Growing up as a kid, my father never knew me. He lived in the same house as me, we spoke on occasion, but he had no idea about anything about me. The whole time I lived with him, he never once saw me play my cello. He never came to any of my concerts.

My friends would come round to play, and if they were white, they pretty much weren't allowed in the house. If they were black (which was only one and that was a bloke) he was allowed to stay for dinner if he wanted to. When I got a boyfriend at 13/14, he was white. My father never spoke a word to me for 2 months. Even while we were still living in the same house.

More often than not, I had to find my own way home from orchestra rehearsals, often meaning walking miles and miles (I think my record may have been about 7 miles) with my cello on my back and folders full of music. I was about 14.

At school, I was bullied for 4 years by the same two girls. Funnily enough, one of them added me on facebook the other day, which was hilarious given that I haven't spoken to them since. I could deal with bullying, but I couldn't deal with why they were bullying; I wasn't a "proper black person". I didn't wear the right clothes, I didn't speak the way they did, my friends were white (well the black girls picked on me so I don't get much choice there really, do I, dumbass?) They tried to pick on my white friends for hanging around with me and generally did as much as they could to make my life hell. I had no time for them.

At 16 years old I was sexually assaulted by a bloke who lived less than 10 minutes away from my house. My boyfriend at the time, who to be quite honest, was the first person I ever really loved, cried because he was gutted that it had happened to another one of his girlfriends. I'm not entirely sure to this day that he ever said he was sorry for me. On the contrary, it was me reassuring him that every thing was going to be ok. We split up shortly after, and he was very soon dating someone else.

When I reported the assault, the police informed me a month later that nothing could be done because it was my word against his. I later found out that he worked as a teacher at a local college. That still burns me up to this very day.

I dated the second love of my life at 17. I'd admired him for years, and when he finally asked me out, he treated me like a goddess. Until he informed me, right in the middle of my A-Level exams, that he was seeing someone else. And that if I wanted him, I would have to fight for him, because there was a long line of girls waiting to "get with him". I don't remember much of taking my A Level exams. Miraculously, I passed them.

Also during my A levels, my mother and father had the fight of their lives, which started with me asking my sister if she could spare me £1 to get to work on the bus. My father gave her pocket money, and despite being 7 years my junior, she often got more than me. He didn't like me asking her to help me out. My mother tried to defend me and he stepped, and physically started shoving us all around. The house was on the market and had just been sold; my mother, my sister and I had just found a house to move to only a few days before, ready for us to rent. My mother was left lying crumpled on the floor in a state, he had stormed out the house, and my sister had run out of the house to go to school.

I had never driven a car, but I contemplated how the hell to get my mother to the house so she could get out and be free from him for good. I called in work whom I'd barely been working for and explained. After a short while my mother recovered and drove us both to the house. I spent the rest of the day gathering as much stuff as I could to make sure we would be ok, then went to check on my sister at school. I never saw my father again after that day.

On finishing my A Levels at 18 and going straight into work because there was no way in heaven or hell I could accept the places I'd been offered at music college, I dated someone who was roughly 19 years older than me. It turned out he was a depressive alcoholic, going through a divorce and had two children. More often than not, I stayed at his house while he went out to drink. I would also invite him to my concerts, to discover he wasn't in the audience because he was at the bar having a drink instead. I still did everything I could to help him with the drinking, whilst watching his two children get hurt and yet remaining helpless. When I finally reached my limit after nearly a year, he made things very difficult by telling me I had completely ruined his life.

I very quickly met someone else shortly after we split up, who I thought I loved but looking bak, now realise he was a means of escape. He told me he could help me, and that he loved me more than anything. We got engaged even though I knew at the time I wasn't quite sure things were right. We moved out together, and that's when the depression finally surfaced.

He called me various unpleasant names, including saying that I was an unpaid whore, mainly because I had slept with other people before him, and he was a virgin. He also said that I needed him to "mould me into something better and new" because I was such a mess. He also said that I would make a crap mother. Or he may have said wasn't fit to be a mother. It was one of the two, possibly both. I was accused of spending too much time with my music, which was my escape route at the time, even though the people who I thought were friends, didn't treat me much better, including every time I felt sad, to "just get over it", whilst others made it clear that I wasn't acceptable to within various cliques because I just didn't fit in; my skin colour, my family history, my previous education; none of the above were enough to quite qualify.

The person I was with had a family who were initially nice to me, until I discovered that his sister hated me with a passion, and his mother never wanted me to come round to the house. And yet I stayed with him, because somehow he made feel like I was never going to be able to survive on my own, and that I needed him to look after me. I suspect I believed this because he told me on a regular basis. I'm not sure if it was true and whether I should have believed him.

I don't remember much during this relationship, because I spent three years on anti-depressants, in and out of a mental home, and attempting to take my own life via means of gas fumes, sleeping tablets, alcohol and painkillers, depending on which I wanted to go at the time. I thought very carefully about the best way to go because I didn't want anyone to have to clear up mess, I wanted to look normal so as not to upset anyone in case I was maimed or anything, and I wanted quick, quiet and painless.

I then felt bad because whilst for me it was a means of minimal fuss escape, I was accused of just wanting to draw attention to myself. This was quite the opposite; I was quite happy to go to sleep and never wake up, and that was basically my ultimate goal.

One day I "woke up"; I took myself off the medications, which, for the three years, had me hallucinating, zoning out and pretty much turning into a cabbage so that I wouldn't think about anything. Shortly after I "woke up" I split up with this person and decided to get my music degree at university. I still couldn't afford music college and was living in a very big house on my own, earning next to nothing and trying to overcome depression on my own. My family were unable to support me mentally; they didn't know how to deal with me and perhaps just felt to uncomfortable being around me. As a result, I rarely saw my siblings even though they lived very locally and my mother, I guess, had her own problems to deal with.

With no money and student loans and rent to pay fast building up over my head, I became a lap dancer to pay my way through the first year and a half of uni. Ironically I met the one person who would actually treat me with some respect. I am now married to him and we have two ridiculously gorgeous children.

I have written all this because...I don't know. I wanted to remind myself where I have come from. I want reasons for my actions. I want to know where the hell I went wrong. There is so, SO much more, which I can't fit in here, because I don't know whether to include it, whether it's relevant, whether anyone wants to read it...but I am well aware that the missing bits are as important, if not more important than what I've already typed..

I don't regret any of my decisions, but I do regret, in some ways, the person who I have become. We learn from our mistakes and we grow stronger, but lately I don't feel that way at all. I sat watching Noah eating his dinner tonight, and wondered, what colossal mistakes will I make with him as he grows up, and will he end up with a life as fucked up as mine. Do I treat him as he should be treated. Do I respect him as he should be respected. I hate that sometimes I let other people be disrespectful to him, especially when the boy has manners like I have never seen in any other child.

I am currently fighting to sort out the speech thing because I want him to know that I will fight for him, in the ways that no one fought for me. I give a shit about my children, and that's why I get so pissed off when people tell me not to worry about whatever. There are many other things I worry about, and I think some of the above is good explanation for my actions. I blame myself for so many things. SO. MANY. THINGS. I WILL worry about it. Because SOMEONE should care.

I am teetering on the edge of I don't know what. Someone once said to me something along the lines of "if you're in a state to think you're depressed, then you probably aren't depressed, because you're still fighting it" or something like that. That's not right, but I know what she meant, and I understand what she meant.

I try to hold on to that. But what I can't afford to do is go into a state of denial. I question myself, I question my abilities every fucking day. And most times, I feel like I've already failed. I hate that about myself, and yet, somehow, I can't seem to figure out how the fuck to deal with it. I hate, so very much who I've become and I wish I could change. I need someone to hear me. Not just listen and nod and whatever, but actually HEAR me. Hear what I'm saying.

I'm so fucking tired. I can't fight anymore. Not just at the moment.

PS I was going to close comments, but I've changed my mind. I'm not sure why. Fatal curiosity I expect. If you want to contact me but don't want to leave a comment, then please drop me an email cosmicgirlie AT gmail DOT com
This is going to be a very difficult post to write. Difficult because I feel the judgement/eye-rolling/assvice before I've even started, which really isn't fair on yourselves. Sooooo...maybe I'll just get to the point.

I still firmly believe something is "up" with Noah's speech.

*Dodges several eyeballs rolling across the floor*

I'm not saying he's dumb, I'm not saying he'll never learn to speak...and of course, I was intrigued by the various messages from you the last time I posted about this. The one thing I noticed, however, was that, to be honest...well...

...no one was actually really reassuring for me. People say a mother's instinct is strongest of all (or something like that; I totally made that up), and yet, I feel like everyone is completely making me doubt myself. Or, I'm making me doubt myself. Or, I'm just so fucking highly strung right now and hating myself for thinking something so bad about my own kid.

I've researched my eyeballs out (yes, that's a real phrase) and this post kind of says what I want to say, only far better than I could say it. I guess it's the whole, "I feel there's something wrong, can someone please just hear me out for 5 minutes and stop trying to tell me otherwise?"

I don't want something to be wrong. I'm pushing at this because I want to know it's going to be OK.

Noah now says three words. Mama, dada and nana. He makes the noises for a whole bunch of other words, including words he used to say. Like "Lee" is now "nnnnn". Isaac is now "guh". Ironically, car is "AHH" (like many other things). He doesn't bother saying teeth anymore. Twenty is just about still with us ("tehty") and no is "OWW". And caps are because he shouts. A lot. Like, sweet shiteness with some fluffy earmuffs, kiddo my EARS. PLEASE.

I don't question his hearing. Dude can hear a pin drop when he wants to. I have a giggle with him every so often by whispering to him when he's not looking, and he always responds with whatever.

When he tries a word he can't say, his head starts to shake and his mouth works furiously; he stares at the ground trying to work out how to say the word, and the frustration creeps over his face. His mouth moves a little more. He nods his head like he's trying to shake the word out of his mouth. And then waits for me to repeat it. I do. And he does the above.

Rinse and repeat as needed.

I will be making him an appointment tomorrow with the doctor. I had casually mentioned my thoughts to Ms HV a few weeks ago, and she chose not to hear me out and dismissed me before I was even done. Which of course got me even more wound up. And then she pissed me off completely by suggesting that the sign language has caused him to speak later because he "doesn't feel the need", and so finds it "easier and lazier" (yes, QUOTE) to resort to sign language.

Hey people? If you're going to suggest things like that? I suggest you check info like this. I'm doing my research, please make sure you do yours.

I don't mean to be snarky. I don't want to be snarky. I think I just want someone to hear me out. And then when he's quoting Shakespeare in a few months time, you can all tell me "told you so". And I'll go into hiding for a little while.

* I was going to name this post "The One Where I Snap Y'all Hands Off In a Really Snarky Pissy Kinda Way", but didn't think that would be a great start. See? I care about each and every one of you. I really do.
Both boys are ill. The amount of F.O.F. in this house is verging on ridiculous. Noah coughs all night. All. Freaking. Night. I wake up, on the hour, every hour, and hear him coughing. And what can I do? Shit all. Nada. Nothing. He's had cough medicines, inhalers, plug-in vapor thingies, vicks, rum, vodka, weed and whatever else I could think of.

Isaac has this fantastic stringy, gloopy, sticky snot that seems to be never ending, and causes him to barf up ANYTHING that enters is gut. Carrot and banana mixed with snot. *barf* Lamb and sweet potato mixed with snot. *barf* Momma's Ultimate Finest First-Thing-In-The-Morning Boob Juice. *barf*

Nothing is working. Ok Noah's nose was a little less runny today, but the coughing, oh my GOD the coughing is ARRRGGGHHHH.

Of course, it's not that I'm pissed off with hearing it (although obviously I am) it's just that I'm so sick of them being sick. I miss my chirpy little guys who DON'T have a constant stream down their faces.

And I swear, if Isaac goes the same way with the coughing, I may have to become a scientist. Overnight. And find the ultimate cure for the common cold.

Which could totally happen.

(Clicky the Piccie)
Yeah, um, you know what prevents this from happening?

Not letting your kid sleep in til nearly 8am.


..jus' sayin'.
Noah hasn't napped in two days. Two fucking days, people.

Yesterday, he had his food and whatever, we put him down for his nap, and it never happened. He came back downstairs after being in his room for two hours, ate some more food, and was fine til he went to bed.

I know, at least he wasn't whiny, right? Well screw that, it makes MEEEE WHINNNYYYY.

And then he did the same thing again today. Food, no nap, more food. "I am super non nap child, hear me rawr, watch me EAT!"

And yet somehow, he was fine til he went to bed. We haven't heard from him since we put him in there.*

He might be ready to give up the nap, but screw that shit, I'm not ready to give up my my 2 hours of slight sanity. Yup, screw that.

*And of course, I have checked to see that he's actually still in there, and not escaped out the bedroom window like he has tried to do in the past.
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You know what? This happened today.

Some kid, who incidentally had previously been on Wife Swap, managed to steal two fucking hours of my life by making the world think he was stuck in a helium balloon, which his storm chasing parents had MADE and tethered to the garden (already, wtf?), which was then seen to be flying some 60 miles away from his home in Colorado. And apparently, it was his brother who saw him climb in.

The balloon came down nearly two fucking hours later, and there was no sign of the kid. Where was he?

Hiding in the attic of his family garage at his home.

TWO. FUCKING. HOURS people. No one thought to look at home. Hell, people didn't think to start looking at the ground until they realised the balloon was empty. And they only thought he was in the balloon based on his brother's word.

Sweet shit on pepper stick. I may not believe in spanking, but if I found him? It's quite possible he may have been spanked into next year or yelled at until his ass exploded.

