#bridgetbythebridge

#MMXV

For regular readers of my adventures in Playland, you will know that I write an annual wrap up a little earlier than most people. I can’t wait until the veritable end of the year; I’ll be far to busy drinking lukewarm White Wine in the blistering sun over Sydney. So I need to get in early, before people start nicking off to the countryside with their families, before people turn away from social media in favour of their social real lives, before you all get so hyped up on the Sherlock or Downton Christmas specials that little else in life matters.

This annual wrap up usually coincides with the world’s most ridiculous holiday that went viral beyond America and no one knows why, Thanksgiving. So this is my wrap up for 2015, as well as my thank you to all the beautiful ones that made my canvas so colourful.

 

1.21 Gigawatts

 

MMXV kicked off with the hugest of highs, I wasn’t sure how I would ever recover. Me myself and I started the year in my new spiritual home, #bridgetinbeverlyhills. I had managed to exist for 39 years without ever having been to Los Angeles. Considering my obsession with all that is Hollywood, and a life long love with Pretty Woman, it was only fitting that I spend at least half my week in Beverly Hills, staying at the hotel in which Whitney died, and closing out the best week in recent memory with a day at Universal Studios.

I’m still not the biggest fan of America, I think they are all a bit too cheerful, a bit too oblivious, a bit too God-Fearing and not enough actual-real-life fearing; their blind faith in God and Country unsettles my natural sense of unhealthy scepticism. But after a week in Hollywood, one can understand why they do so well; the wholesale manufacture of Fairytales in this sort-of-a-bit-shitty world in which we live is comforting. Comforting like a warm hug from an elderly aunt, comforting like a tepid snifter of Brandy, comforting like an inky blindfold shielding your eyes from the harsh light of reality. No wonder I loved it so much. #bridgetlovesaprincess #bridgetlivesindenial

All geed up on bullshit and fantasy, I returned to London and decided I wanted to be a Ballroom Dancer. Classes were paid for, poor self esteem was overcome and I spent my Tuesday evenings with the former Serbian Idol, Nico. I was actually quite good at it, but the ritual humiliation of being one of the ‘singles’ in the class was more than my fragile confidence could bear.

 

Hever Castle - Anne B's old house

 

The winter thawed (not really, but the calendar said it should have) with the arrival of Mater, Mamacita, The Old Girl, Müttiroo, she of the Katherine Hepburn Up-High-Hairdo, Motherbear. It had been a whole 5 years since she had visited me in Europe and I was so excited to share my 50m2 with her, I immediately left for Brazil. #badtimingisabitch #bridgethasabloodyjobyouknow

Three months with Motherbear was a pleasure in so many ways, but not all the ones you might expect. Sure, having a ready ear to listen when I returned, exhausted and over it from work is a unique joy for someone who has lived alone for as long as I have. Having someone to hang out with on the weekend was also a rare novelty. But it made me especially happy to have the Motherbear hang out in London for Mummy-Daughter Manicures; a habit she has maintained since returning to the Great Southern Land. It was fascinating to hear her recount the miniscule differences between Border Control regulations in NZ, Canada, the UK and of course Australia; The Old Girl loves a bit of cable TV. It was refreshing to not have to wash a shirt, a plate, a glass, a knickers, a bra or on one memorable day, the balcony tiles, for an entire 3 months; she also doesn’t mind coaching the housekeeper on how to improve her life while observing as she bleaches the bath. #alwayslookingafterthelittlepeople

Having mum to play with on the weekends saw us off for weekends to Brighton, Bern and Boleyn’s house in Kent. It was all very relaxing, very civilised, very Pinot Grigio and poached eggs on toast…and then March saw the invasion of the Barbarian Hordes. #bridgetandbess #bridgetandsqueal Did you know that two very independent middle aged women, a mildly batty senior citizen and a stubborn toddler could share two rooms, one bed, one toilet, one couch and one shower? Well now you do.

