Reading The DailyMail’s postscript on Caroline Flack all I could think of was Tracey Emin’s ‘Everyone I Have Ever Slept With 1963-1995’. They had listed all of the people Caroline had dated. Wow, they had forgotten of all of the times she had lit up television like a star on top of the Eiffel Tower. I was bowled over by her recent stint as Roxie in ‘Chicago’ that takes grit, sweat and talent. The moves she won Strictly with were incredible, again, that doesn’t come easy. This was all forgotten. But that’s not even why I was thinking of Tracey Emin. Emin, who got the power, and a Turner Prize for her unmade bed. I thought of Emin when I heard that Caroline Flack had taken her own life, hounded and pursued by the media, trolls and tabloid trash. Russel Brand is a hero for being a womaniser? Be a woman, get complicated by loving with all of your heart, and you’ll get rocks pelted at you by media trolls until you feel like you want to die. I think Caroline knew how to love better than any of us, that’s why she found it all so painful. Tom Hardy had a ‘past life’ and he’s a sex god on the silver screen who reads stories to children. In my life, I have turned up to work with bruised knuckles because I have punched walls repeatedly, until I bled. I have also not turned up to work because I blacked out on wine and had only a vague flashback of being waved goodbye at the traffic lights at the bottom of my road in broad daylight having only gone out for a couple of beers the night before. I am guilty of doing some pretty bad things that at the time made me feel better – unprintable things, unspeakable things, things that I’m not proud of getting away with. I also spent most of my life turning the pain I felt inwards and taking it out on myself. Reading between the lies/lines in the press I can feel Flack’s self harm howl. I could feel it all on Valentine’s Day, the despair and sadness was palpable. The air felt heavy, there were strange vibes billowing about the gibbous ether. The pressure to be in love and not broken apart, was so heavy you could feel it. Flack’s vivacity and vulnerability are a stark warning. Where are we heading? Letting women who love with all their fierce heart hang for it? I don’t want to be a spectator in a sport that I don’t subscribe to, without my heart breaking if we can’t stop anything like this happening all over again. Trolling and tabloid trashing is a clear and present danger to society along with the lack of care for people in pain, who love and hurt. It’s heart breaking and must get better..
Tracey Emin I do not expect and Everyone I Have Ever Slept With 1963-1995
And, that all made me think about Phoebe Waller-Bridge and ‘Fleabag.’ Amen to Fleabag, for all that she has done for womankind. Blessed be Hilary and the Hot Priest. We should celebrate our inner fleabag, love it hard and accept it. We can make bad moves and life will go on, life will find a way, however dangerously. Women can fall from grace, or be angry and filled with fierce, fiery rage, and continue to love life deeply and live life with courage.
I got fleabagged by my best friend, she ignored me for a decade and then explained, in glorious detail exactly why she had ignored me for a decade. I was a douchebag in my twenties, to myself and other people, in equal measures. I was a shallow whore, who had her moments – that was how my best friend had described me and I had never argued with that. Her significant drug habit never really came into that conversation, or other bad stuff that she had created and walked away from in equal measures – that didn’t matter to me. Hey ho, I am married now and have a baby so ‘fuck you’ is what I would feel like yelling at her if I ever saw her again! I think that is just social conditioning though so I would let those thoughts simmer down and probably just compliment her about her hair. Whilst I was struggling to breast feed my tongue-tied little one last year, sleep deprived and anatomically devastated by an emergency c-section (I don’t have a ‘franken vag’ by the way, I have a Harry Potter scar) I found ‘Fleabag.’ And, Fleabag cut through the postpartum landslide of my life and made me laugh again, I laughed a lot. I just feel that Caroline ended her life without knowing how much the world needed her, in the same way that we needed Tracey Emin’s bed and Fleabag. We are perfectly flawed. We need that depth of being every emotion, rage or shine.
I am a self-confessed jumpsuit addict. Not just ordinary jumpsuits, jumpsuits that are too small for my postpartum frame to squeeze into. I have racks and bags of clothes that don’t fit me since growing a small (and gorgeously yummy super cutie patootie baby boy) inside of me. I am the postergirl for pre-made dough, I waddle like the marshmallow puft out of Ghostbusters. This triggers. I am not sure where do I go from here. I am on my third round of flu this year. I can’t exercise when I am running a chill or a fever. Motherhood has taken away so much from me, I don’t know who I am anymore. It is a new landscape, territory, that triggers older parts of me and unleashes a mantra that I haven’t heard for over a decade – I don’t deserve anything good, I’m not worth it. The exhaustion, tiredness and monotony creeps over my vulnerability. My cognitive functioning feels weaker, I don’t feel confident anymore in my thinking. I went for a coast run last week and it was divine. This weekend I couldn’t because I am flu stricken, yet again.
The mother – an isolated, lonely figure, who takes fierce delight in seeing her little one thrive and fill up with the pure, innocent ecstatic bliss of fun. All of me that I cannot reach will wind up out to sea.
I just want to be the kind of mother that turns up to birthday parties in a leopard print jumpsuit and a messy chignon bun, effortless and chic, having drafted chapter 2318 of novel number 33893289 that will be an overnight bestseller despite only have 27 followers on instagram, you know? When he sleeps, I just feel too overwhelmed to do anything.