How the tables have turned

An interesting turn of events, I guess?

When I think about how it was merely 8 years ago that I was getting the holiday envy, whilst booking a holiday on behalf of my mum... Maybe we'd had a couple of glasses of wine. Which turned into a bottle or two of wine.

By the time we were a little bit tipsy I'd managed to sort it all, by the time the boarding passes came and check in info pinged to the inbox, it was very clearly time for me to check out.

It would appear, that night my subconscious envy-gremlin was clearly egging me on like a swaying slurring demon that it was.

The morning after I'd awoken with a headache and bereft of a significant amount of money from my bank account. 

I can't whinge, however, as that is how Small and I ended up going to Disneyland and it was one of the most magical holidays we've ever been on- considering I was still nursing the wounds of our last solo foreign jaunt, I was pleasantly surprised. 

It's strange when I think about it now. How all those years ago... All it took was a bit of wine and a feckless attitude to spontaneous impulsivity that years later I would recognise as my dear cognitive squatter ADHD. 

But now?

It's an active choice. 

Purchases, that is.

Granted, what I'm left with now outside of that is a sour tang of being generally screwed up, but, in comparison to all those years ago however, it is much less the result of shitfaced spontaneity, than of spontaneity and sadness. 

And sobriety, this time.

It's hauntingly refreshing that this time, the mental headspace that has led Small and I on a cheeky jaunt to Manchester Airport is spontaneity and sadness, rather than being shit faced and stupid.

Every cloud?

I'm not entirely sure if it's a combination of feeling like the shittest mum of the century. It could well be the result of having being a spineless shambles in the last seven weeks. 

But here we are. 

We learn.

This time though instead of racking my addled, overheated brain trying to figure out how the hell I've ended up going on a holiday. This time the active choice was the holiday.

All but two days, if you mush the two half days either side together, but as Small joyfully announced earlier as we were stacking up on meal deals for the journey (popcorn and Doritos for snacks in an airport hotel, because like fuck am I driving to Manchester for a 6:00 AM flight!), "it's not the time we're there it's the time together that counts", grinning ear to ear in the way that could melt even the iciest of souls.

Yes, this time it was an active choice for the holiday. With the unknown variable at play being less "so, where are we going then?" whilst frantically scouring the inbox for clues, and more "what the fuck am I doing? - who the fuck am I right now? - what the hell have I become?"

So, naturally, I'm armed with a forest's worth of sketch paper and pencils and colours and I figured I'd try and work it out. With cerveza, shit entertainment and the peace and calm that only the dimpled cheeks of your crotch goblin enjoying herself for her 73rd run through a splashpark can bring. 

And a notebook that I've been holding onto for longer than I care to admit, brimming with all the thoughts I'd mentally penned into it whilst turning the house upside down hunting for it, only to forget once I found it (sound familiar? #thankyouADHD).

I'm really glad that we're having a little holiday. Not that I really have the funds for one and I've certainly far fewer spoons to navigate one, but I... WE... need a reset.

I wonder if I'll look back warmly on this shit show in decades to come and see it as the 'master reset of 2026' perhaps?

As much as I need a holiday, we need the rest and reset, Small really needs her mum back, wholly, as she's had her entire life, she needs to see the laughs and giggles a lot more. She deserves that. 

So why not reboot with a shit load of all-inclusive watered down beer for me and tiny doughnuts, mini pancakes and all the ice cream she can manage for Small? 

What better way is there than to sit and start writing in that beautiful book that I bought ages ago whilst enjoying my not so Angry much less small Small splashing around?

I can't even fathom how the hell to start, narrate from start to finish? I'm shamelessly much less a wordsmith than I am a gobshite so that won't work... 

Do I start with:

What the fuck am I doing in life?

Where the hell am I going?

Why on earth have you got to 38 and still haven't learned?

(It reminds me of the GP asking explicitly what the menopause had looked like for me- my response "my fanny died, my tits dropped and I grew a beard"- some questions just need putting out into the ether, left as rhetoric. Like a mental health sticky note.

Ironically, it's painfully becoming a bit less of a joke now how, due to my shite life choices, I'm quite often the arse end of a joke these days. 

I've done many fantastic things, many things I'm proud of. I've learned many things. I've earned lots of wisdom and l life-nuggets throughout the journey.

The one thing that was and never will be a joke however is my love and devotion to Small. She breathes life into me now and always will. For that I'll ever be grateful for her being such a kind soul.

But in essence, take all those pearls of self development and growth away and I'm really just that mildly rotund Barnsley bird that keeps fucking up, consistently fuelling a social event with "do you remember when Jemma did this- we all remember that time that Jemma did that?"

Now I am the most self-deprecating, slightly-more-dark-than-funny bastard you'll ever meet. But even I get tired of being that joke. 

Speaking of jokes-

Ah! hello trauma my old friend! I haven't seen you in a while? Didn't I finally shoehorn you back into your Pandora's Box of Shit that was tightly sealed after 20 years of therapy, bungee roped shut and triple locked successfully all this time? No?

Now? REALLY?!

A month of waiting for the magical Talking Therapies wand to wave over me, to be (very kindly, may I add), "sorry we can't help you, this is more complex than us, we'll refer you on" at the same time I got the exact same email from this mystical NHS staff referral portal for expedited mental health services, for the same reasons.

Ahh, yes, I remember this well- the equivalent of being forced to play basketball with a porcupine, only to be asked why you didn't pass the ball and share the load earlier?

I'm reminded whilst reflecting on this sorry dichotomy of the gnawing awareness that one should hold the metaphorical spiked basketball gently, whilst finding oneself stood on the court alone with nobody to bounce the fucker to.

So we're back to the drawing board, literally, with pretty colours and a damn fine notebook, to try and figure this shit out whilst I crawl at a glacial pace to the top of somebody else's referral for a triage assessment. I can't wait to try and explain that one to the lovely folks that matter (and pay me).

I'm not holding my breath. 

Path well trodden and all that.

Sleeping is like snuggling down into a psychological straightjacket, nostalgically fawning over a lobotomy I don't recall. But it happens, occasionally. 

Whilst I'm absolutely safe enough in my head (but fucking knackered), I refuse to let it affect Small. Fed, watered, loved and sheltered, regardless of how the candle at both ends is dripping hot wax on my bent spoons.

I love my child.

I love that I'm alive.

I love that I'm having the opportunity to see beautiful sights on a daily basis.

I love the magical moments with Small.

Yes there are many things that I don't love. But I love the people that have stood by me.

I love knowing that if anything ever did get quite too much, all it takes is a 9 minute voice note and all is resolved. 

I have the numbers, I don't need them.

What I do need to do, is to sit and shade-bathe with factor 50, while my beautiful soul child jumps in and out of a pool for 48 hours- the best therapy for me right now.

Eating all of the ice cream and tiny pancakes.

With a notebook and some coloured pens.