Confessions of a professional liar

I am a liar.

My "life" is a lie.

Let me clarify.


It is no secret that I had a major operation in April of last year. If you don't know that I had my rectum removed and my anus sewn shut, then it's likely that you haven't been my friend for very long, because one thing I am not, is secretive about it. It is also no secret that I have been taking very strong prescription pain medication, that I am currently trying to wean myself off. My life is an open book. I share stories, and photos regularly online about what is happening in my life on a day to day basis.

Except it isn't, and I don't.

I share what I want people to know. I post the photos that I want people to see. I tell the story that I want people to hear. I am "open" and "honest" to a degree.

About a month ago, I shared a photograph entitled "Batch cooking". It was of an array of dishes that I had spent the day preparing for my family and a friend who had had a premature baby. There was an obscene amount of food. This photo gained likes, and comments galore. It told a story of a woman who has her shit together, so much so that she can cook 2 weeks worth of food in one day.

That picture also tells another story. The story that I don't tell, don't share.

The story of a woman who cooks two weeks worth of food in one day, because that is possibly the one day out of the month that she will be well enough to cook. So she fills her freezer.

In the past 21 days, I have cooked from fresh, 5 times for my partner and I.  Our main evening meals have consisted of pre cooked meals from the freezer (some batch cooked by me, others by the supermarket), take away, sandwiches, cereal & porridge, cheese on crackers, crisps, biscuits, yoghurt, or nothing at all.

My son has a home cooked meal most evenings, however they mainly consist of things that I can take from the freezer and throw into the oven - pre cooked lasagne, sausage rolls, chicken nuggets (home made, batch cooked, and frozen), or pasta with bacon pieces and tomato sauce, always cooked in bulk so he can have it for more than one main meal. Convenience isn't a luxury, it's a necessity. And I have learnt how to make healthy, child friendly, convenience foods, in bulk. I've had to.

My partner is not so fortunate, or well looked after.


It also hasn't been a secret that I have joined Brighton Theatre Group, and I am taking part in a performance of Jesus Christ Superstar, in April.

What I haven't shared is my partners reluctance in my taking part. He was worried, and continues to worry, that I have taken on too much. That I wouldn't be / am not well enough / strong enough to manage the rehearsals and performances.

Of course I fought him on it. Insisted that I was fine. That I was getting better. That I could cope.

He was right to be concerned. Because I am barely strong enough and managing. I am holding on by the skin of my teeth.

Although I am making it to and through rehearsals, and I am enjoying myself immensely, I am also in a considerable amount of pain during and after each and every one. The thing is, I am used to being in pain. On any given day, my pain level ranges from 2/10 to 7/10. EVERY SINGLE DAY. My baseline, my normal pain level, where 0 is no pain, and 10 is unbearable take me to the hospital now because I am about to die pain, is 3/10. This is with two different types of kick ass opiate pain relief that I am constantly on. I am almost NEVER pain free. When I hit 6/10, I take something to help me, otherwise, I just get on with it. Pain is normal for me. I am currently in bed, doing nothing but type, and my pain is at a 4, but I'm happy because an hour ago I was at 6. So yes, I am rehearsing twice a week. Yes, I am taking part in a show. I am also taking OPIATE pain relief before, often during, and always after, each and every rehearsal.

So why am I doing it? Why am I putting myself through it? Because I am sick of simply surviving. I want to LIVE. Sadly though, it hurts to live.

Another non secret is that I am looking better than I have looked in decades. My exterior is banging right now. Curves in all the right places, hair behaving, tummy decreasing. I have a waist. My levels of narcissism are rising at an alarming rate. Constant selfies, flooding your timelines, of me in lovely dresses, off to church. I dress up, go to Church, leave Church, go to my Mum's house, change back into my pyjamas, and sleep on her sofa while she cooks lunch. I wake up, eat, sleep some more, drive home, give my son a light dinner, put him to bed, and go back to bed myself. Every single Sunday I spend from 9am - 12pm looking fantastic. 3 hours. That's it.

In the past 21 days, I have only gotten dressed 12 times. And on many of those days I only got dressed to drive the children to school. Today is Friday. I have been in my Pyjamas since Tuesday. I got dressed on Weds do drop off, and then again, to pick up my son from school. I got dressed today to take my son to the Dr. I got home, put my pyjamas on, and got back into bed. I have had to have a nap every single day this week since Sunday. Why my partner puts up with my lazy ass is anybody's guess. I actually said to my Mum on Sunday how happy I was, because I had managed to get through the past week, Mon-Sun (that day), without having to nap, and managed to get dressed every day but one. I was overjoyed. It felt like I was turning a corner. That was at 11am. By 12.30pm I was snoring on her sofa. I have spent this entire week recovering from the past week's 6 fantastic days.

With all that said, I maintain that I am getting better. I am happier than I have been in years. My good days may not have increased in quantity. I may still spend a third of the year in my pyjamas, unable to function due to crippling fatigue, not able to shower, dress myself, cook for my family, leave the house, often not able to lift my head from my pillow. Even though I often still have to use a commode in the bedroom to urinate, because the stairs are too much for me to manage, even though my partner has to remind me to shower, and to eat on the days when all I can do is sleep, even though my bedroom is often the only room I see for days at a time, my quality of life on my good days is the highest it has been in years. Even though a third of my time I am unable to function, the other two thirds is spent living instead of merely surviving. And through it all, I am happy and full of hope.