Messaging Madness


As dangerous as bloody heroin.

But I thought that I was immune from these silly habits.

I’m not very good with technology or social media.

Then again, I hate speaking on the phone. And I’m lonely.

I thought I liked being alone. Until I lived on my own. Then I quickly realized that liking being alone meant liking hanging out in a busy family home where I was never alone.

Through messaging you feel connected. You are distracted from the cold truth that we are born and die alone and that our minds are our private prisons forever.

It’s a brilliant invention. You can plan group meetups, send pictures privately, screenshot humourous or serious conversations to discuss with other friends, even play scrabble.

But when it comes to love…

On weekends we message in the morning to say hello and chat about our evenings. On weekdays we’ll touch base throughout the day, if not too busy at work. In the evenings we’ll catch up. When I’m bored I’ll message him. I’m often bored. When I’m sad I’ll message him. I’m often sad. If he doesn’t message in a few hours I’ll send him inane updates or question him on his whereabouts or his ideas on life.

On Messenger you can see when someone is online or the last time they were active online. So you know when someone is ignoring you. You also know when your ex is fucking someone else all night long.

Or you think you do and you have to send him messages asking who the whore is and hoping he uses contraception, while really he’s innocently heating up fish soup and his phone has simply rudely died.

I check to see when he was last online.

I refrain from messaging for as long as I can.

I send an unrestrained string of wise, witty messages to make sure he remembers how amusing (and insanely needy) I am.

I am allowed to be like this, of course, because I am pregnant and lonely and he is selfishly in Paris, sucking on French tits and smoking weed out his French windows. Since being pregnant I have let myself be beautifully needy. It is a true accomplishment.

But now I have decided that we can only ever be friends, because I cannot trust that he will come back. This means I must end this addiction. I must be content without messages from him. I must never check my phone. I turn off my active status so I can also never see when he was last active. I must detach.

I must detach.

I think I might be a little bit insane.

But aren’t we all?

Are we?

I hope so.

Letters to baby 3

Letters to Baby

Dear baby, You nestled in, neither child nor anything remotely considered human, discluding beliefs of the Catholic Church and I would advise to disclude the beliefs of the Catholic Church, you nestled into your warm dark bed and perhaps it would always have been best to tear you out with my fingernails.

I don’t like the world one bit, it all flashed across my mind like fire. It is toxic, it’s all death and destruction, a baby all soft and white and fragile is not safe in a world like this. The autumn air was wrought with peril. The blackish leaves like Halloween decs were ripped screaming from their branches. The puddles were frosted glass, cracked and splintered. Breath fired lungs, gusted vicious white plumes. The sun was more like a snowflake, pale and sharp. My mum always says, It’s a dangerous world out there, she’s only joking, well only half-joking, she’s a big worrier. Well she’s right, I choke on my own spit. Through the hot black tunnels of me was a tiny beating heart like a beetle clicking. A few weeks old and pulsing angrily. You could be the centre of the world.

But it was very cold and the cold made me sad, I thought you wouldn’t want to be born into a cold world. It is all treacherous ice and dark mornings, it is old people slipping and breaking their hips and dying frozen in their living rooms. You wouldn’t like it out here, I thought. You would be sad.

But your heart was loud as thunder in my ears. You see all these men sending other men to war and you see pub fights and you see people sleeping in the street and you see the Prime Minister lying so smooth and bland and you can’t help it, you just love them all. God gave me ovaries, I don’t know if he counted on love.

Dear baby, I will make the world magical for you. This is what you have to do. This is what mothers the world over have to do. I will make the world magical and it will stop us sinking into despair.

I don’t mean to be negative, baby, and that’s the whole point. We are lucky because we are in a rich country and we have family and we won’t starve or be on the streets. We have choices.

But it doesn’t mean we can’t all feel the Earth spinning into oblivion and all the stars winking out like cheap Christmas lights and it doesn’t mean that the rivers don’t gush with poison and our lungs don’t wheeze with nitrogen and sulphur oxides, unburned hydrocarbons and carbon monoxide, and everybody is not sad.

I will show you the magic, baby, the old pagan magic that they tried to burn with the witches.

Our world will be small, as the worlds of small children are, spent in patches of garden threading daisies, in corners colouring, compartmentalizing buttons and beads in colours and shapes, teatime and bathtime, enraptured by orange segments and bubbles. In the small things we will find the wonder, and the world won’t wrap at the door, that distant land of men in suits causing trouble.

Parents dream of their children’s eyes big and luminous like Catherine wheels and their smiles spread wide like beach parasols at all the beauty in the world.

Then they do not have to think, My child should not be born. He or she should stay curled up inside me like a mollusc. It’s safe there.

