all over. Anything even remotely good that I was has been killed, plundered, napalmed to utter fuckery. Please allow me to wallow in this impotent and destructive self pity. Because right now, this is what I am. My soul feels like it's dying.


I'm not JUST a wife. I'm not JUST a mother. I'm not. I'm not. I have thoughts and feelings which people think they know but oh they do not. I have a brain. There is so much in my brain. A fucking massive IQ and nowhere to fucking use it. A wasted brain. And it's made of butterflies, so will always keep flying off on a tangent. I have thoughts, feelings, ideas, energy, and nowhere to show it. They say "Go to the park" or "do finger painting". Do they not get it? IT'S LIKE PUTTING A PLASTER ON AN AMPUTATED LIMB. How will going to the park stimulate me? Is it because "Well you are a mother so you will be brought to ecstasy by negotiating dog shit around the swings and you will like it". The park is for my children. But not for me. Parks are not for adults. We are not allowed to swing really high, the wind in our hair, pretending we are on the trapeze. 


I do cherish my family. I love to snuggle up with them, because I love them, because I know that one day I will ache to hold them, but they will be living their own lives. As it should be. 


And then what? 


I used to be pretty. I didn't know it. I hated my huge fat size zero body. Hated myself. I wish I had been vain. Made the most of myself, enjoyed my youth. Now the sands are slipping through my fingers at an alarming rate and I rage. Fear, shame, so much made me hide in the shadows, for too long. Now the shadows are lengthening and the days are growing shorter. I drink vodka, walk barefoot in rain, pretend I am someone else. I do not regret my life - I just wish I'd been less scared. I was too scared to be a mother AND have a career, and let the naysayers scare me. Too scared to be me. Historically I have always worked hard, and moved up fast. Have always fast become as close to indispensable as an employee can try and get. Loyal, adaptable, fast thinking. Buried under the Wheels On the cunting Bus. Why didn't I put my foot down and say "well I can do those profit and loss sheets and then sing nursery rhymes"?


I am trying hard to change all this. I'm swimming against the tide and I know that if I had fulfilment I would be a better wife and mother. If I had stimulation, and acceptance, and fulfilment I would be the woman that I should be. But I feel nothing. Except derided and invisible. Silently screaming to be seen.
Instead I eye the door, waiting for colour to burst in and say "Come with me if you want to live".


But I know that if I do want to live, I have to find the colours myself. But I just don't think I have anything left to try and do so with.

'sake.

B has been offered an operation to 'improve the look of her scars'. The recovery time will be long, anaesthesia has the usual risks and it's one of the most painful operations you can have, and will severely impact on her life during the recovery period. 

She does not want to have this operation. Even with the time off school carrot. She has never known herself to be any different, and has no problem with her scars - nor do we. It is not 'now or never'. This operation can be had at any time, but they are pushing for now, with the added pressure of "It's your decision, we can't advise" thrown in.

This operation will not remove her scars - just 'fill them in' so she looks less shark-ravaged. It will not stop her legs hurting, or stop the mild behavioural issues caused by the meningitis. It will not turn back the clock, either. To force her into submitting to this very painful procedure when she so doesn't want to would be, to my mind, a form of abuse, committed solely to appease the aesthetic sensibilities of others.

This is such a quandary though. Force her (mainly to get people off our backs) and get it out of the way when she's at an age where healing would be faster but have her feel we don't accept her, or listen to her and what she wants to do, then possibly face her anger at a later age, asking us why we didn't make her have it done. 

I console myself with the fact that she is actually eight years old and capable of intelligent and rational thought. But my consolation will not ward off future assholes who might hurt her feelings, will it. And this operation is mainly about pleasing them.

So to anyone who would pressure someone over something like this I can only say "Back off". This is a hard enough thing to think through without people whingeing at you. I believe the correct behaviour is to say "Whatever you all decide we are right behind you", and to keep close counsel to your own misgivings. 

But society is all about judgement, isn't it. 

