Saturday Is Caption Day #3

Saturday Is Caption Day

It’s the freaking weekend, biatches! Weekends mean naff all to me other than there being no nursery for Bean, I’m guilt tripped into baking with him *scream* with the added joy of nodding and smiling (i.e not listening to a single word) whilst OH tells me every in and out of the football. Marvellous. Anyway, Saturday equals #SatCap whereby I post a HILARIOUS photo and you sexual lot give it a HILARIOUS caption, innit.  Ch-ch-check out the Fairy Blogmother and ACTUAL AWARD WINNER herself, Mammasaurus for more, much better photos.

Again it’s an oldie, but I tell you the efforts I went to to find this beaut it most definitely isn’t a lazy one. I searched hi and lo for this, climbed on cupboards and everyfink, I tell ya. And yes, that is me, rocking my brother’s Garfield slippers circa ’89.

*gets magic pixie dust* #SatCap awaaaay, my pretties *poof*.

The Line


Just what we need for a cold, damp Thursday, right? RIGHT?

Nature or nuture? Bit of both, maybe? Neither? Is it all chemical? Just a shitty result of circumstance? Depends? All of the above?

I’ve had the somewhat lack lustre, mouldering badge of depression slapped on my forehead for about fourteen years, so I’ve had it over half my life. I’m OK with this, well, OK-ish, and I’ve come to realise that it will never truly “go” and I most certainly will never be “fixed”. To my loved ones, I’m sure they’re used to it, and are more than aware of my highs but mostly of my lows and my fantastic ability to be an EPIC pain in the arse. I’m aware of what triggers the dark spells, and all I can do is try to stay busy and keep taking my medication which numbs everything to my toes but really are far better than the alternative.

My mum I’ve noticed, likes to think I’ve some freaky “chemical imbalance”, which for some reason always conjures up images of Doc Brown from Back to the Future in my mind. Lack of serotonin and the like, I don’t buy it, I think that’s the easy route out. She tries to encourage me to eat bulgur wheat and spinach and other such pretentious foodstuffs in an attempt to counter my lack of da chemicalz, and keep me from being insane in the membrane. Hmmm. I’ll grant you some things you put into your body definitely do not help, but I don’t think superfoods are the Holy Grail, soz.

My mum has suffered with depression and it’s derivatives from a young age also, waaaaay way before I was born, and I’ve seen her at her absolute worst. I’ve watched her occasional gin and tonic in the evenings escalate into a mahoosive drinking problem, drinking close enough to a bottle of gin a day until her eyes turned yellow and it rotted her teeth. I’ve fought knives and even carving forks from her desperate fingers. Hidden every form of medicine and chemical away from her. Had glass bottles thrown at me in her fits of uncontrollable rage. At the age of fourteen I was asked by her, pleaded with, when desperately trying to negotiate her to put the fucking pair of scissors down, for me to kill myself with her.

I hate that depression is part of me, I hate it is likely to never disappear in a puff of  dramatic smoke and everything will return to its original Technicolor and I will be permitted to see and feel and smell and love again properly. I hate worrying about my beautiful, beautiful boy, and if he is predisposed to depression too. I hate second guessing everything I do, in case it has a huge knock-on effect and teaches him the wrong ways to cope with difficult things and situations in his little mind and they never go. I hate when I’m having a bad day, when it’s all too much and I’m too exhausted to fight back the tears anymore, and telling his tiny worried face, “It’s OK, Mummy’s just a bit sad,” and making him cry too because he can’t understand, both of us clinging to one another in a mess of hot tears.

But I hope, I desperately, desperately hope that I know when I’ve crossed the line, or even when I’m flirting too close to it. That even though my mum didn’t teach me much in the emotion department as I kid, that she did teach me exactly what that line looked like and that I should never, ever cross it. And I hope more than anything, that Bean never has to feel that way, that that will never be a part of his make up, and that I won’t have to badger him to eat goji berries and drink disgusting herbal teas when he’s twenty-five too.


I’m about to admit something, something that I have done everything I can to skirt around and ignore for the last 18 months. Something that crushes my self-esteem to a tiny, crumpled mess. Something that breaks my other half’s heart and his manly hunter gatherer pride. Something I’d do anything to change. But it’s also something, ultimately, at this moment in time, cannot be altered or fixed. I’m just gonna come out and say it. *deep breath* *looks at the floor*

I live on benefits.


You can report me to the Daily Mail now if you so wish.

I’m gonna try my fucking damnedest to not make excuses and try to justify my family’s situation, because really and truly, I know I don’t need to. However, from gauging people’s reactions (raised eyebrows, embarrassed avoiding eye contact, snidey comments), over the last year and a half, I feel obligated to explain why I’m living off their hard-earned taxes.

But I will reiterate again, as I did in this post that my other half has been ill and unable to work for two years now, and we’re still, STILL, yet to find out what is actually wrong. In the meantime we’re in a no man’s land of limbo and I’m left looking after my three-year old, my thirty-two year old, myself and our house with no answers, solutions or end in sight.

Yeah I know, bloody martyr, me eh? But what the fuck do you care? I’M SPENDING ALL YOUR MONIES AND HAVING A BLAST, AIN’T I?! I’m the young mum cliché, with my Greggs and daytime TV, feeding my kid kebabs  and fizzy drinks and thinking it’s all one big HILARIOUS joke, aren’t I? Aren’t I? What do you mean, “no”?

