I remember watching Ruby Wax on TV with Mum and Dad.
I can’t remember the program she was on, but I do remember the shoulder shakes from them when one of her comments tickled them.
Dad was never really a feminist so laughing out loud wasn’t done, but somehow he bought up me as one.
An independent arsehole that refused to take help from anyone. No matter what sex I was, I could bloody do it if I put my mind to it.
And it’s still a philosophy that I stand by, even when my body tries to fail me.
Is that feminism? Or just bloody-mindedness?
Meh, I’ll take it.
The last time I saw Ruby Wax was on the South Coast.
My best friend had travelled 200 miles to join me.
Ruby was on stage with a monk and a neuroscientist, it was pre-COVID and life was good.
I had 2 teenage delinquents, we’d hit the proverbial fan a few times, but we managed.
This time we met up on a 370-mile round trip between us, with the purpose of seeing Ruby’s new show, “I’m not as well as I thought I was” a personal journey through overdoing life and ending up in a…. we’ll call it a retreat.
It’s a book I read in March. I think only a few days after my lowest point.
I remember reading on my Kindle with crepe bandages on my arm and a head swimming with meds. And fuck me it was a hard read.
I think I cried through at least 50%. I even googled swimming with whales as maybe that was what I needed to get better. I would have given anything a go.
We booked the show as something to look forward to. And in all honesty, at the time, I never thought I’d make it. I didn’t believe I’d still be here.
Then as days went on, the show was forgotten.
Life went on. It went up, it went down. A few hairpin bends, and another cycle of down again.
So when I got a message last month to ‘make plans’ it felt like something new.
Just a night out with my best friend. Nothing more.
She checked in, did I think I’d be ok with it, you know, considering?
Why the hell wouldn’t I be? I had let myself forget how triggered I had become.
Let’s book a hotel for a proper night out. That felt confusing. Do we navigate by road or train?
Nope no too much, back up again. What are we doing again?
My friend sorted all the arrangements, and timings etc, and I just had to get there and pay for tea.
And then I thought about it a bit more, as I remembered what a hard read it had been.
But surely that was just because of how I was then.
I’m better now. I’m functioning. Look I even wash my hair and put makeup on.
The journey today was started in ample time.
But in true Lemony Snicket style it ended up chaos and fraught. And as always running late.
By the time we entered the auditorium, she was there, on stage. In her PJs and slippers! Love it.
I think I lasted about 5 minutes of feeling awkward for interrupting by getting to our seats late before the content of the show hit me.
A description of thinking everything is rosey whilst, in reality, it has all turned to shit.
I swallowed down lump after lump in my throat.
My friend and I nudged and prodded each other when obvious traits were called out, and I laughed and smiled when I should.
We also gave each other the look to one another about the oblivious woman a few rows behind, that chose to laugh at every pregnant pause. She either didn’t have a clue of the impact this downward spiral truly felt like, or she was on the meds I’ve been asking for for almost 12 months. Fucking good for her!
Ruby discussed her state of finding herself in mental unwellness. Of her first few days in treatment, and then the buildup of how she got there.
A post-COVID world, a wellness retreat. Where reality continued whilst she stayed closeted in a silent bubble. And all the while, outside war began, cancer consumed and business continued. You can escape for a moment, but it always catches up.
All things that can happen to every one of us as we plod through life.
A desperate try to help where you can, but the reality is it doesn’t make a glimmer of difference in such a cruel world.
In the interval, I ordered a wine.
I’d had a couple with dinner, but things were getting painful, both physically and mentally, and it felt the easier option than to sit with this discomfort.
In that interval we spoke with 2 amazing ladies about the state of mental health services, and how precious our NHS is.
The one who works in the industry clocked my arms. She saw the scars I’ve given up hiding.
Her face made that slight change from mutual understanding to pity.
But fuck it, I don’t care any more. They are part of me. And I refuse to hide just because they make others uncomfortable and give them a glance of mortality.
I went to the disabled toilet. A woman had struggled to lock the door, and I interrupted her as I pushed open the door. I think I felt more shame than she did. The indignity of navigating a bloody door knob stealing a private moment. It shouldn’t be that fucking hard to lock a door, yet somehow each disabled door is different! No comprehension of the difficulties the users of these facilities have.
The second act followed on seamlessly from the first.
A continuation of ploughing through life with a head-on determination that everything is fine, just fine.
Until it’s not.
Ruby’s show ended as it started.
Checking in to a place to get help.
That all too recognisable moment where reality and madness cross over and you don’t know which instinct to trust.
And I found myself sobbing. Crying so hard I couldn’t get out the door. We stood at the front, trying to be invisible whilst everyone else filed out.
After I’d gathered myself and got to the exit we saw that Ruby was signing books.
I had bought the book, but it was on Kindle. I’d grabbed an older copy from one of her previous shows just in case. Lurking in the bottom of my handbag and figured why not get it signed.
We had to write our name on a post-it so she knew who to address it to.
I didn’t feel relevant enough to put my name.
I wrote “Write whatever the fuck you want, it doesn’t matter. I read your book just after my suicide attempt. And I’m still here”
I was angry at this point because her show as amazing as it was had made me cry, and here she was looking perfect and put together, whilst I felt my life was still teetering, still at risk of falling apart. It had brought up the pain. Recognition. And the jealousy that she got a comfy room with guards on the door and I got flung out into the big wide world whilst being added to the bottom of a very long list to wait for help.
And only the weak cry. So I was being weak.
She glanced at the note “But what name?”
Jo, I said. My name is Jo.
She scribbled in my book whilst commenting ‘Wow, this is an old one.’
And then she paused.
She looked again at my note.
She looked up.
She folded my note, and tucked it in her bra, and then stood up and held me. Held me so tight.
And I cried, those big sobbing tears where your nose gets snotty and it feels like you’ll never stop.
And all I could think to say was “Thank you….I like your cashmere sweater, it’s nice for hugs”
What a fucking twat.
A book that became part of my journey of being seen, being accepted and realising that with strength and determination, life can go on…..and I said, “Nice cashmere”.
Before she packed up to go, she came over to me again and we had a little chat about how everything is so fucking hard sometimes. It turned out to be the best fucking night out to remind me how far I have actually come!!
But Im such a bellend!
I snotted on her cashmere????