A particular highlight for me…

The Little Squeal, who was sleeping on her Pink Princess Bed at the foot of mine, stood up one night in terror, asking her mother “what was that rattling noise?” Her mother, The Art-sist-ologer, was wearing earplugs to defend against said noise and didn’t answer her curious mite. I did wake up, and explained to the innocent little’un, that yes, ladies, even ones who have nail polish, can snore too. #bridgetbreathes

Other adventures included the consecutive wanderings west, to Paris and Salies and the following weekend to Stockholm. In both cases, Squeal was subjected to people who didn’t use ‘her words’, Motherbear was subjected to the culinary roulette that is Europe and I was subjected to far too many hours in an airport without enough loyalty status points to bring them to the lounge. We all had a fabulous time, then Big Al and AG showed up and seeing 6 people sitting in my living room having dinner really did make me feel like home had travelled 17,000KM; seeing all my people, all together, doing our things, on the other side of the world felt very odd. #therewasnobbq

 

#bridgetbeatspeopleup

 

Everyone left, I was alone again, and wondering why I was subjecting myself to the humiliation of dance lessons with a man (not Nico, a new teacher) I wanted to spontaneously combust every time he spoke. One night, I made a decision. I knew I needed a change. The rest of that Herculean trial is documented here so I won’t repeat it, only digitise it: 7 months, 3 dress sizes, one busted knee, one dodgy hip, one skinned patella induced trip to Guys hospital, 7 bleeding knuckles, 40kg bench, 20 push-ups and 90kg dead lift. You should also acknowledge that 7 months ago, I wouldn’t have known what any of that meant. I’ve lost a pound of flesh and gained a vernacular.

 

I’ve also gained an encyclopaedic knowledge of Theatre; standing ovation to The Critique. She whisks me off to see this and that; I rarely ask questions, I just show up. Planning in advance for a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants-girl like me is limited to what I do for a living. On the weekend, just give me a time and a dress code and I’m there, there with bells on and a Pinot in its theatre-rules-enforced plastic cup. #bridgetbytheboards

A couple of highlights from the limelights this year; James McAvoy in the Ruling Class, Bradley Cooper in The Elephant Man, BC in Hamlet twice, Romola Garai in Measure for Measure, Damon Albarn’s wonder.land and my favourite, I can sing the whole thing now, Minchin’s Matilda...twice. Living in London, going to the theatre doesn’t feel so much like a luxury as an obligation; we’re English, we have to uphold our birthright for sitting in overheated spaces, panting in frustration and ignoring the fleshed pressed against us. The Theatre; the Thinking Woman’s Tube. #theystillhaventfiguredouttheaircon  

While my life may have seen a few ‘Famous’s” in MMXV, it is the people I see everyday that fill my days with sequins and starshine, unicorns and rainbows, love and laughter. #yesitsthatgood #notherearenodrugs

 

Because I spend the most time with them, I’ll begin with the team of very patient individuals that have that unique privilege of my human form as the Amazonian Tyrant guiding their careers. The Duchess, Semi and  #ashtag have been my constant companions through thick and thin. The Body, the BFF with whom I now share a desk, and Miss Jones are the formidable duo who walk that fine line between laughing at my increasingly unhinged antics and wishing I worked in a different postcode. A special mention for The Kaiser of Kool, a man so beautiful, so perfect, I’m not sure why he dares to look upon something like me, something with skin marked by sun and a soul besmirched by sadness. #willheturntostone

We’ll continue with the beautiful ones, Louis XIV, Braveheart, Sunshine and Dazzle. Beautiful men, beautiful souls, the shiny cheerleaders that dance me out of my depressions, forever proffering a Flute to flutter away the nagging obsession, the flagging motivation and the gagging inebriation. They are fabulous, they are friends, they are a female fantasy.

There are also the girls; the ones who know how to use Tinder instead of Grindr. New Girl and The Tequila Sister, my adopted London Ladies. Always available for ‘a drink’ after work, a drink that is invariably seven. #thatswhytheyputitinbottles

There are those earthy French ones I visit all the time; a small family that will imminently add two more. My Famille Far Far Away, so close in nature to my actual family that we even achieved the over-the-dinner-table-fat-insult during a memorable lunchtime in Provence. Fortunately they ply me with pate and Pinot, so all is very quickly forgiven.

I cannot close without a penultimate word of gratitude for Bear, that strong and sensitive man who is my constant headache. He is the Fighting Apollo to my Warrior Artemis, Stable Mark to my Wobbly Bridget, Wicked Dr Frankenstein who has handcrafted his very own wailing monster.  

