Things have been going downhill for a while. I wish I had something more positive to offer, but right now, life is a challenge. I’m not well, my Bipolar Disorder is pretty unstable again, mostly I’ve been on a downturn, then the last couple of days those crazy hypo thoughts and feelings have been back. Alongside the low and the anxiety. It’s been a veritable smorgasbord of symptoms. Mind you, a lot has happened.

I did get the chance to have a proper handover with my outgoing and incoming Care Coordinators. This helped; being able to say goodbye to Ian properly and feel like there was a passing on of care felt at the time like I had some sort of closure, as opposed to the shocking way in which I was initially told about the changes. However as time has gone on, I have continued to miss the therapeutic relationship I had with Ian. Especially in light of what has happened since, and the support I need. As nice as my new nurse is, I just feel like I’m explaining all the time, and it’s too hard work. When I was first introduced to Ian, we just just clicked. He just seemed to get me and know what I needed. Now I’m constantly being asked what would help. I can’t bring myself to say, “Someone different, someone I trust”.

And right now I need someone I can trust. My counselling at RASAC finished at the beginning of June. By the end of June I had a new reason for needing their services (not that I have pursued this yet). My friend Matt (name still changed, although heaven knows why I still feel the need to protect him) sexually assaulted me. 

We had remained friends within the group of six who met regularly, and we had occasionally also met up at the pub where he drank. On a couple of occasions he came back to mine again, and it was the third night we spent together that he absolutely mashed me up; physically, sexually, emotionally. I was in total shock. We had agreed it would be the last time we would sleep together, as we were both finding the FWB thing difficult, he constantly was sending out mixed messages, and I was falling for him, even though I knew a relationship with him would never work. But I believed he was my friend. I had no reason to believe that I should be able to trust him any less than previously.

I drove him home Friday morning completely shell-shocked and on autopilot. My son was coming to stay the next day for his birthday weekend, we were off to London for the day, then spending until Monday morning together. As I lay in bed on the Friday, wondering how on earth I would find the physical and mental strength to get through, I felt as limp and as battered as a rag doll that had been hurled down the stairs. 

It was on autopilot that I continued throughout the weekend. As I waved my boy off to his first day of work experience on the Monday morning, all I wanted to do was collapse back into bed and hide under the covers. Later when I finally forced myself to face the world, instead of just covering up the obvious bruises, I began to investigate them. Grip marks on my arms, a bite mark on my rib cage, more bruises on my tummy and thighs. I got dressed and drove to my friend’s flat. I absolutely lost it as I told her what he’d done. I asked her to check the back of me – more bruises in various places, and another bite on my butt. No wonder I had been struggling to sit down all weekend. I was still in a lot of pain, and in agony when I peed. By now it was already early evening, but my friend told me I was to stay with her that night and that I was to contact my GP surgery in the morning.

I have a favourite nurse in the surgery who has helped me with lots of things in past, so I asked to speak with her. As I tried to explain, she calmly said she was making me an urgent appointment with the kind, female duty doctor, later that morning, and that she would be there too. It’s a bit of a blur, but all my injuries were logged, and the doctor made the decision to contact the police. Back home in the afternoon, my friend still by my side, two officers from the sexual violence team came to see me. I told them what had happened, still unsure at that point that what I had endured constituted anything more than just rough sex. After speaking to them, I was left in little doubt that they were treating it as a serious sexual assault. Wheels moved quickly, and the next day I was examined by the police doctor, had my injuries photographed and was referred to Independent Sexual Violence Advocacy. By the end of the week I had given my statement, and apart from having my home kitted out like Fort Knox, all had been reasonably quiet. Until last week. The week I was having a few days at the seaside with my boy. Suddenly a call from the police asking for Matt’s contact details, saying that they will contact me again in about a week as they are hoping to get him in for questioning soon. I feel sick every time I think about it. And trust me – I can’t freaking stop thinking about it.

Back from holiday, reality has hit me like a wreaking ball, my bipolar is as messed up as it can be, I have a PIP assessment tomorrow, I have about 50p in the bank until Thursday and I am currently undergoing a change of antidepressant. I have struggled so much the last couple of days, and have tried every conceivable distraction technique I can think of. Even ended up cutting again earlier, as it felt like they only thing I could be in control of. Now I’m just disappointed and cross with myself. But writing has been therapeutic, passed some time and helped me bring some sense out of the chaos that is in my head right now.

If you’ve made it this far, I congratulate you! Thanks for reading. 

Angel hugs 👼🏼