Such an enticing title, I know.

I’m depressed. Not life threateningly, but just enough to make the basics even more difficult than usual. No motivation. No enthusiasm. Sleep pattern messed up. Comfort eating like my life depended on it. No desire to be sociable or communicate with others on any level. To be honest, all the stuff I struggle with on a daily basis, but amplified to the max. The only reason I get out of bed is because my back, hips and neck hurt if I stay horizontal excessively. Sitting on the sofa doomscrolling is my default position currently.

And there lies another issue. I have long used social media to maintain contact with friends and family. It enables me to feel connected to their lives without the one on one conversation I find difficult. However, at present world events and politics are screaming at me from every other post. I avoid mainstream media as much as I can, for the sake of my mental wellbeing, but if I switch off social media, I lose my manageable interactions with my tribe. I feel a bit damned if I do and damned if I don’t.

Talking of unwanted stresses, I have had both the electric supplier and the Department for Work and Pensions hounding me. We have actually changed our power supplier as a result of their actions. Constantly calling me, especially at 8am was doing my nut. It came about that they wanted to increase our monthly payments by £102. I called them, stating it was unreasonable and I couldn’t afford that. Despite my online account clearly stating the payments were increasing, I was told over the phone that they were absolutely not. I left it another couple of days, checked my online account again, it was still showing the 1st April payment at the increased amount, so I cancelled the direct debit. That’s when the barrage of calls began. I couldn’t take it. Martin switched us. New supplier took over today. Yes, I still owe some money to the previous company, but they shouldn’t have lied to me, or harassed me, a vulnerable customer on the priority services register. When I have it, they’ll get paid.

As for the DWP, who knows what they want this time. I had a telephone appointment recently informing me they wanted accounts from us both. Except you can’t screenshot bank statements etc anymore. They have to be uploaded as a PDF file. As I’m not terribly computer literate these days, Martin uploaded mine for me. Except it’s still showing in my UC ‘to do list’. I have no idea whether they’re going to come after me. Or worse sanction me. I live in constant fear of someone deciding I’m fit to work at the best of times. So now we both have telephone appointments next week. How I’m I supposed to look after my mentals with that hanging over me?

I had a job. Not recently, I admit, but I had a job I loved. I had the privilege of educating very small people in a warm, safe and fun environment. If ever a job kept me feeling young and joyful, it was working in early years. I was told on multiple occasions that my eyes lit up when I talked about my work in the nursery. It was a joy. Then I had a breakdown. Again. Throughout my life there’s been a pattern of work, breakdown, work, breakdown, work, breakdown. Rinse and repeat. Every time I manage to maintain employment for a period of time, another period of mental ill health follows. It’s nearly 13 years now since I last worked. Mostly I can accept that because I know devoting my time to self care is what keeps me well. But other times, like currently, I feel crap about it.

Depression tells me I’m useless. I’m lazy. I’m a waste of space. One of life’s spongers. I have nothing worthwhile to say, so why waste time blogging? The more junk I eat, and the more physical space I take up, the less space I feel I deserve to inhabit.

Yes, I’m down. But I’m not risk. Just more overwhelmed by the negative thoughts than usual. This too share pass. Apparently.

I found myself wondering the other day, how many times I can keep describing myself as feeling discombobulated. I mean, while it’s not my permanent state of existence, it does seem to be a rather familiar place. I return here on a pretty frequent basis.

I have the luxury of being well stabilised with medication in terms of my mental health. And I’m not disregarding the tens, probably hundreds of hours spent in therapy. That has definitely helped too. But I still seem to experience weeks or months of each year merely surviving. Is that normal? What is normal?

I recently received my annual notification that I’m still on the waiting list for an autism assessment. And though I totally understand I will probably be on the list for years more, I do feel that as time goes on, my symptoms are increasing/worsening. I feel like I don’t have the energy to cope with social situations, I don’t have the strength to mask, and scarily, sometimes I feel like I don’t really care. I rely on my earplugs more. I struggle with dealing with tradespeople in the flat. Making phone calls reduces me to tears. Things I’ve done for years have become nightmarish.

I don’t think menopause has helped. I’m constantly weary. I still feel like I’m wading through treacle.