And Finally, the biggest thank you of MMXV is proffered south to the First Family of Fruitcakedom.

UPAD, Big Al, AG, Giggle and the rest. They visit, they cheer and remind me of my very deep roots, roots buried far below the red clay and sandstone of Sydney. The Art-Sist-ologer, she of the golden-thumbs and Little Squeal; waking me up every Saturday at sparrow’s fart to show me the latest Frozen toy. #hangoversandprincesses The SmartArse, His MotherChef, Sapphire and Smack; always keeping me true, never letting me forget my own story, reminding me of what it is to be one of us. #sarcastic Motherbear LX, carrying the burden of two parents, living her own melodramas, but always listening to mine, loving and supporting her growing brood, inspiring us all. 

Thank you to all of you who read this. I do it for fun; your comments and criticisms are making me a stronger, sassier, swearier writer. I long for the day when I might just have the courage to do it full time.

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year.  #bridgetbuggersoff #bridgetbythebeach #bridgetbytheharbourbridge #mumlooknoswearing

 

See you soon Sydney.

#imagine

 

A light in the City of Light!

 

“…nothing to kill or die for, and no religion too…”

 

I’ve prevaricated, hesitated and procrastinated. I wasn’t sure whether to write anything. I don’t want to enrage my friends, alienate my colleagues or estrange myself from a few of my closest relatives. But I’m saddened, I’m maddened and the only way I know to process my thoughts is to write it down, swear it out and just maybe share something constructive around an act so destructive.

 

I went to a fee-paying Anglican high school. For 7 years, I was subjected to songs about a God I’d never seen, stories about a prophet I couldn’t be certain ever existed and writing papers about a science that could not be proven.  We spent hours in chemistry validating the existence of science-y stuff with equations and experiments that required exacting measurement, painstaking processes and a dangerous amount of fire (especially considering the largely teenage boy audience and a school located in the bush). Most of our week was about truth, proof and certainty. Then for one hour, an hour that counted towards our grades, we’d sit in a room and share fairytales. #seasdontpart #waterdoesntbecomewine

My Anglican education was broken at 16 with a year in a state-funded high school in France. Science and history and language were still very much the order of the day, but one of the first questions my friends would ask was ‘are you right or left’. Kids were into politics, real life, Mitterand and Mururoa, not fairytales about Mary or Magdelene. In our history class we wrote papers about what we thought and then spent hours debating actual philosophy. ‘What do you think about’ was a question I couldn’t remember being asked during my years of incandescent indoctrination.

My year in France taught me to think, taught me to question, taught me to be me. Napoleon, that short second son of Corsica, had such distrust of religious institutions he separated the church from the state a century before I ever stepped out of the plane. You can’t be legally married in a church in France; the state is the highest authority in the land, not the temple. Which is why it is so frustrating that this insanity is playing out in Paris, a city of the freest peoples, a city that has been the playground of warmongers for centuries, but a city that allows its citizens to pray to whatever god they choose, to read whatever fairytales they wish, a city of religious freedom. (Except for Scientology because the French rightly classify that as a corporation, not a religion)

 

Perfection.

 

I don’t regret that I went to the school I went to, I’m very lucky that I had the good fortune to receive any education at all. If I were born somewhere else in the world, I’d perhaps have been forbidden a day in a school because a dusty book written by someone who has been dead for millennia said girls should stay dumb as a post and open their legs and cook and clean and worship a man. Malala took a few bullets in her brain to prove that girls can do whatever they want, and her parents, her friends and her family all read that same book. But they, like me, benefit from a bit of perspective a bit of context, a bit of common sense. #itwaswritten2000yearsago

I very much live with a keen sense of spirituality, a sense of energy and aura and balance and being. What I don’t have is the ability to read a book written in a language I don’t speak, that NO ONE speaks anymore, and believe word for word that I must behave the way the book says I should. I believe that if I am a good human, other people around me will be good humans too…regardless of their colour or creed. #dountoothers

I don’t get why you want me to pray for Paris; isn’t that what got us all in this trouble in the first place? One guy, with an army and a flag, said that his book was more valid than the other guy’s. That guy didn’t have a flag or an army a few years ago, but he sure does now, and he is so colossally blinkered that he’ll point his gun wherever he wants, wave his flag, and then die for his fairytale. He’s learned his opponent’s rules, he’s standing behind his book and country, with his own songs, his own code and his own twitter feed to mesmerise his comrades and he has no fear. He believes in fairytales too.

