Having accepted an offer on my father’s property recently, it’s all systems go to get the place cleared now. Obviously as things rarely go smoothly in my life my efforts are being hampered, again, by my brother. I have now sorted through my parent’s many belongings, removed what I, my son and my niece wants and have boxed up the smaller items my brother wants. He has been served notice to collect them or risk having them sold. I fear he’s so busy protesting about this and is wasting valuable time. But I guess that is his lookout.

One of the random items I found in my dad’s desk was a brand new packet of razor blades. Yes, sound your alarm bells! My eyes grew wide as I held them in the palm of my hand and I discreetly stashed them in my handbag. I guess old habits die hard. I carried on sorting through things for another hour or two and when finally done, I tidied up and gathered my things to go home. For some reason I retrieved the razor blades from my bag, and popped them back in the desk with the remaining items there. I walked away feeling proud of myself.

In the middle of the week, I had a call from a mobile number I didn’t recognise. I hesitated before answering it, but as I don’t have the number for every single one of my friends in my contacts, I assumed it was probably a friend rather than a foe. Never assume! It was my brother, having borrowed a phone because I have his usual number blocked for my own sanity. Having a conversation with my him, on this occasion an hour and 20 minutes (after which I hung up because he was becoming increasingly aggressive) is rather like being leached by particularly vicious parasites. I’m drained in every way and my head is totally and utterly scrambled. I was feeling weary to say the least, but I desperately wanted to talk to my solicitor about the verbal onslaught. I managed a semblance of coherence I believe but my sense of achievement was short lived. I received a call shortly after from the top man at the solicitor’s office telling me my brother had phoned him claiming to be speaking on my behalf. Only because he knows they won’t take instruction from him.

And I also discovered he’s talking of contesting the will. Because I’m unfit to be the executrix. This, in very simple terms is because I won’t do what he wants, therefore I must be mental (because he has narcissistic tendencies so his way is not only the right way, but the only way). He is more spiteful according to how much I stand up to him. Apparently my decision to accept an offer on the bungalow is further proof of my madness. Seriously I’m tired of it. But I’m not backing down. I’ll waste a bit more of our inheritance taking a mental capacity test. The irony is not lost on me that he’s the deluded one but he’s forcing me to prove my sanity. He’s complaining how much my solicitor is costing, but it’s down to his objectionable behaviour that we now have four personnel working on our case, including the head man. Interestingly the legal people have no query with my capacity. And I’m guessing two years ago when the mental health team discharged me back into the care of my GP that they were satisfied all was well too. I have bipolar, it’s well stabilised, as a result I live with depression to a varying degree dependant on circumstances. Like lockdown.

Last night I hit my lowest point since the start of lockdown. I stood in my kitchen, messaging a friend, making a cup of tea (because I’m still desperately trying to self-care) and wishing that I hadn’t left those razor blades at the bungalow. I did a scan of the kitchen, clocked the knife block and considered for significant moments whether this is really what I want to do. Instead I picked up my phone and opted for emotional self injury instead of physical. I watched his name and number appear on the screen and I hit call. I left a tense, weepy message for the man named Dave. (Definitely not to be confused with the evil sibling of the same name). Thankfully he hasn’t got back to me.

Today I feel different. Not tickety boo but better than yesterday. No urges to cut up. No suicidal ideation. No desire to contact exes. I need to get through a few more weeks somehow. I’m so grateful for friends in real life who have become online friends and for online friends I hope will become friends in real life when this is over. And I know so many of them have been struggling too, so I say this not only to myself but whoever needs to hear it-don’t give up, keep on keeping on.

Big love 👼🏻