At the weekend we shifted a lot of stuff around, broke up our old sofa, dragged the bits out to our cars and took it to the tip. Physically it was hard work. It took its toll on our not-so-young-as-we-once-were bodies. I find taking things to the tip really stressful anyway. I think once one of the personnel was rude to me when I asked for help, and now lodged in my subconscious is a fear I can’t quite logic away.

In the lounge reshuffle, I came across a box file I’d forgotten about. It’s crammed with all the paperwork pertaining to my Dad’s death. I could immediately see why I’d shoved it down the end of the sofa. I had a strange compulsion to start looking through it and got as far as the post mortem report. Martin said to me later, “You didn’t do yourself any favours reading that”. Which was true. However I really didn’t expect to read content I’d never previously been aware of; whether that was due to me not actually having read/heard that information (ie. I filed it for a day I felt stronger – then forgot) or I’d known it and my brain blocked it out, and wrapped itself in figurative cotton wool, and then forgot.

The pain was devastating. It’s been hard enough knowing for the last nearly 7 years that my Dad fell down the concrete steps at the back of the bungalow and hit his head on the wall, fracturing his skull and causing massive brain bleeds. But then there was this. Facial fractures. Broken collarbone. Six broken ribs. Oh and make that two separate skull fractures. I am overwrought considering it.

And this comes off the back of Mark’s death. Martin’s closest friend. My friend by default for nearly five years. I often sent him home after a visit with portions of bolognaise or curry, so I knew he’d at least have a couple more nutritious meals. Although he was older than me, I cared about him almost in a motherly way. I will miss him.

As much as anything though I was worried about Martin. I was scared how his grief would affect him. The circumstances of Mark’s death were distressing to say the least. His only close family was a cousin, and piecing together Mark’s last days, and demise was shared with Martin as he had access to Mark’s phone records. We both felt traumatised. We await a funeral date.

It all just feels a lot (as young people say). Usually I would throw myself into making a wreath for distraction, but the baubling station is currently out of service with the lounge being upside down. Still it has given me an afternoon to write, and that’s rarely a bad thing.

When my husband started working for a cruise company, I’ll admit, I had mixed feelings. His staff discount makes cruise holidays affordable to us, when they hadn’t been before. And it caused us to consider cruising as a holiday option. And that vexed me.

Whenever I’d been asked previously if I’d been on a cruise, I’d stated, “No!” And had usually added that I had no desire to do so. I just didn’t really see the appeal. It didn’t help that I’m really prone to motion sickness and in my menopause era, this had only gotten worse. I was sick of friends telling me I’d be fine, and what remedies I should use, and how I’d love cruising. I hate being told anything really. Tends to make me kick harder against it.

So when Martin booked our first short cruise to see how we would fare, I almost shelved the notion, wishing to pretty much forget all about it. The only redeeming factor in my mind was a day scheduled in the Netherlands, and that meant potentially I could purchase chocoladehagelslag. And trust me, that’s good. IYKYK.

While I was quietly ignoring the fact we were booked to go on our first cruise, something else occurred. Martin was selected to go on a familiarisation trip for work. That is, he sailed off to the Norwegian Fjords for a week and experienced a slice of what both Norway and cruising have to offer. In the name of improving guest experience. But it meant our first cruise was now Martin’s second cruise.

On his return he was excited to book the Fjords for us both. Despite having not yet completed our tester cruise I agreed. I’d always said if I were to be coaxed into cruising, it would be to Norway.

In November our short European cruise finally came around. In my typically neurosparkly way, I buried my head in the sand until the last minute. Then my need to pack for every conceivable eventuality and to have my familiar items around me, initially involved me packing a case. Unpacking it. Packing a larger case. Unpacking some of it. Packing a second small case. I was freaked out by two cases because I knew I couldn’t manage them both and I felt like Martin was beginning to lose patience with me. The day before we were due to leave I twisted my knee and it was stupidly painful at times, and even gave way once or twice. I was fearful at the thought of climbing ramps and steps and Martin suggested I was trying to get out of going. I wasn’t, but I was way out of my comfort zone and was struggling to process everything.

My observation regarding a cruise holiday is this; I could never have done it alone. I spent the next five days asking, “Which deck is that?” I was disoriented to the Nth degree. I had no clue if I wanted up or down, forward or aft. Martin came into his own as my carer. Without his support I doubt I’d have even managed embarkation. And if I’d ever navigated to the cabin, I probably would never have left it again.

