Ok, so maybe not actually everything. Just enough significant things to give me the illusion of everything in my little sphere of influence. Because my sphere has been a bit crazy recently.

Firstly the selling of my father’s home. Once we’d found a buyer, it was all systems go to get the place cleared and get all the paperwork in place. Obviously my brother armed himself with multiple spanners to throw in the works. So much time and energy expended on dealing with his delay tactics. It was utterly wearying. Additionally the essential correspondence going to and fro, by post, email and telephone was seemingly endless. On one occasion I’d overlooked some papers for a couple of days and ended up delivering them by hand to the solicitor’s office to make up a little time.

Finally when the clearance people had been in and the house was empty I went round to do a final check. Nothing prepared me for seeing the place as just a shell. My childhood home, the only house I’d ever known my parents live in, and nearly fifty years of memories reduced to bare rooms. I left swiftly, it was overwhelmingly emotional and the following day I handed over my keys to the estate agents. When I received the call to say we’d completed I just felt the most incredible sense of relief. My brother’s biggest objection throughout had been that he believed Dad wanted him to have and live in the bungalow. That wasn’t what Dad had told me and it also wasn’t in his will. Hence the lengths my brother has gone to to discredit the will, and in particular, me as the executrix.

There have been many accusations thrown around, including my having breast cancer (I don’t), my M3 killing spree where apparently I drove the wrong way down the motorway (I didn’t) and my mental incapacity. Because of the latter, and his insistence I was unfit to be a trustee of the house trust and to execute the will, my solicitor suggested I undertake a mental capacity test to protect myself in the event of him bringing a legal challenge. I agreed it seemed sensible, despite them insisting they had no cause for concern regarding my capacity. I was actually really nervous and wasn’t too sure what to expect. I’m aware bipolar does sometimes affect my memory and my cognitive processes, especially when I’m stressed. However my mental capacity is officially up to scratch. The process was humiliating; this is the test they use in dementia patients. I don’t know who was more awkward, me or the doctor, who apologised profusely for having to put me through the experience. I said I knew it wasn’t his fault. There was only one person responsible and while I may have been embarrassed for an hour, in the long term, who’s the loser? Not me.

I had been aware my mood was quite low at times. I was under enormous pressure with the house, and without so many of my self care measures since the beginning of lockdown I felt like depression was starting to really take hold. I called the duty GP at our surgery and had a bit of a chat with her. I sobbed down the phone how I needed to see my friends, and in fact not just see them, but touch them. I was skin hungry. I needed physical contact with other people. She told me to see my friends. When I enquired about social distancing she told me my mental health was more important. Obviously I wasn’t about to throw a huge party, but I have seen a handful of friends individually, some distanced, some not, for some much needed chat and cuddles.

The other thing I was totally struggling with was missing the man named Dave. Since I’d parted company with him early into lockdown he had blocked me on about every media I could think of and I’d been resigned to the fact I couldn’t contact him. I would receive odd snippets of updates from him via our mutual friend but he seemed to just be getting on with stuff, with no hint he might be missing me. I on the other hand was pining for him. Heartbroken I couldn’t initiate a conversation and sobbing myself to sleep at night. I was making myself ill, but didn’t know how to turn off those intense feels. Then I got a message from our mutual friend saying he was going to be local the following day, staying at his house here overnight. She knew how much I was missing him and she suggested I could drive up to see him.

Initially I was really unsure. I had a vision of him angry, yelling at me and kicking me off his doorstep. I just didn’t know what to do. But I did feel the friendship was worth trying to save, so the feisty, determined part of me took over and I made the decision to pay him a visit. He looked utterly aghast to see me. I very nearly lost the power of speech as I fought back the tears. But I did find some words, and we hugged at the bottom of the stairs, before he invited me in. Sat cuddled up on his sofa it almost felt like we’d never been apart. He seemed so genuinely pleased to see me. And I can report that absolutely none of the spark between us had gone and we may have broken our lockdown intimacy fasts.

I am under no illusions that we can go back to what we were. He moved away and now he’s selling his house here. However my life goes on in Hampshire. I’m saddened, but I do have my friend back, and our dialogue has been reestablished. I achieved my aim that night.

I have something new and different in the pipeline anyhow. More of that another time.

But for now things feel a lot more positive. And manageable. I was told yesterday I looked different, happier. I’ll take that.

Thanks for reading. Big love.