Monthly Archives: July 2014

Let us dance in the stars.

I made a promise to myself a while ago. One that I’ve been trying to keep, I do fail sometimes but I like to think that most of the time I succeed.


I will not put myself down in front of my children.


See, I have two little darling monsters who are like sponges. They absorb everything we say and do (and usually then retell the story/conversation with stunning clarity at the most awkward time). They learn to walk, talk, eat, play and much more, just by watching us. We have so much power over them. So if they’re taking in all that good stuff…..what about the bad?


I, for one, do not want either of my children thinking that image is everything. That we have to look a certain way to be happy, and for other people to be happy with us. I don’t want them thinking that we have to prescribe to a preset list of ideals set by some people who they will never meet, and who they certainly don’t have to impress.

Yes, I am aware that my previous entry is me lamenting about how I view myself as an ogre. But don’t be misled. I am aware my perception on reality is very skewed, acutely so when it comes to how I view myself, but this in all aspects. I’ll never see myself as…enough. This is not something that is affected by other peoples perceptions of me, or any outside influences. It’s just me. It’s who I am. See my promise above? I’m working hard on that!

I like my children to see me reading, to see me laugh unashamedly, to hear me mumble to myself when I’m concentrating, to see me putting my make up on because I enjoy doing it (and I really do, make up is a big big passion) to see me dance like no body is watching and to hear me sing like a bag of cats being strangled 🙂 Because I want my children to see how important it is to stay true to yourself and to know that the only persons opinion that matters…is their own.

I don’t want my daughters to worry about their appearance, hygiene yes but make up no. I want them to put make up on because they want to, not because they need to. I want them to be as happy to go to the shop in their naked face as they are to stand up for what they believe in. I want my children to know that it’s okay to be however they want to be.


That the only thing that matters is paying love and kindness forward, to be honest, loyal and dependable. To be true to themselves and to other people.

Because in the end what else matters? The most beautiful people are those who laugh a lot.

So I promised myself, that I’d never let me children hear me complain about how I look. They do hear me saying I need to go to the gym, so I can get fit and run around with their children. I want to be that crazy grandmother at the gates with the weird boob job and the purple hair with far too much time on her hands. They do see me dye my hair because I want to, because I’m bored. Not because I do it to “feel pretty”.


I want my children to know that beauty isn’t everything. Because it’s not. It’s not a sin to be beautiful, or to take care of yourself. It’s not a bad thing to want to wear make up and follow fashion. The two things aren’t mutually exclusive.


I just don’t want to teach my girls about low self esteem before I teach them their time tables.


My beauty isn’t even skin deep.


That picture you see, is a natural, unposed photo captured after a long day doing nothing other than taking in the sites. The woman pictured isn’t eye searingly ugly, she doesn’t make you want to claw your own eyes out, scrub them with bleach, disable your own retina and then remove all memories of having seen her does she?

The woman in that picture doesn’t see that image when she thinks of herself. When she is aware of herself, in one of those moments where you are conscious of how you look (a date, a job interview,  that moment you see your ex with their new love) she pictures some kind of potato like creature from the abyss, a barely formed bi-product of evolution. She doesn’t believe she is ugly because she doesn’t live up to some magazine article. She just thinks she’s ugly.

Even at her slimmest (7stone at 5foot6), so acutely underweight, when she survived on nothing but cigarettes and red bull she was still wholly convinced, to her core, that she was some obese, greasy, dirty retard from the wrong side of the sewers.

One day she saw her mental image of herself on t.v, on American Horror Story no less.


Yep. That’s a pretty good description of how this girl sees herself.

So this girl learnt the art of make-up, every time she puts her mask on she is so surprised at what she feels she can make herself look like she just wishes she could always feel like that. Its the one time she believes in magic.

From the above to


Quite a transformation. But even with her mask, she’s still insecure. She’s still that gawky, clumsy, ugly person. Even with her mask she wouldn’t say she was beautiful.

So next time you’re looking at a girl in the street with her scouse brows, or rats nest hair or any other “bizarre” beauty “enhancing” treatment just remember, that girl (or man) could be like me….just trying their best to feel like they look as normal as any one else on the street….and not like some kind of sewer rat.

Thursdays taste of bacon, also borderline personality disorder and me.


Hey. That’s me!

Labels are awful. Clothing labels itch. Sticky labels, well they leave sticky residue…and personality labels? They’re generally negative, and rarely accurate. My label? The moody one as a child. The married one as an adult. Or the….diagnosed one.

My names Beth and I have borderline personality disorder.

That’s a label I don’t like. And for the longest of times was ashamed of. But now? Its a label I own, and accept.

B.P.D is a crippling, horrendous illness. It’s an insidious disease that skews everything. It makes me irrational and paranoid. It leaves me with such a fear of my husband and children leaving, or being taken from me , it wakes me up at night. It convinces me everyone hates me. It exhausts me so staying awake takes all my energy, whilst at the same time some nights I can’t sleep because of the cacophony of noise from my thoughts that rush and swirl in my mind…leaving in their wake a montage of images so bright my inner eye hurts…..I’m on my own mental waltzers and its no fun. I want to get off.

Its not all doom and gloom though! It has its fun quirks, I can taste some words (thursdsay tastes of bacon) and some sounds look good. I love ferociously, I’m loyal.

People need to be !pre aware of and accepting of how mental health illnesses are actual illnesses. If I was writing this about cancer, you would stretch your arms out and hold me And ask how you could help, same with a broken arm, or diabetes. But because its a mental health issue you avert your gaze, presume I’m attention seeking, worry somehow I’ll pass it to you, and avoid the conversation.

Mental health illness is a real horrendous thing and its not contagious.

I’m learning how to not be defined by my B.P.D., it is part of me but not all of me. B..P.D is why I have scarred arms, why I take super strong antidepressants and 2000mg of omega 3. Its why I’ve tried to take my own life. Twice.

But when my illness is being controlled, I’m the loud, loyal, clever, vain, devoted mum and wife you all see.

So, my point? Look around and be aware of who might have an invisible illness. I hope now you can see that it isn’t Always who you expect it to be.