This city never sleeps

I do like London. For all its faults, to wander around museums full of beauty then amble around a glorious park where the squirrels are so tame you can hand-feed them, where you can happily do almost twice the recommended 10,000 without noticing or hurting; well, there's a lot to be said for that.

I went there yesterday with a dear friend and some of our children. Oh dear me no, I could never take ALL of my children out with me. I have millions of them and they fight each other all the time. Plus I find it's the older offspring who have an interest in art, history and fashion that are the most appreciative of the V&A. Toddlers really don't get it. And the look of alarm on the faces of the staff, although almost a joy to behold, does get wearing. We ARE quite capable of ensuring our progeny don't wee on your carpet, honest...

Managing to zap myself, exhibits and other people after being charged by the lift was also amusing. One takes ones jollies where one can, after all, life is short. The amount of charge lifts everywhere fill me with, I imagine mine will be very short indeed and end with an unfortunate incident with a cheap carpet and a light switch.

We all tried on crinolines and corsets, took pictures and giggled, and admired the beauty, and the innovation and sheer, wondrous talent of people who had gone before us. A jewel given to Francis Drake by Elizabeth I almost brought me to tears; not because of what it is - but because of who had touched it, owned it, because of the history it had seen and been imbued with. 

Everything I see, I wonder who touched it, owned it, who were they, what were they like. I can never help marvelling at the sights things have witnessed. Sometimes, you can almost see the ghosts-but-nots.

A walk past Harrods brought us to the lunchtime dilemma. M&S or McDonalds? Like you need to ask. 

Yes, I did eat M&S sushi on a bench in Hyde Park whilst throwing the reduced-price cocktail sausages to the magpies. 

As well as a strange, quiet beauty, London parks also have a wonderful and quirky attraction. 

Squirrels.

Now seals, they hate me. Apparently, my black clothes remind them on a visceral level, of the shadow of a shark coming at them. I don't know the truth, but I met some seals and they completely blanked me, whilst being all over my colleague. But I can deal with that. Because squirrels love me.

Yes, I have made the jokes about nuttiness and tree-trunk legs. (You may not, however). But the fact is,  me and squirrels? We have an understanding. 

My soul churns and yearns all the time. My mind is never ever still. Sleep has always been problematic for me, because the cogs are never ever still. Whether it be problems, or the design of the miniature lawnmower I'm working on, myriad things; my mind never stops. But when I'm sitting on the path of a park, hand feeding squirrels, is one of the rare times I am still inside. 

It's always even more fun, when tourists have been filming the squirrels for ages, trying to feed them, but being resolutely ignored, when I make the kisskiss-noise at the squirrels who then come bounding over and take food from my hand. There are probably many photos around the world, dating back from 17 years ago, of a strange bint in a long  black frock, dark glasses and red lipstick, hand-feeding squirrels or being climbed up and then having my bag raided by said tree-dwellers. And the happiness that their trust gives me is long-lasting.

It's also a bloody good way of getting rid of those excess biscuits.

But the highlight of the day, for me, was the rain. As we approached the Houses of Parliament, I could tell by the beautiful light that it was coming, and then it was there. That heavy, heavy summer rain that feels like it could tear the flesh from your bones if you'd only just let it. As people ran with umbrellas, yelling and exclaiming like the world was ending, I just looked to the sky and embraced it, glad to be alive and feeling this. 

My companions pulling my into the station stopped my notions of removing my shoes and dancing in puddles however. Which is probably just as well...

It was good to finally be home, of course. To see my myriad offspring, my husband and cats, to wash the city out of my hair then collapse into bed. 

But oh oh oh, London gives a lovely light.

Poem for a friend.

I do not know how you feel;
But will listen while you tell me
When you need to cry
I will hold you, and
when you are angry
Rage at me.
On the high days 
and holidays
I will remember with you,
because I understand that
missing them will never end.
And I will help you
go through memories - 
And talk of time that's passed.
I know there is no time limit
So I will always have your back,
but most of all, I promise this;
That I will say their name.