Day 49 - Therapy Part 2

Today was my second Therapy session and I arrive ten minutes late without my ‘therapy homework’

As I check myself in, my therapist appears at the top of the stars. Dressed a lot better than last week, a beaming smile, waving at my eagerly.

I can tell this woman likes me, I reckon my sessions are the most fun she has all week. I am the funniest mental health patient she has.

‘You may notice some changes to the room!’’ she tells me excitedly. Hmmmm she has updated her wardrobe from green peace chic and addressed my issues with the poorly decorated room.  Is she reading my blog?

‘’like it?’’ errr I can’t notice anything different but she looks really pleased, why is she seeking my approval.....someone’s got issues.

She goes down her list of questions as she does at the start of every session, How’s Summer? Done anything spontaneous? Are you happy? Are you suicidal?

‘ahh the chairs’ I say ‘you moved the chairs....and you have a picture of a brain on the wall, amazing, I am no longer suicidal’

She looks confused and scribbles.

She wants me to talk about my last panic attack. I tell her it was dwarf induced. I watched a documentary on a dwarf who said he is getting water on the brain and left untreated he could die. I identified with his symptoms of headaches, dizziness and head swelling and convinced myself  that I had’ dwarf water on the brain disease’. Every time I say dwarf I giggle. She does not; she takes dwarfs very seriously, clearly.

I tell her how I spent an hour in front of the bathroom mirror convinced my head was getting bigger and bigger. ‘’was it?’’ she asks open mouthed again taking this far too seriously, I am talking about dwarves women.....laugh

‘’yes my head swelled and my arms started to get smaller and smaller’’ she is clearly upset for me and writes more on her notepad.

‘’how did you stop the panic?’’ she asks

‘’I told myself at 16 stone plus and 5ft 8, I am not a dwarf and do not have a dwarf head’’

‘’good, good she says, it’s good that you can see you are not a dwarf’’ she ticks a box.

God I have 30 more minutes left of this. This woman does not get me at all.

 We move on from dwarves and talk about Summer. I tell her we have some time together this week with me being off work, she likes this, she asks what we have planned. I tell her that a possible trip to Chessington is on the cards, she makes me say it again without the word possible and say definitely. ‘’I will definitely take Summer to Chessington ....maybe, if I have the money’’ she humphs and scribbles.  I tell her about the Tampon day and Thomas. She doesn’t find this funny either. ‘’Do you think becoming Thomas is more than just a game?’’  Oh god, maybe telling a therapist that occasionally I use the voice of an African man to discipline my child is not the best move. I may leave here in a straight jacket.

‘’Do you think Thomas is the real parent in you trying to get out and take charge at home’’ hmmmm I sit and think.....No

‘’No it is just soooo much fun talkin in an afrikhan accent mannnnnn’ (please read that again in intimidating African tones)

She looks shocked, she scribbles, she tells me my time is up.

‘but......’ I protest, I want to explain that I am just joking around, shit don’t let me talking African to you be the last words I say before next week!!!

‘’We will deal with this next week’ she says

Day 48 - Thomas and Tampons

Day 47 - Mummy's little secret

I wonder what Summer will think when if one day she finds the picture from the party I went to the other night.

There was a photo booth, a free bar and a gay man. The result was 4 passport size photos of me and a semi naked gay guy in compromising positions. The pictures are like a series of stills from one of the most confusing, potentially vomit in mouth porn films ‘big girls on gay guys’. The first sees me pulling his trousers down with my teeth, the second I am peeking into his boxers, the third, he is naked bent over as I grab his hair from behind, the last picture has us in fits of giggles.

Mums aren’t meant to do that type of thing right?

 my mum was  an angel, she was this sexless, homely women. The worst it got growing up was when she called me at the age of 18 to tell me she had drunk a Bacardi Breezer and couldn’t feel her nose.

  My mum cooked and cleaned, never swore, had a strong moral compass, lived her  life for her children forsaking relationships, nights out on the piss and hangovers.  She was pretty much everything that I am not.

That was what I thought my mum’s life was, up until a month after she passed away my brother and I had to clean out her house. Doing a job like that is one of the most depressing things you can do, deciding what things to keep and what to chuck into a skip or give to charity. I was downstairs whilst my brother went though mums room with a bin bag in hand.  The house was unusually silent, and very few words had been spoken that day. Whilst eyeing up some china tea sets wondering what they were worth on ebay. I heard a scream, a thump and banging from my mums room. Shit, she is alive and hiding the cupboard all along, this was all probably one of mums lessons. ‘see I told you you couldn’t live without me, you two have gone about this all wrong , where is your list?, don’t let your sister near the expensive items, she will sell it for crack’’ my mum was convinced I was a crack addict from when she came to visit my flat one day and found a candle stuck to a plate.  This was apparently the sign of a junkie along with a ‘suspicious’ roll of tin foil in the kitchen.

Anyway – upstairs the banging continued and I shouted up to my brother who was now screaming and laughing at the same time. I climbed the stairs to see my brother collapsed on the floor in hysterics whilst a rampant rabbit bounced along the floor out of control. He had been clearing out her bedside table (or looking for cash) and had come across mum’s ‘personal items’. Seeing the opportunity to have a little fun, I grabbed the rabbit and took to beating him round the head with it as he gagged and screamed up and down the landing. Then like children finding their dads first porn magazine and wondering what the crusty stuff is on the pages – we went back to the draw and drew gasps at its contents. The draw was an Aladdin cave of toys and lingerie that put an Ann Summers store to shame.  

As the house search continued, so did the story of my mum’s secret life, a quite active life it seemed, of romance,  lovers, proposals, gifts, cards and letters from men I never knew existed.  I wanted to give this woman a high five.  My mum was a player.

Would I have wanted to know all this when she was alive? Probably not. Sometimes mums need to keep their ‘other’ lives a secret so I won’t be ripping up the pictures  from my night with a gay guy in a photo booth, but I will be putting them in a box, a box of horrors for Summer to discover one day when I am long gone, and I hope it scares the shit out of her!!!!

Day 46 - Therapy

So last week I met my new Therapist - I am saying this without sounding like an absolute Cunt you understand. Apparently I have health anxiety,obsessional thought disorder (like OCD but with thoughts and no soap) and a form of post traumatic stress. Trust me I am not as mental as I sound and valium does a great job. Turns out it is all my mothers fault  - very freudian.
  My GP having met Summer suggested I go and talk through my issues with someone who has more time, and gives a shit. Summer and the GP arent friends since her last booster jab when Summer exclaimed after jab one of three in a row '' Are you serious man! what is wrong with you bruv?!! dont touch me, I swear. you best leave me'' as she barricaded herself under his desk.
But they decide that I need therapy and not her.
 I am in this badly decorated room, sat next to a box of man sized tissues. The therapist is young, looks like she eats a raw veg diet and from her reactions to my comments is clearly childless.
''Are you feeling happy today'' - yes
''Are you suicidal today'' - can you be happy and suicidal? - no, no I am not suicidal, As you know I have a fear of death, the last thing I am going to do is gas myself in a car. no matter how many times Summer says I should try it.
''Do you think your scared of dying because it means leaving Summer'' errrr no, actually at times that would be a positive, the thought of sleeping for eternity without Summers foot up my vagina is quite appealing
''have you and Summer done some positive bonding this week?
 do I tell her about the vibrator massage incident? ''Not much I have been tired, we went to the park at the weekend but that's about it''
she screws up her face and scribbles, ''thats a shame, did you not want to go out anywhere else?, we could set you a goal for next week, you should take her to Lego Land or Chessington or maybe have some of her friends round, or the Zoo''
Yes thats fabulous, youre a genius, I am cured, I should go to bloody Lego land. I have worked my arse of all week to the point of exhaustion, I have no money in the bank, and you want me to drive to fucking Windsor to get wallet raped by a bunch of plastic figures.
''No thanks''
''you should try being more spontaneous'' -you should try having a kid and being a working mum
''tell me do you feel anxious around Summer ?'' yes ! who doesnt? I am on constant flight or fight mode around the girl, do you know what it is like having your tits grabbed at any given moment, the fact that she can talk for 3hrs straight and when she runs out of real words she just makes them up, words, words words, do you know what its like being touched constantly by her feet, her launching at you for no reason, her randomly farting on you, throwing piss at you for god sake, piss!,you think that behaviour creates and air of calm!!! do you!!!!!!!!!! do you wonder why I have to breathe into a paper bag three times a day!!!!!
She starts scribbling again- she says maybe when I resolve my issue,s my parenting experience will be improved. but what if your issues are the child.
She sets me a long term goal - ''why not have a party for Summers Birthday and invite her whole class'' why not fuck off , sure her whole class, all 30 of them and the Per Una cunting mothers whom I just frigging love. I will take 5 of them without there parents to like McDonalds or something and expect some decent presents in return.
I have homework, therapy homework,'Go on do something spontaneous with Summer'' ok I will throw piss at her for a change.

Day 45 - touch me, touch me I wanna feel ur body

Summer has an annoying little habit: she wont stop touching me.
If Summer is in touching distance, she will touch me, preferably with her feet. At the dinner table her foot will have to rest on mine. On the sofa her foot has to touch me. If I move, she moves her foot back. This is constant. I am always touched by her foot. This may sound like just a small annoyance. But think. Imagine being constantly touched in your own home for the last 5 yrs by a foot. With no escape. Touch, touch, clamy little foot touch. You move it moves, touch, touch, untill you just want to slap it away. But that would only anger the foot, make the foot sad and then you have to sooth the foot and promise never to push the foot away again. Like the foot version of Ike and Tina Turner.
Sometimes the foot realy wants to get right in there with the touch. Foot likes to wiggle its way in under seated bums. Which when foot get excited sometimes ends with a toe up my arse!
In bed foot likes to get comfy, again foot enjoys squeezing in between sleeping legs, which is why knickers must always be worn, heaven forbid she should miss her target.
Touch touch a poke prod and foot touch. If I move rooms she comes following... bringing both feet. Your saying I am cruel now, that she is just showing me love. I feel like a comforter, a soggy blanket to suck on. But for feet to stroke, snuggle and touch, constantly touch. She is a tactil girl. A grab of the boobs tells me she is excited to see me, A belly wobble tells me I'm comfortable, A kiss tells me she loves me. The foot touch tells me she owns me. Everytime its a way of controlling me, a way to make me weaker "i either sit here close to you, touching you or you let me go out and steal cats" its cats everytime. I remeber how much I loved cuddles with mum as a kid, we spent hours snuggling on the couch, I also remember the rejection when at 16 she pushed me aside and denied me the snuggles. It scarred me. I dont want to reject Summer but there is more to the foot touch than she is letting on. She has big plans for the foot. You mark my words. Imagine it, touch touch, proding, touch, sticky,potentialy wee'd on touch, touch, touch

Day 44 - I got my hair did

When you cant get a comb through Summers hair without it breaking, you know its time to get the proffesionals in.
As there are no afro hair dressers in our local area, we trek down to the ghettos of Deptford early on a Sunday morning. We reach at 10am and the market is already buzzing. Summer is well known on the market due to it being part time dads local hang out. As we make our way to the hair shop she is greeted by stoned rastas dancing to the music in their minds and muslim grocers give her apples and mangoes as we pass.Everyone here knows Summers name. The closer we get to the salon the more nervous she gets. We both know what lies in store. A total arse kicking to her head by an angry Jamaican hairdresser who should have been in church rather than "fixing dis pickney head" Summer gets pulled and yanked around the shop floor, her hair braided so tight -it looks like she is chinese.
She is scared, but not as scared as me. There are 2 times when I feel incredibly white and out of my depth, in the patty shop and at the afro hairdressers.
From the moment I walk in a row of black women look me up and down, look at Summers wild mane and then openly kiss their teeth at me. The hairdresser rolls her eyes and inspects Summers hair. Its like when someone brings a matted puppy to Rolf Harris in animal hospital. Tears well up in their eyes. A team of them armed with greese and afro combs begin the assault on Summers head. And then someone cracks. "I'm not sure we are gonna get through dis hair" they always say this, they always make me feel bad - and then they always manage to fix her hair. I know what they're thinking when they see me helplessly hand over my daughter for grooming ''If your gonna have a baby with a black man, at least have the decency to be able to do her hair'' but listen, I didnt know it would be so hard, she didnt pop out of my womb holding a copy of Black Hair magazine, there was no instruction manual. It's not like I have'nt tried either. No matter how much greese I put on her head its still dry an hour later, no matter how many times I fight Summer to comb out her head a minute later she does a head stand and her head is one big dreadlock. I have had tutorials from part time dads mum and friends, but I just cant do it.
At the hair shop, even customers are coming up now to have a look and a comb, I am sat helpless feeling ashamed, playing with my phone. Summer is crying. The Jamaican ladies fuss round her and throw me cursing looks. This is not the friendly atmosphere of Desmonds, there is no crazy antics from Pork Pie to break up the tension - It takes a chinese lady selling hooky DVD's to stop their relentless assult on Summers head.
We have been in the hair salon for nearly 2 hours now , I am tired scared and hungry, Summer has convinced them to plait in some blonde streaks. They ask me to go to the hair shop on the market to buy the hair and some more black hair utensils. I hate the hair shop - Its like shopping in LIDL, its products you have never seen before, rows and rows of different greese, hair, clips, weave all from different countries around the world. I don't know really what I am meant to be getting, but am pleased to get away from the angry hairdresser. Whilst scanning the shelves I see the holy grail of black hair (well to a white mum anyway) its a box on the top shelf, the product picture is of a beautiful young black girl whose hair is long and straight, smooth glossy hair accesorised with pink clips, this girl looks really happy and pleased with herself, she doesnt look like the type of girl whoose mum gets judged at the hair salon. It doesnt look like a girl who has to wake up 30mins early just so her mum can tie her hair in a ponytail, this girl doesnt have to wear a showercap in the sand pit at school.......why ?? because this girls mum has done something radical and taboo, she has allowed her daughters hair to be relaxed (chemically straightened). I wish I could reach that box - but I can't, I would have to ask for help and no doubt the customers in the shop would judge me and call the black hair social services, because its believed that relaxing a childs hair is equal to commiting puppy rape in the black community. It's says on the box that it is perfectly safe and I reckon there are a tone of  girls out there in America living the 'So Soft, So Easy' hair dream. But I am not allowed the dream. I gather 3 of everything I was sent to get because I am not sure what it is that I was really meant to be getting.
When I  enter back the salon, Summers hair is practically done, she looks like she has had a face lift too - she is swisshing her new long tame plaited hair around. I hand over the bag, the hairdresser looks in and laughs and shows the contents to the customers, who all laugh too. One of them even comes up and hugs me. 'You have a recipt?'
'Yes' I wisper ... ''well take it the bludcart back cah you nah buy noting right'' she chuckles. 'besides her head is fix now anyway, we tink it best you just leave us to it for a while' yeah leave you to it so you can cuss me freely!!!
I dont blame them though, 3 hrs in the hair salon and it costs £20!!! amazing value from the black community. I walk Summer back down the market, the Rastas wolf whistle Summer as she puts on a little dance show for them, whipping her new hair around her head like a crazed stripper. As we walk past the hair shop I see the poster of the 'So Soft, So Easy' girl, she is still looking smug. I'm coming back for you Easy girl, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but oneday I will take you home with me.

Day 44 - Summer the Racist

So the riots are still with us, nearing on 6 days and the longest stint of work some of the looters have had. But things for me have taken a nasty twist. I fear the riots wont be looked back on as the London Riots but the Race Riots.
I called part time dad last night to tell him to come home after news reported the EDL en route to where he was in Lewisham.
"Who dat den?" -well there kind of like my dad, times ten and my dad actually killing you not just joking.
Of course part time dad knows that racism is still rife, he has been stopped uand searched more times than Bob Marley has had a spliff. But after reading peoples Social Newtorking status updates I am disturbed that some of my peers are effectively racist. To blame the riots on blacks and asians is in my opinion both hugely inaccurate and racist. My opinion is that the rioters are from bad,deprived communities, less advantaged areas where they know what us white middle class think of them. If you live in an area where you are told you are scum, a chav, a criminal,benefit claiming waste of space. If you have heard that all your life, your going to grow up angry and more than likely join the stereotype. But all of this ranting (and not enough funny jokes) comes down to fears for Summer who is mixed race, I cant ever understand how she will feel when oneday a boy she fancies turns her down cos he wont date black girls, or she is deemed a trouble maker from the colour of her skin,not because she actually is a little shit. Or when she is a famous actress, she wont be on the cover of magazines because black cover girls dont sell magazines in the UK.
 How can I help her? I cant even relate! I have had a white middle class get out of Jail card all my life, jesus I went to court with 21 points on my lisence, cried a little and got told not to do it again and drove off into the sunset (at 60 mph) I have been told I can achieve anything and belived it. Summer is raised in the same area with the same oppurtunities but I fear she wont feel the freedom I feel everyday.
At the age of 3 she already experienced racism. We were in the park and she had toddled off to play, when an argument started between Summer and some African kids. I pull Summer to one side where she tells me "I hate black people".....woooahhhhh I was not expecting to deal with that one today! I take her to the bench, and explained how that is a terrible thing to say, that her daddy, nan and grandad are black, shit 80 percent of the people in your life are Black. And Summer you are a bit black like daddy and a bit white like mummy, youre a  special mix of us both - she looks at me with disgust "im not black" yes your are a bit, like a half "im not black" you bloody well are if that nose is anything to go by. "Im the same colour as you" shit you got me there, i do have a beautiful olive tone to my skin! She is holding her arm out to me and its the same colour "im white like you mummy see" she said with tears in her eyes
 This went on for a few months , and I was shitting myself that at any given moment she woud announce a hatred for black people - and you know who gets the blame - the parents, I spent time and money getting her a mix of ethnicaly diverse books and games - but she wouldnt budge, she didnt like black people and that was that.
It was one morning on our way to nursery that I found out the root cause of Summers racism. As we walked uo the path to her idilic nursery she says '' I hope that Black teacher isnt in today''.....jesus christ on a bicycle, girl are you trying to get be beaten up!!! I coudnt risk it so I told the 'black ' teacher what Summer had said - she took it well and sat me down to explain that everything was fine. That there was a new girl from Iceland in Summers class, Rundwig (what a name!!) who Summer had taken a shine to - except little Rundwig was a huge chubby faced aryian racist who told Summer (in between biting her I also found out) that she hates black people. Summer completely oblivious to race and colour chose to please her and happily agree to hate black people too. I saw Rundwig and her mum in a park oneday after school - they treated us like we had the black AIDS or something - so I tripped her little brat of a daughter up when she wasnt looking. Summer is a lot more confident in who she is now, but I do wish we could have kept that innocence for a little longer. It's one of many trials she will have to face as a mixed race girl in UK where we arent as advanced as we think we are.
Part Time dad came home last night buzzing and proud that he took part in a PEACEFUL (thats in capitals as it seems racists can't read) protest. He and 50 other men of varying races walked towards the EDL to show that they were not scared and that the Lewisham community did not want them or need them. ''how did the police know that you werent rioters and trouble makers?''
''cos we chanted, dis is a peacful protest, dis is a peacful protest and de feds were kris'' OK so the slogan needs work but the sentiment was there.
Well done PT Dad, Well done son.