Well I propose that from this day, my fairytale be the one we all believe.

 

Once upon a time there was a land of people of all the types, kinds and colours; this land was call Sanity-Land. The people of Sanity-Land loved to read, they read all the time, but they were clever and kind and knew when a story was just a story and not the absolute truth, certainly not worth massacring your neighbours. The people of Sanity-Land didn’t mind if one person read stories about trees, and another person read stories about trucks and another person read stories about butterflies. Everyone read their stories in peace and then they hugged their children goodnight and slept soundly because they were good.

The people knew that the rules in the stories were not rules for everyday living in 2015. Obviously being a Jedi is a fairytale, obviously a land filled with mermaids under the sea is a fairytale, obviously travelling through time is a fairytale and Mr Darcy is too perfectly hot to have ever been a real person, so he must be a fairytale too. 

The Sanity-Landers cared about food, making enough food for everyone to eat. They cared about shelter, and building enough roofs for all the people of Sanity-Land. The people made music and movies and danced and apologised when they pushed in front of you at Waitrose. They didn’t think that pushing in front of you was cause for a violent knife injury; they didn’t film it and pray it went viral on YouTube. The people just recognised that we are all different and unique and if we just imagined that the borders and the books were just that, imaginary, the world would live as one. 

#bridgetandbear

 

Or, “Jiu Jitsu; a Most Unexpected Romance”.

 

Anyone who’s read anything I’ve ever written here or at parismarisamadonna will by now have gleaned a couple of core facts about me,#bridgetbythebridge. 

You’ll know that I work really, really hard, all of the time, earning all the money that keeps me (and a couple of others) fed, watered, clothed and regularly flying south to visit the little people. You will know that work, and being excellent at it, has been the unique focus of my life since forever, that my entire sense of self-worth hinges on how well I am doing in my job, how much my boss values me and whether or not I’m getting a promotion. You’ll know that my job is my life.

You will also know that I am more than just a little bit opinionated. I’ve got something to say about pretty much everything and I don’t mind how loudly or how aggressively I say it.  You’ll know that when I’m ‘off on one’ I use big words I look up on the online thesaurus almost as often as I swear like a sailor; I fuck and shit and piss and c*nt as easily as I pontificate, iterate and capitulate. I love to use all the words, I love to emote and express, I love that when I write, you can hear and see me stubbornly stomping, proudly punching the air or bellowing with belly laughs.

You’ll know that I’ve hated the way I look for as long as I’ve been conscious of my own appearance. You’ll know that I go red in the face when I do sport. You’ll know that I drink too much wine and sometimes forget how I got home. You’ll know about my anxiety and you’ll know about the dead father, the loving mother, the Smartarse brother, the artistic sister and the imaginary mister. You’ll know that I love my family more than makes sense for a woman of my age and that I love to travel, to discover the people of the world and eat all the food in the fanciest of restaurants.

You’ll know that I love bonnet dramas and Bronte and Austen; I love Downton and Dancing. I am the typical middle-aged workingwoman with no cats but all the gay friends, cheering me on, toasting and roasting and boasting. You’ll know that I am more than a little obsessed with Tom Hiddleston,#poshtotty and you’ll know that I am unfailingly optimistic, even a little naïve. But you’ll most especially know, you’ll be certain of it, you know that I am a hopeless romantic.

Which is why this story is so unexpected.

