I wonder what people must've thought seeing a grown woman, heavily pregnant, in floods of tears on the hottest day of the year in London Fields, and then again on Milfields Park, dribbling sausage roll onto her Barbour jacket (I no longer like lemon curd and C&A has since closed down).
I had heard that women in their third trimester get emotional, only the other day I sprayed my face with too much fake tan and burst into tears (looking back THAT, was funny) but no one warned me of the gut wrenching, heart smashing 'end of an era' come down that I spent the weekend with. And when you can't drink, smoke, or take the bipolar meds that have been propping you up for the last decade you HAVE to sit with it, and lie with it for hours often days on end because in the absence of those meds you can't sleep either. I live alone, and so there is no partner or housemate to come home to, just a couple of cats who sit on the bottom step by the front door, giving me that 'and where the f**k do you think you've been whilst we've been waiting to be fed and loved' look.
Maybe I'll try skipping?
Obviously I'm thinking thats it, game over, I'll never be happy again, whilst washing up piles up and so does my floordrobe, and that familiar 'you MUST call me/come over' next time gets shoved between a couple of records never to get found again. Today I'm supposed to be writing an upbeat and inspiring article on an ex-celeb I interviewed yesterday, and tomorrow I'm supposed to be filming with a TV company on a documentary portraying how women with bipolar can still make brilliant mothers but I'm feeling more like playing "Try not to guess what I'm thinking" with myself instead.
If anyone else says "Try yoga" I'll tape them up and play the Hokey Cokey at full volume on repeat.
I found out I'm having a baby boy! But who has unfortunately been given the working title 'Mr Sue' as I was convinced he was going to be a girl. He is currently going through a phase of solo disco dancing competitions in my womb, he doesn't stop kicking and spinning and that alone cracks a smile on my face that otherwise resembles Shirley Carter after a Walford Christmas special. Then again I am worried that even he will judge me when he is born because I can't find the perfect door pull handles to go with the nursery furniture I have made, which is probably crap too.
Onwards and upwards, I was told by gynaecologists in my twenties that I risked acute fertility problems and here I am six months up the duff, spring is also in the air, and, and probably lots of other exciting things are going on around the corner which I just don't know about.
Happy belated birthday to anyone who's birthday was this time last year.