The first night at dinner I thought I’d made the worst mistake ever in being persuaded to come on a cruise. The volume of the masses in the dining room, along with other layers of noise was unbearable. Despite requesting a table for two, we were approximately 5cms from the next table for two, occupied by an outgoing and rather loud couple, who absolutely were not taking the hint that I don’t play nicely with strangers. My brain felt like it was being unpicked messily with a fork. The culmination of all the anguish of the day caught up with me and I retreated into my ear defenders.

As a side note I rarely use my ear defenders. I hate that they make me look ‘special’ or disabled. I’m scared they draw attention to me. I’m terrified I’ll be asked why I need them. I feel massively self conscious. If the ear defenders are on, you can assume I’m in huge distress, because I will try to do without, every time I possibly can. However in the circumstances I decided looking special was favourable to looking rude and putting my noise cancelling headphones in. Martin was stressed with me as it was which made me feel worse.

The following day things started to feel less unfamiliar. We spent a little time in Cherbourg. It was nice to get off the ship, but also good to get back on. Our cabin was great, and anytime I needed some air or space I would just put myself on the balcony. I loved the sense of being surrounded by sea, it was very calming.

Friday was a sea day, and I was just able to relax. Each day felt easier. It was our formal night, and I felt lovely in my posh frock. I didn’t manage to contain a few tears when I threw gravy down my posh frock, however my shawl cleverly doubled up as a scarf to disguise it for the subsequent photo shoot. We ended the night doing a karaoke duet to Fairytale of New York, which has been on my bucket list for, like, ever!

Saturday was wonderful for me. My first time back in the Netherlands since 1997, even if only for one day. It was lovely doing the touristy thing, and falling in love with the country all over again. We found a small supermarket, thanks to the directions from our lovely tour guide, and I stocked up on Dutch delicacies. Happy days.

It was disappointing our stop at Zeebrugge for Bruges was cancelled, but considering my need to know exactly what is going to happen and disliking changes to plans, I managed it pretty well. I think to be honest, by this point in the cruise, I was so overstimulated by so many new and different experiences I was actually a little relieved to just be able to relax.

On the whole, I must say, I was pleasantly surprised by how much I enjoyed myself. There were times when I felt a little queasy but a combination of Stugeron and herbal patches kept things manageable. Not that it was ever actually rough. But so far so good.

Would I do it again? Absolutely! I felt very relaxed onboard ship, and I enjoyed the shore time. Despite my reservations, I’m a cruise convert. I really enjoyed it and am looking forward to Norway next year with the benefit of having a bit more idea what to expect.

When I was a little girl, many, many moons ago, my mother told me, “You’re like me, I can’t draw either”. And as harsh as that sounds to tell a child, I’m actually not great at drawing. Or painting. In fact at secondary school I took cookery as my creative subject, because I’d never really flourished in art, design and textiles, or needlework. Only one art teacher spotted anything really positive in my drawings, and repeatedly praised my ‘bold sense of pattern’. Apparently a classic neurodivergent trait, but who knew about such things in the 80s? Especially in girls.

Apart from making my first wedding dress when I was 19 (didn’t flourish in needlework!) I didn’t really dabble in any kind of creative activities then until I was incarcerated in the psych hospital during my 20s. I tried all sorts of things at the occupational therapy unit, and in day hospital, from cross stitch, to glass painting, to quilling, clay modelling, drawing, painting, decoupage, and probably many more I’m unable to recall, thanks to the chemical cosh they called treatment back in the day. It was one of the few upsides to weeks on end in hospital; getting to try myriad crafts I would never have had the means to pursue otherwise. They definitely helped pass time, and some I really enjoyed, but I didn’t take up any as regular hobbies.

Throughout my adult years my creativity was expressed through singing and baking. And writing. I’ve written poems and stories all my life to be fair. And have been blogging about 10 years. It’s an incredibly effective outlet. It’s also a permanent reminder of how far I’ve come. Should I ever be in doubt.

My Christmas crafting began less than 2 years ago. I think before that I’d felt that maybe Christmas crafts were for, say October to December. Maybe November and December. Because I’ve always had an obsession with Christmas decorations, and Christmas in general, I’d got so used to being told, “It’s not Christmas yet!” Or, “Save it for December”. Most people don’t really grasp my passion for Christmas decorations. Especially not all year round! It’s only now I feel I can be my authentic Christmas obsessed self. It’s not hurting anyone.