What are their brains like then? Are they dull or do they burn like galaxies? Or are they still and omniscient in the ocean-quiet of the womb?

All these babies that should not be born. All these little strangers that will grow stranger with the years until you cannot remember what they were, gentle prods and nudges inside you.

The galaxies glitter and each pale blaze is a blind spot, a hole as if from a cigarette burn.

I will love you but I am not sure that it will be enough.

Are you excited?


He doesn’t want to be here. I have to be here.

He is not going to come back. Not even for six months.

I am not waiting now.

I needed that hope because I wasn’t excited about the baby. I conjured images in my mind of a happy unit of 3.

Are you excited? That’s what people ask you.

Over and over again. Are you excited?

Are you excited?


It’s going to be here FOREVER. I want to meet it. But then I want to put it back inside me. I want to pop it out and look at him or her and stroke and cuddle and then I want to pop it back into its safe little universe.

But if we were together, it would be ok. We could look at him or her and be amazed. We could build a world together out of fantasies in our mind, the old magic of 3.

But he is not coming back.

It’s like going through a breakup over and over again.

But I am strong enough now because I am excited. Finally. And I don’t need him. And it’s going to be okay.

He is not going near my vagina again.

Questions re. your private complicated love life that you don’t want to explain to every Tom, Dick, Sally and Mary because you WILL CRY


When you’re pregnant anyone will just ask you intimate questions about your romantic life as casual chat. Also strangers just assume you’re in a relationship with your baby’s dad even though you could have literally been raped or he could have died or you could be a lesbian.

Were you on the pill?

So where’s the dad?

What does your boyfriend think?

Are you going to move in together?

Are you married?

Are you sleeping together?

Where is the dad?

Do you love him?

Did you consider abortion?

Are you dating?

Where’s the dad?

Reasons to get pregnant


I like being pregnant because I can send my ex (the one who I still sleep with and whose mum cooks us dinner when he’s in town) 25 messages at a time and not feel any shame or regret. This is actually an excellent, although possibly unhealthy, reason to consider abstaining from contraception. An example below.

I like being pregnant because you can watch Celebs Go Dating every evening and not have any social life and it’s absolutely fine. You don’t get told off for not drinking or for being boring or for going home at 7.30pm because it’s bedtime really soon.

A good reason to get pregnant is that you can blame being awful at your job on baby brain! I started my job 5 months pregnant so no one knows that I’m clueless even without the hormones and shrinking brain (apparently your brain shrinks).

A letter to him


This is how I feel all the time.

I am sorry. I am sorry that I kept the baby and now your life will be changed forever. I am sorry that you might have to move back to the UK and give up your dream of France for a while.

I am not sorry. Use a condom.

I am not sorry that I didn’t have an abortion for you.

I am not sorry when my baby kicks inside me.

I love you. I will always love you. You’re the father of my child and my best friend. But these are all the contraries that I feel.

If I had not been pregnant I would never have seen you again. Although me and her would not have found out, for maybe a very long time, or maybe forever, the whole truth at least. So I would have kept seeing you, until I left Paris or your lies were somehow revealed or one of us bored of the other. I think this baby was a good thing for you. Now you can sort your head out.

I told you that once I had the abortion I never wanted to see you again. You cried but that evening you would be back with her and you would never have had to reveal the lie.

You weren’t there for me. You weren’t there for me when I needed you.

As the abortion date drew nearer and I told you how I felt about it, you said you felt you should be there… to make sure that I went through with it.

You said you could come the Thursday night and leave on the Saturday. The abortion was booked for the Friday morning. I said don’t bother.

You went to the cinema and had sex with her after I told you I was keeping it and you were going to have a child. You had dinner with her mum and you were going to have a child with somebody else.

How can I be with you when I think you would rather be with her? How can I be with you when I know you would lie to save my feelings, for fear I would take your child?

How can I be with you when you would rather be in France than be with me?

But how can I get over you when you come back to my bed? How can I move on when I am at home with a baby on my tit?

I am angry. I think if you want to be involved then be fully involved. Will you buy nappies with me? Will you buy a pram? Will you be there for the nights?

No? Then don’t bother coming back at all.

I’m sorry. I’m not angry.

I don’t need you. This was my choice. I made this decision alone and I knew the consequences of that. If you’re there to babysit sometimes, then great. If not, that’s fine.

I need you. I don’t want to do this on my own. I want to be a happy family. I want us to make decisions together.

What do you want? Just tell me what you want.

I could do better than you.

I would be better off alone.

I don’t want to be alone.

All that matters is this baby and I need to stop thinking about you.