I don’t want to live like this, I don’t enjoy it, it doesn’t make me feel good. I hate feeling guilty for having to buy a deodorant or a new toothbrush. I hate having to sell my old nice stuff on eBay in order to buy myself a coat or new pair of jeans. Even though Rob’s illness is entirely out of my control, I still feel like a complete failure. I don’t particularly like feeling judged and resented by the somewhat less than understanding members of my family and friends. My other half worked for fifteen years, paying taxes and national insurance like everyone else, this is the first time either of us have ever claimed benefits. Why the stigma? Why the taboo? Why do I have to explain myself every time I’m asked “do you work?” or “does your partner work?”, why isn’t a simple “no.” enough?

I was under the impression, I know, I must be freaking MENTAL, that the benefit system was there for people in need. People who are vulnerable. People who are absolutely NOT having a good time. Yes, of course there are idiots out there, abusing that system, and making it so hard for those that have genuine needs, I’m not denying that, I ain’t kerazy.

I’m pretty sure we’re actually entitled to MORE benefits, i.e Carers Allowance or whatever it is they might have renamed it, but I refuse to claim this as our plan before all this happened was I’d be a SAHM anyway, therefore I’d feel wrong to claim for something I’d be doing anyway, it’s just that now I’m looking after two people rather than one.

It seems a lot of people we know opinions have changed, from initial sympathy, if I haven’t seen them for a while, the common question is “Oh, you’re still on benefits then.” or “He’s still off work then.” Well yes dear friend, because what you are avoiding to recognise is that he is NOT WELL, he can’t work, he can’t walk without falling into something or to the floor, he’s constantly, yes, like ALL THE TIME CONSTANTLY, dizzy, he is always, always always in massive pain. See, I can’t write a few hundred words without feeling the urge to say this again. Yes, we are still on benefits, yes, he’s still off work. I appear to have used all my wishes up on my own personal fairy godmother, and I have no magic cure  for our personal problems, I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that my partner had the audacity and sheer CHEEK to be unwell. I really am. I’m sorry I have to claim some financial support from the government in order for my family to survive. But please, don’t assume this is fun. Please don’t assume that we’re lazy. Please don’t assume we wouldn’t do anything for an alternative to this. Please don’t assume I don’t spend every night awake worrying about money and if this will ever end. Please don’t assume this is all one big fabrication, just to receive some money to just about get by on. Because honestly, the alternative, working and feeling like a member of society again, is easier than this. I’d rather go back to my pre-Bean job of being a manager and working eighty plus hours a week on a shit wage. But that I’m afraid, really isn’t possible right now. The reality is simple, but the answer isn’t, and I’m sorry, I am, if that’s so hard to understand.

Saturday Is Caption Day #2

Saturday Is Caption Day

Thank fuck that’s over, hmmm? It’s the freaking weekend! Of course weekends mean approximately nothing to SAHMs (and dads), other than CBeebies changes it’s scheduling, and we’re expected to make Sunday lunch – haha as if. Anyway, it’s specifically the day of the Satur… Consequently, in blogging land, this means #SatCap.  I post a dubious photo and you sexy lot give it a funny/witty/clever/disturbing/thought-provoking caption… Ch-ch-check out the Fairy Blogmother herself, Mammasaurus for more, most definitely better photos.

Here’s my offering this week, somewhat lazy as it’s old, but it made me smile, and it’s my blog I’ll post what I want to! Is it wrong that I hate summer, and am getting rather excited about it getting cold and dark again? Yeah? Ah, I’ll sit my arse in the corner then…

*Slings on cape* #SatCap awaaaaaaay. *Poof* *Disappears*

Nuts & Squirrels

Short one tonight, I am so bloody tired I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience, *slaps self around the face* Nope, nothing.

What’s been happening I hear you all cry, how’s the cat, how’s the Bean, what’s UP?

Well strangely enough, Bean has actually behaved OK today, not amazing, not GOOD exactly, but bearable. I’ve still been bitten, and my glasses have flown off my face a few times, the cat has been bear hugged etc etc but compared to the last few weeks, he’s been OK. I’m not allowing myself to be fully sucked in though, I have a feeling he’s been reading my blog and is on to me. Bean, if you’re reading this, GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP.

He seemed to be in good spirits this morning, so I decided I’d utilise his chirpy mood and take him to the woods to find some squirrels. It was nice, he had fun and I got to see a good few glimpses of my beautiful, funny, kind little boy once more.

I’m hoping, and praying that this is the beginning of me having my Bean back, but even if it isn’t and today was a one-off, I needed it, I needed to fall back in love with my little dude, to laugh at his ridiculously stupid dances and stories, to have a bit of fun with him and to feel like he loved me again too. I’ve missed you baby, don’t go away again.

Other news, the cat cost me another 30 quid, the vet thinks she has some kind of virus and has put her on antibiotics, she says thank you for all your well wishes.

Waiting to be poked up the bum again

Sorry for the lack of funny tonight, normal business will resume shortly I promise, I think the last few weeks of mentaldom have finally caught up with me, and I just feel exhausted and numb. I’m going to do something I very rarely do, and switch off the laptop and have an early night. Also, I have the period from hell and feel like I’ve been run over by a steam roller / kicked in the cunt. Yes, I just wrote kicked in the cunt. On that bombshell, I’ll see you soon my beauts x

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