I’ve had so much fun creating dioramas, scenes and shadow boxes. I’ve loved giving ancient decorations a new lease of life. But for a long time I’d harboured a desire to make a bauble wreath. I finally bought some preloved baubles and researched on Pinterest how I should proceed. I fairly naively set to work with my mini glue gun. Goodness knows how many blisters later I had a finished product I was pleased with. More than pleased. Delighted. I had made something I loved and felt proud of. I was making another before the glue had barely set! I’ve now made 9, and I love them all, even the one I class as a ‘second’ because of some minor imperfections.

As I posted my bauble wreaths on social media, I began to receive positive feedback. I began to receive enquiries as to whether they were for sale. Did I take commissions? I was frankly blown away by the comments. People seemed to really like them. They are unique, asymmetrical, random, quirky. I love them, but I really wasn’t sure others would. I sold one to friends. They absolutely loved it. I was so relieved! I worried myself silly that it wasn’t good enough. I had to ask Martin to set the price because I didn’t believe they were saleable. Gosh, this has been a steep learning curve!

I remember, a long time ago, when my first husband’s first nephew was born. I sewed a gorgeous cross stitch new baby card. My brother in law and his wife seemed pleasantly surprised at how lovely it was, and how beautifully I’d stitched it. It was back in the bad old days of the mental health day hospital. My then husband hated them making a fuss about the card, and my skill in particular, and rather unkindly said, “Well if she hadn’t been doing that, they’d have had her weaving a basket!” And in that moment my joy was snuffed out as the 3 of them raucously laughed at me.

When I first met Martin he said he didn’t really do Christmas. I said if he was going to be with me, that would have to change. Celebrating Christmas is a non negotiable in my book. And although he still has some Grinchy moments, he totally appreciates how precious Christmas is to me. From the production of the first bauble wreath he has been totally on board. In fact my biggest cheerleader. He’s just made a significant investment in baubling resources so that not only can I continue to create wreaths, but I can also safely package and send them to their new homes. I can’t even begin to express how much that means to me. I’ve been moved to tears by his kindness and unwavering support. Things I’ve not experienced before. It’s such a blessing. And I’ve discovered a creative hobby that causes me to feel I’ve finally found my niche and brings year-round Christmas joy to this weird little heart.

I was told today I was looking trim. I had to ask the person to repeat themselves, as I absolutely don’t see myself as trim. Despite our difference of opinion I was chuffed that my current weight loss is beginning to show. In fact, only yesterday a friend also commented I’d lost weight since I last saw her. So hearing that two days running gave me a little buzz, I’ll admit. Even Martin had said something before he went away but I think I’d filtered out what he said. I mean he knows I’ve lost a little weight. He is here for my weekly weigh ins.

I was talking with a friend in the gym today who’s doing Slimming World. A diet plan I hate with a passion. Personally I believe that it is profit led and not remotely for the benefit of its members. Every person I’ve ever challenged regarding SW says exactly the same things. It really doesn’t sell it to me, and seems akin to brainwashing. Anyhow, since I was pulled out of fat club in the 90s by my very concerned GP, it’s not something I’ve ever had the urge to revisit.

But one of the Slimming World selling points is no calorie counting. One of the upsides to my weight loss efforts is the science. If I stay below my calorie allowance each day, I lose weight. Maintaining a calorie deficit consistently causes me to shed the pounds. Tell me I don’t have to count calories and I’ll ask how I know I’m going to sustain my downward trend. It’s maths and science. Add up the calories, stay below my limit, and the scale figure decreases. I don’t even have to do the adding myself, I have an app on my phone that does it for me.

I was quite sceptical about doing the weight loss thing again, because since my efforts pre wedding, I’m now unashamedly menopausal and on hormone replacement therapy. I’d read how so many women struggle to lose weight in my circumstances. But 41 days into logging my calories the science is still sciencing, the maths is still mathing.

My weight loss has been steady. Slow even. But I’m happy with that for two reasons. First it means I can still enjoy treats, in moderation. I could give myself a smaller daily calorie intake, but I still want to enjoy cake with Martin from time to time. Secondly I believe the weight is more likely to stay off longer term if lost gradually.

