Fish Pie

A couple of years ago I contemplated suicide. It was a terrifying experience. It wasn't the first time I'd thought about it. Back when I was 17, I perched on a window sill, six floors up, in tears telling myself to 'jump, you fucker, jump.'

This time, there was no emotion. None whatsoever. Dry eyed I stood before the window in my living room staring out at nothing.

"He'll be better off without you," my inner voice was saying. "You can't take him down with you. Look what you're doing to him. Where are you taking him? Some shit estate? Where he'll fight, get fought, get knifed, knife? Go, he'll be better off without you. Go, fly away. You know it's for the best."

I looked at the window. It only opens about 3 inches, I should think of another way. Should I leave a note?

"Dear son,
I love you more than I love life itself. I have to leave life, but I'm never leaving you, I'll always be with you."

No, no good.

"Dear son,
Mummy's had to go away. You'll be better off with daddy."

No, no no.

"Dear son,
..... "

Suddenly the room was thrown into darkness. It was odd, I'd had no awareness of light.

"Mummy?" My son's voice penetrated the silence. Shit. I didn't know you were there.
"MUMMY?"

"Yes, yes sweetie," I said turning towards him, "it's only a power cut, wait there, mummy will get a candle."

My mind emptied as though a door had been opened at the back of my head and every thought, every word gushed out like air. My hands began trembling and I could feel my heart knocking against my ribs.

As I ran my son a bath and lit candles at each end, I thought "Do this for yourself later." This I did, pouring in lavender oil, thinking, actively thinking, as though catching up with myself, that to do so was being good to myself and I must be good to myself.

Guilt was my companion all night. How could I think he'd be better off without me? Who was I to know what my son would feel should I leave so irreversably?

The following morning I decided to make him a fish pie. He loves fish pie. I rarely make it as it's so labour intensive, so time consuming. Well, Annabel Karmel's recipe is. It's expensive but then there's only the two of us, so I can freeze what we don't eat.

When I put it in the oven I went outside for a cigarette and from the balcony I saw not one, but two rainbows. They were messages I could not compute, but I knew they were beautiful. Life. Life is beautiful.

I've been feeling really quite shit recently which culminated in a good cry last night. This morning I made a fish pie.

I'm not telling you this because I feel sorry for myself. I don't, I know how lucky I am even if I do lose sight of it now and again. I'm telling you this because I'm not the only stigmum, not the only mother, not the only person who has felt that there is nowhere else to go; that there is a way out.

I know widows, mothers with disabled children, mothers caring for elderly relatives, who just get on and deal with the obstacles in their lives. I admire these women, understand the others who struggle.

As for my fish pie today, I ran out of butter, so it was a butterless mash and a sloppy white sauce as I had to reduce the amount of flour for the roux. If I've aspirations to be Bree Van de Gilt, I'm falling short. But nor can I be compared to Susan Myers. She's a hopeless cook but her house is tidy. I spent hours a couple of weeks ago sprucing up my flat as my son had a friend come and play. As he walked into the room, the friend declared: "Your house is really messy."

Can't win 'em all.......I'm a desperate housewife, but not that Desperate it would seem.