I thought I’d find my romance in the theatre, or in a dimly lit wine bar, or at work. I thought that like Lizzie or Bridget, my romance would be a battle of wits, eyes meeting over a robust bottle of Pinot, hands finding each other under the table, a romantic comedy starring Colin Firth, someone who liked me very much, just as I am. ^

 

 

Well someone did tell me they liked me very much, just as I am (specifically that I am at my best when I'm not fake or covered, just myself). Someone’s eyes did meet mine, but over the cold steel rods of a dumbbell. The battle of wits took place three times a week, very early in the morning, in a flood lit gym studio, with mirrors on the walls that I never look into. It is about as romantic as a visit to the gynaecologist. While many of you slept soundly in your beds, we were exchanging increasingly suggestive innuendo as I gritted my teeth in agony, sweating, panting, and complaining that I couldn’t do it. But I always did do it; he was always standing beside me, lifting me off the floor when I collapsed, reminding me of my own strength, a supportive hand on my shoulder, a high-five for each milestone I surpassed, or my favourite, a cheeky spank when I don't lift my hips high enough off the ground during push ups.

I have seduced a man who has never seen me with makeup on. I’ve seduced a man who has never seen me with non-swooshed daytime clothes on. I’ve seduced a man who has seen my face so red he wondered if my eyeballs would bleed. I’ve seduced a man who has seen me cry at my own weakness, who has seen me wretch in exhaustion, who has seen me quake and quiver, strain and stretch, sweat and stink, grunt and groan, wobble and wail.*

Who would ever have thought that I, the bolshie, intellectual, fancy, wine-bar type would find my romantic comedy in a fluorescent fucking gym. Who would ever have expected that a man who shouts at me, a man who forces me to do things I do not want to do, would be the object of my affection? Who would have predicted that the only man to whom I have ever listened, a man who gives me orders, who would have predicted that that man would be the one that makes my knees weak? Who would have believed that a man who observes me as I do actual physical exercise would ever find me attractive?

He lets me hit him with my bare fists. He lets me throw my entire weight against him and push him off balance. And a few weeks back he taught me Jiu Jitsu; the ancient Japanese art of grappling ones opponent, rolling around on the ground until one person pins the other one to the floor. I have bruises all over my arms, but most pleasingly, I have bruises on my lips. He lets me overpower him, he lets me throw him down and then one day, after I’d panted through an hour fighting him, he let me kiss him. #notsurethatispartofjiujitsu

He is the leading man of my very own romantic (martial arts themed) comedy. #bridgetandbear

 

[He read this before I published it, and has approved, although he wishes he wasn't named after Bear Grylls, which is ironic, because he is leading a mountain climbing expedition in Scotland as we speak. Today is his Birthday, and this was my gift to him.]

 

^That’s a quote from Bridget Jones for the uninitiated

*Seduced; a word I’ve used for poetic purpose rather than an exact description of any intentional intoxication

 

 

Also, but unrelated, please click here and LIKE the Art-sist-ologer, black one with white flowers, so she can win the universe of textile design and I can retire. 

 

 

#crazyauntM

 

They say that being a mother is the greatest reward for any and all of the women of earth. Whether she stands tall on an African plain, with a baby strapped around her swollen arms. Whether she is running through Central Park, pushing a tri-wheeled pram ahead of her and her LuLuLemon covered calves. Whether she is squinting into the sun from behind an inky black niqab, shrouded and hidden, with her brood of future rulers waddling about her feet. Whether she is cradling another sick child against an empty breast while the commuters run by, oblivious to her very own miracle of life. In any and all of these instances, women are bred to believe that their single purpose is to incubate the next generation of mewling minors, ready to consume, kill and copulate.

Well I say fuck that.

I say fuck that because I’m not a mum and I likely never will be. I say fuck that because I am more than a uterus on legs. I say fuck that because even the mums I know confide that every so often, they wonder why they can’t just walk out their front door, and never return. I say fuck that because ‘they’ are usually men, ‘they’ are usually men with ancient books that were written by other men, ‘they’ can fuck right the fuck back to where they fucking came from. I say fuck that because I am an Auntie, I’m pretty much the awesomest Auntie there ever was and all little girls need awesome aunties.

Smack, who loves having his photo taken

 

When I was a little girl, one of my favourite stories was Anne of Green Gables. I loved Anne, I wished I had a kindred spirit, I wanted to run over the hills of Prince Edward Island and I wanted to run into the strong open arms of Gilbert Blythe. Like Anne, I wanted to be a writer, I wanted to immortalise the people I knew and loved, just as she did, I wanted to visit Charlottetown and stay with Aunt Jo and be posh and civilised and dance around to opera in my pantaloons. Aunt Jo is critical to Anne’s success at school, at university and ultimately in her career. Without rich, lonely, childless Aunties, (even though she is actually Diana’s auntie), how can we expect our next generation of girls to thrive?