Also I hadn’t been to the gym since May, which I wasn’t proud of. As the realisation dawned that Martin was probably going to be away for a week, I made a very conscious effort to get back to training regularly. I had a vision of my anxiety keeping me home alone all week if I didn’t take the step to overcome my mental hurdles and just do it before he went. Getting in a workout improves my strength, my mental health, supports my weight loss, is recommended in menopause and gets me out the flat. Also the deputy manager there is lovely. Not that I’m biased at all.

As I said to my friend in the gym earlier, whatever the diet / healthy eating / plan you follow it has to be right for you. We’re all individuals with varying needs. At the end of the day, she and I are both losing weight. But what I really like about doing it the calorie deficit way is the accountability and the agency I have over my own journey. No money making corporation is taking credit for my weight loss!

Since Martin started work a year ago as a Personal Cruise Advisor, he was made aware that if he continued to work for the company he would have the opportunity to apply to participate in fam (familiarisation) trips. This involves joining a cruise ship, without incurring a cost (other than drinks, souvenirs etc) and being expected to experience, in the form of observation or hands on work, the day to day running of the ship, in every aspect, from dining, to shore visits, to entertainment, accommodation and facilities. Essentially, people who sell cruises for a living are better equipped to do so if they can experience the delights on offer and subsequently relay the details to their customers. It is made very clear, it is not a holiday; it is work. However fam trip places are still much sought after amongst the workforce, so when Martin received the news he’d been selected for a 7 night cruise to the Norwegian Fjords, we were rightly excited.

So my husband is currently on a very big ship. By tomorrow they’ll be in Norway. Am not remotely jealous.

I was asked in the week how I felt about him being away while I was home alone. Would I be okay? Well firstly, I’m not alone, I have the cat to keep me company. I like her more than many people anyway! I did point out that I was on my own for 14 years before I married Martin, and I’m sure I can manage another week. As for my feelings about him being away, seriously, good on him. I never want to be either the needy, or the controlling wife who doesn’t let him go anywhere. And I’d hate that to be reversed if I want to go away. As I do, once a year.

I am so proud of Martin. He’s worked really hard since he started this job, and I know there have been times he’s found it incredibly hard. Periods where he felt like he was flogging a dead horse. Weeks when he put the work in, but just no one wanted a cruise. Times when he saw his colleagues flying high, and he was going round in circles. But he stuck at it. He took on board (pun intended) the feedback from his seniors. And little by little things started to pick up.

Last month he was the top booker on his team. To say that I am proud of that achievement is an understatement. But not only that: he never gave up. Even when everything seemed to be working against him, his tenacity was admirable, and is finally paying off. He’s good at what he does. He’s a natural problem solver, calm under pressure, and is warm and personable with his customers.

Also, I love him to bits.

I can actually understand why people may think I wouldn’t cope without him. Because I have allowed myself to become softer around him than I ever could have been alone. I let him care for me because I can. I never had someone I could lean into like that before. My weird neurodivergent traits don’t faze Martin. I don’t have to mask around him, I can be me in all my quirky glory. What’s important to me matters to him.

And I hope that’s not one-way. I’ve done my utmost to reassure him he is loved and valued unconditionally whether times are good or difficult. I’ve been his loudest cheerleader which seems to be something new to Martin. My hope for him is that one day he believes the positives.

In the meantime, enjoy that unexpected beverage on the company tonight. Have the best week. And I’ll work my way through your list of dinners from hell in your absence 😘

I’ve been thinking about blogging for a week or so now, but I am struggling for words. Therefore I request you forgive me if this turns out to be a chaotic ramble. That’s just how my head is currently.

Please excuse this. Just need to get it out my system. I don’t feel right. I don’t feel right. I don’t feel right. I don’t feel right. I don’t feel right. I don’t feel right. I don’t feel right. I don’t feel right. I don’t feel right.

I don’t feel right.

There’s a good reason why May is the month I have disappeared to Bognor Regis for many years previously. It’s a very personal escape and pilgrimage to get my head into a better place and my toes into the waves. It became apparent last year that Martin didn’t share my enthusiasm and I didn’t rebook for us this year. Also of course, Butlin’s changed the rules which meant I couldn’t even go back alone. And I had no clue how hard I was going to find that when the time actually came.

My Facebook is overloaded with memories of previous trips. Alone, with Chris, and with Martin. I’ve found it heartbreaking. I just want to be there. There have been days when I’ve considered just getting in my car and driving to Bognor for the day; just to have a paddle and drink a cuppa on the seafront. But I haven’t quite managed it. Despite the weather having been gorgeous.

I keep trying to console myself that I’ll get back to Butlin’s in October with Penny, but right now I’m anxious. I’ve paid nothing towards the holiday since putting the deposit down, and although it’s not loads, this year has been my hardest financially in history, and I just don’t have a lot of spare cash. I need things to look forward to, and I’ve realised, not only that, but I need familiar things to look forward to. Butlin’s is safe. I know the site like the back of my hand. I know the routines. I even book the same hotel room each time because I love the location and the sea view.

I feel almost bereft not getting there this month. And it’s the being bereft that I’ve gone there previously to distract from. May is the month of mine and Andrew’s wedding anniversary and his birthday. Despite having been told that now I’m married again to Martin, I should put memories of my previous husband behind me. While I have breath in my lungs I will not cease to speak his name, remember our happy times, and honour his existence. I loved him to death and the love with which I reminisce in absolutely no way detracts from the love I share with Martin.

I went to the gym a couple of days ago. I thought getting back into exercise might help my rather squiddly mentals. I hadn’t been for eight weeks, which I felt incredibly guilty about. Although to be fair, I’d had a niggling knee injury all that time, which started unexplainably after my last leg day back in March (just before we went away in the motorhome). Clambering in and out of the motorhome really didn’t help. Neither has being an oestrogen-depleted midlife woman. Soft tissue injuries now take forever to heal, sadly.

So my trip to the gym this week wasn’t disastrous, despite my knee, actually both knees now, still twinging. In fact it felt so good to be back. Then the next day I hurt everywhere and was exhausted to the point of tears. I feel old, and weak and useless. I don’t feel right.

I did finally get my nails done this week. I hadn’t been since January. Gone are the days unfortunately of a manicure every three weeks. Like so many of my self care things it has been hit by austerity! And I’m finding it all a challenge. I’m trying so very hard to hang on to the glimmers, but the struggles with my mental health are constant. Despite doing the right things I still don’t feel right. And I’m not sure I even possess the tools to make things right.

The more I click on interesting articles on the internet about neurodivergence in women, the more I become aware of how many symptoms I have. No, I haven’t heard anything about my assessment yet. I’m guessing it won’t be for a while. It will be interesting to have a definitive answer at some point though. So many times I’ve struggled with not feeling right, being out of sorts, discombobulated, and no one can explain why. I wonder. I don’t know.

I’m missing my parents too. Not unusual when I’m not feeling right. I still wander round like a lost soul, saying, “I want my mum.” But what I actually want is someone to care for me like I’d have wanted my mum to but couldn’t. Actually I want my dad who showed his love and care for me through practical help. And the occasional penguin. What I wouldn’t give for a lunch at Harvester with Dad now. Oh my heart.

I love this day in the calendar. I love seeing women honouring other women. Strong, beautiful, intelligent, inspiring, hardworking, kind, caring women. Especially the female friends and family who uphold not only me, but their own families and wider friendship groups.

Sometimes I struggle to see the importance of my existence. I can’t work. Heaven knows I’ve tried, and every time I’ve ended up mental as anything. Like hospitalised type mental. I live in fear of the DWP forcing me back into that scenario. And I miss working in nursery so much. Little people kept me both young and positive.

I am first and foremost a woman and a wife. Mostly I enjoy wifing, although deciding what to have for dinner every night does my nut. But when you’ve been a wife, mum, carer, employee and volunteer, all at the same time, just wife feels a bit basic. So I try to be the best wife I can. Martin isn’t complaining. I don’t always get it right, but I love him unconditionally and intentionally. I hope he realises by now that my goal is to work with him, not against him.

I did spend years in therapy working on myself; my issues, my failings, my weaknesses, my resilience, my conflict resolution, my communication, my relationship skills, so that by the time I became Wife mk2 I was a much more together version than first time around. And that was not because my doctor put me in therapy. That was because I wanted to be stronger and better able to cope with life, so I’m proud to say I did it for myself.