And even more annoying? Isaac barfed on the DVD remote a few days ago and it hasn't worked since. Noah did the same thing with D's phone last year; it stopped working.

Cost to replace phone? £Free.

Cost to replace remote? £30+.

I swear, we need to get Isaac a phone.
We all have the Hiny Flu. We are all officially off our trotters. We sure as hell aren't makin' bacon, but -

Ok enough piggy jokes. Noah woke up yesterday with a fantastic fever, having been coughing since sometime last week (I dunno when, the last few months are a blur these days) and doing the Facial Orifice Fluid for a while now (which, occasionally is a beautiful shade of green). Meal times are awesome, whereby he survives the day on a few blueberries, a grape or two, maybe a breadstick, and the milk from his cereal bowl. Sometimes. All that, accompanied with non-stop woe-is-me whining, makes me think something is obviously not right.

So yesterday, Mrs Nanny got sent home, D got sent home (both because of government policies blah blah blah) and I spent the day looking after poorly sick children. Isaac's nose is streaming, but since he's mastered the fake cough, lord only knows if he has a real cough/sore throat (mommy fail). Besides, he's far too busy hoiking himself up on all fours and rocking backwards and forwards, much like Noah did at the EXACT SAME AGE right before he omg CRAWLED.*

I dunno if it really is swine flu, but either way, we're going bubonic plague style and now have a red cross on the door.

Actually there is no big red cross, but it would certainly be a surefire (and FUN) way to shit shit the neighbours up, right?

*I gloss over this mainly because I can't yet accept the fact that mah bayyybeeee!! *SOB* Mah baybee is all big an growed up!! *SNIFFLE*
I'm trying to make some changes. I've started with my blog.

Next up: my life.

We'll see.
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I'm fully aware that I spend an awful lot of time bitching and whining in my posts. I do it an awful lot, possibly far too much. And I'm not sure why.

What I do know, is that lately I've come to realise I'm quite possibly, the most ridiculously insecure person I know. I front all the time, mostly because I can't face my own problems. And then when I do bring up a problem, and someone offers their advice, I bitch and moan back at them, telling them they don't know shit and that I should just learn it my way, in a way that works for me (but doesn't, because I'm totally ballsing it up).

I hate so much about myself right now, and it's driving me over the fucking edge. Every single day, I see something else to complain about. There are a million things right at this very minute, as I sit here typing, that are driving me batshit.

Noah won't nap. His nap times are all messed up. People bring him home late/get him down late/so he doesn't know whether he's coming or going. I have no idea when Isaac "should" nap. He also has a cold and is barfing everything up that enters his mouth. Barfing it up, with copious amounts of F.O.F.

My hips/pelvis/tail bone still hurt. A lot. I can't afford private physio any more. I'm waiting for the hospital to send an appt for NHS physio.

I feel every day I am failing as a human being, forget about even failing as a mom. I have no backbone; people walk all over me lately. I've become weak. I forever worry about PND. There have been so many occasions, especially lately, when a bottle of sleeping tablets has never looked more appealing.

People have it so much worse than me. I know that perfectly well. Hell, my first major bout of depression was worse than this. But this right now...all seems so familiar to me. Sliding from one day into next, wondering if I'll wake up and carry on as normal.

I hate me. I hate me so much. If it wasn't for The Nanny sitting on the sofa in the same room as me right now, I'd probably be crying my eyes out, wailing and whining, until I (hopefully) fell asleep or died. I wouldn't mind which came first. To be perfectly honest with you.

I want to be able to look at my two gorgeous, beautiful, handsome children and husband, my family, and know that if nothing else, I want to live for them. But I can't always do that. Most often, I keep going out of the guilt of what would happen if I left.

I hate myself and what/who I have become. I'm scared. All. The. Time. I've disappeared and I have no idea how to find me. I need help. I need support. I need something. I wish I knew what. And I also have a horrible feeling I won't find it. I wish to GOD someone could help me right now. Tell me what to do. How to do it. Where to start. Where to finish.

I can't deal with this, and yet, I need to deal with this. I'm out of my depth. And I so want to survive, but I don't want to see the results. I don't want to survive. Maybe because I don't want more opportunity to fail.

Like most babies, Isaac makes noises. Cute gurgling noises. He also makes parping noises. (You know, bottom noises.) Sometimes he'll laugh and coo.

And sometimes (and by sometimes I mean quite often) he'll make, uh, this noise.

He'll do it for hours, and then when his voice gives up, he'll slap the crap out of anything nearby, or grab it and eat it.

The cat has spent an awful lot of time hiding.