Without her kindly Aunt Em, who adopted her after her parents died, Dorothy would never have lived in Kansas. She would never have met the Wicked Witch with the sassy sandals. She would never made her way to Oz, with the trio of slightly paedophilic escorts. She would never have followed her Yellow Brick Road.

Without Aunt Beru, how would Luke have found himself on Tatooine? Would we have seen him staring off at the two suns, hoping for a better life? He wouldn’t have been ferreting around in the sand, running into another somewhat paedophilic Obi Wan who showed his Force and his shining sabre. 

Where would Scarlett and Melanie have found themselves without Aunt Pittypat and her sanctuary from impending civil war in Atlanta? I can assure you Miss Scarlett and Miss Melly would have died and Gone with the Wind would have gone in chapter 22 rather than chapter 63.

A day with Squeal at the zoo. She liked the guinea pigs best.

  

Being an Auntie is, aside from being quintessentially dazzling in all ways, an intrinsic component of who I am. Sapphire, Smack and Squeal; the three little people that call me Auntie (actually they don’t, they just call me by my first name), 2 little girls and a little boy that joined the evolving cast of characters in my life over the past 6 years. During that time, they’ve opened my mind to all the wonders of runny poo, projectile vomit and Disney Princesses. They’ve made me laugh (the first time Squeal said fuck), they’ve made me cry (when Sapphire wrote that I was her hero) and they’ve made me remember facts and figures I’d buried deep in my longest term memories expecting never to retrieve (Smack does love asking a question or seven during a Star Wars replay). 

I’m not their mummy, and when they are sad they will never run to me. I’m not their Daddy, so they rarely obey when I reprimand them. But I am their Auntie, so they know that when I am in town, the credit card is steaming for a swiping, and it’s time to play.

Who else do they know that will buy them every unique iteration of Elsa’s dress? Who else do they know that will run down the winding paths of the Zoo screaming, repeatedly, ‘it’s penguin time’ with no regard for the fact that while this boisterous behaviour might be acceptable for a three year old, from a forty year old, it is questionable at best and perhaps even a little unnerving? Who else do they know who can sing every single word of ‘Under the Sea’? Who else do they know that has seventeen cartoon movies on her laptop, ready to show at a moment’s notice? Who else will share her Lego with them? Who else is truly, just as much of an infant as they are? #fortyyearoldchild

Who else has opened up her homes in both Paris and London to tiny people that get dangerously close to her precious’s? Who else has dragged two lumps of tired flesh across Disneyland Paris? Or dragged a Trunki topped with a tired toddler through Heathrow? Who else has a suitcase, already packed full of tiny shoes, tiny jewels and tiny custom-made T-shirts? Who else is proud as punch that her little people have been able to see the other side of the earth before they saw the inside of a classroom. 

Aunties have that unique role in a child’s life, like Anne’s Aunt Jo, to spoil, to show, to share and to love unconditionally. I never knew how much I would love stewarding those three little souls; after all, as a rule, I literally cannot stand children.  But when you see one that has a little bit of your own genetics, somehow, your biology takes over and you find yourself changing their shitty nappies without a shuddering dry wretch of revulsion.

 

And this year I am gunning for the prize of Ultimate Auntie Ever. This year at our place, Queen Elsa and Princess Anna will be handing out the presents. #goingforthewin

 

Manicures with Sapphire.

 

#madashell

 

#melfie

 

Every family has character traits that bind and tie its unique identity. Perhaps you’re gingers, generation after generation of flame haired beauties nicknamed Bluey? If you were especially lucky in the genetic lottery, you’re the spitting image of Angelina or Brad, so blessed by biology that your cheek bones could shave parmesan and your tears could be bottled for the unique purpose of repairing wounded unicorns. Musical virtuoso, piano prodigy or singing sensation; wouldn’t it be wonderful to wake up every day knowing you had the power to captivate millions without barely even trying? Intellectual giant, gymnastic elasticity, Rapunzelian locks, the grace of a gazelle, the wit of Wilde, anything really, would be better than our unique family distinction.