I’ve raised a man child. Singlehandedly for a number of years. I’m so proud of my boy I can’t even express. I notice when I post on social media that I’m with him, the whole thing blows up. Everyone loves him. Friends who rarely interact with me on my socials come out the woodwork in droves to give ChrisB a like. I know my place. My dream for him was to do better, achieve more, and find greater fulfilment than I ever have and I believe he’s smashing it. If ever a young man has reason to be bitter, it’s him, but to his credit he’s wise, kind, and caring.

I cared for my first husband for twenty years, increasingly until his death. I have organised three funerals and executed three estates. Never bought a house, but sold one. I’ve lost five friends, four way too young. But I discovered my tribe among other young widows. I never cease to be amazed just how much some of us have faced, ongoing have to deal with, and ultimately survive. As if being bereaved of your partner isn’t hideous enough, many face ill health, issues with their children, further loss, financial difficulties, and don’t even start me on the perils of dating again (or not). Very Bridget Jones.

I’m truly humbled when friends tell me I’m strong. Or inspirational. I never feel it. But when someone says they joined a gym because they saw I’d been training, or they chose an act of self care because they’d thought of me, I’m genuinely touched. In a life where I don’t feel I’m capable of the achievements that other people take for granted, those tiny glimmers mean the world.

My cat thinks I’m awesome. I know this because she loves to lay on, next to, or close by to me when I’m in bed and often sits on my lap when I’m lounging on the sofa of an evening. She sometimes wakes me up in the morning with a breathy purr in my ear. She gazes up at me with such adoration. She thinks I’m rocking being a cat mum.

My only other notable achievement currently is prioritising my self care. Those things vary, but include rest, good nutrition, exercise, skincare, beauty treatments, meeting friends, spending time with Martin or Chris, pursuing hobbies, crafting, writing, baking, music and reading. I have mastered the art of relaxation through deep breathing, many years ago, and often find myself repeating the mantra, “Just breathe” or, “Just keep breathing” both to myself and to friends. Slowing down and focusing on your breath really can be effective in an array of situations.

Am I smashing life? Absolutely not! Am I surviving despite a background of loss, trauma and abuse, experiencing chronic pain, bipolar disorder and suspected autistic traits? Hell yeah! As I said to a friend earlier, we’re wives and mamas, being amazing is what we do. As women, we carry our families when the going gets tough. We rarely see it ourselves, because we think we’re not achieving the big, significant stuff, which is why women building up women and International Women’s Day is so important, both at grassroots and globally.

I was involved in a friendly online discussion the other day about symptoms of bipolar that are rarely spoken about; and in particular hypersexuality. One of the ladies stated that menopause had knocked her hypersexuality on the head once and for all. I replied mine continues, despite my menopausal state, and is now just powered by HRT. This statement was received with some amusement, but I do seem to have a bit more oomph again generally, now I’m back in the swing of hormone therapy.

It’s been three months since my GP tentatively agreed to me starting on oestrogen. As I think I’d written previously, the early signs were promising. I’d all but stopped having hot flushes, cold shivers and night sweats. My skin was less dry, and my acne seemed improved. I was experiencing less joint pain. My sleep was better. My hair seemed a little less brittle and fuzzy. And probably most noticeable, I was waking up earlier and with more energy.

However as I was coming to the end of the supply of patches I’d been prescribed, I noticed some of those improvements started to reduce again. I reached out to the menopause support group I’m part of. I’d heard of initial benefits wearing off after a time when potentially a dose-increase is needed, and this was confirmed by the ladies I reached out to. I was also reassured that three months was a suitable timescale to increase the HRT dosage. So I made a telephone appointment with my GP.

He seemed genuinely pleased that I’d had an array of benefits without any of the scary effects on my mental health that I’d experienced previously. He was also really happy to increase my dose.

A week on, I’m pleased to report that some of those original benefits seem to be back, especially my sleep quality. I’m waking up on a morning feeling so much more refreshed. It’s hard to fully judge as I’ve been taking on more of a caring role recently since my husband put his back out, but I feel like my mood and my energy are definitely on the up.

Incidentally, hypersexuality is only supposed to be present in bipolar mania/hypomania. However as the discussion went on the forum recently, for many of us it’s perennial. Something else the experts tend not to mention. Maybe like the lady I chatted with, my crazy sex drive will dissipate when I reach 55. Next year. Or not.