We’re all mad as cut snakes, nutters, creepy and kooky, mysterious and loony, shaky, anxious, morose and maniacal. Being as we are, fully functioning members of productive society, it will come as a surprise to many that we’re barely holding on, teetering at any time between then realm of the living and a week long stint under the doona dampened by the tears of hours spent begging the banes to exit the skin by way of our lachrymal vents.

Not wanting to speak ill of the living, my immediate family might be a bit annoyed at my naming and shaming, I’ll reserve my commentary to the dead, and myself, whose sanity I’ve never sanctioned. So maybe I should rephrase, only my father and myself are nuts, every other member of our genetic Diaspora is completely normal, tip top, ship shape and happy as Larry. 

Sad isn’t it, we’ve reached a point in our collective evolution where it is more acceptable to be filmed having sex with a stranger than it is to admit suffering from mental illness. Divorce, sex before marriage, homosexuality, poverty, single parent families, domestic abuse, and paying actual money for music recorded by One Direction. All the skeletons in our Victorian closest are socially acceptable. We sit on the sofa of social media’s global talk show and share just about anything; who we’ve done, who we would like to do and who we can’t, but standing up among friends, let alone strangers, and calling out the diagnosis of the 21^st century’s single biggest killer is shameful, hidden, swept under rugs and unnamed.

Crazy cats take to the streets, uncared for, untreated and unsupervised, they purchase fatal arms, or use whatever is handy, they kill, they maim, they execute and they assassinate, we spend hours analysing the outcome but never address the root cause. In many instances, those who suffer are undiagnosed and left wandering the streets. Entire societies are at risk of bedlam because we’re too scared to talk about it.

Well here goes.

 

I suffer from acute anxiety. The stress and pressure of the life I lead manifests itself in all manner of creative ways. My personal favourite is an inability to sleep, as I shuffle from side to side in the darkness desperate to close my eyes and my consciousness to the constant mental examination of what is, what might be and everything in between. I lay no claims to being an Air Traffic Controller, a Neurosurgeon, a Spy or a Sergeant; I am but woman, who has a job and lives in a very big city. Some days, that is just too much and my brain struggles to decipher it, breaking down and unable to cope with the more basic processes…like sleep.

Insomnia aside, the compulsive behaviour is pretty special. Checking every door, checking every power point, checking I have my passport, checking anything at all in a futile effort to control the uncontrollable. Anxiety is the fear of what might happen, OCD is the collection of behaviours one exhibits to mitigate that fear.

My father, that brilliant and damaged man whose face I see every day in the mirror, walks now in the sky with Lucy and her Diamonds. When he wasn’t sawing, sanding or singing, he was seesawing between the heights of mania and the depths of depression. His crazed eyes, his twitching fingers and his clenched teeth were the daily signals of a man who grew at a time when marrying a cousin was less shameful than admitting mental infirmity. He would live 56 of his 58 years before ever seeking professional help, before we had a word to describe what we tolerated for so long. By then he was living in a morphine dream and the damage had been done.

I’m intimately acquainted with people who talk about their digestive ailments, IBS, Crohn’s Disease and the intolerance of all manner of nature’s delights. As a society we’ve become accustomed to discussing our bowels, their movements and all associated excrement; we now discuss our shit but we can’t discuss the real shit.

Women sit together in cafes and stage whisper their secrets divulging a litany of complaints but never the shame of insanity. Uteri. Miscarriages. Menstruation. STIs. UTIs. Open season for all of our openings, but hush on the subject of sadness or risk your bestie shifting in her seat at the unwelcome intimacy of knowing that you are just barely keeping it together. There are so few obstacles to inclusion, why is mental illness the must-have accessory of the social pariah?

I don’t know.

I genuinely don’t understand how we’ve come to this place where absolutely everything is ordinary except the one affliction that blights 25% of the UK population. We film, we share, we like, we update, we photograph and we tag, so here is my #melfie. A photo of a mentally ill person, a Mad Hatter.  This is what someone with mental illness looks like…completely fucking average, not hiding, not drowning, just waving.

I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore.