A friend reckons I should write a book of my life. Personally I think it would be far too depressing. That’s what I love about blogging; the reader can dip in and out as they choose. When I’ve read biographies before of people who have been through awful childhoods, or shocking life experiences, they always come good at the end. A wonderful new relationship, a job they adore, a new faith, maybe helping others. I don’t feel like I have a happy ending. I’m still surviving, day on day, coping with bipolar, EUBPD, chronic back pain, mobility difficulties, and loaded with more baggage than Heathrow.

So today I reached 50. And I’d planned to throw the mother of all parties. I knew there was a good chance my dad’s estate would be settled around or before now so I was going to have the almighty celebration my late husband had promised when we organised his 40th. Like the bitterly disappointed little girl whose birthday parties repeatedly seemed to be postponed because of snow I have resigned myself to ‘it will happen when it can’.

And I don’t really know how to describe the first 50 years of my life. Difficult; often, challenging; yes, boring; never! And despite the most horrendous of difficult times, there is much to be thankful for. I genuinely wake up some mornings and wonder how I’m still here. Depression has taken my desire to stay alive on so many occasions, yet here I am. I may just be plodding, just existing sometimes, but I’m here. As I sometimes say, “Can’t get rid of me!”

So in a life, tainted by childhood chaos and abuse, an often unhappy and abusive marriage, loss, pinnacled by widowhood at 37, and followed by losing both parents and four friends, struggling with lone parenting, two complete mental breakdowns and hospitalisation, having to give up my son to the care system, ongoing spinal and mobility difficulties, terrifying spinal surgery, chronic mental illness, victim of a serious sexual assault and so many lesser setbacks over the years, I have, I guess just endeavoured to face each challenge as it presents itself. The mantra, “It is as it is” I have owned in the last few years. It has helped me no end in my emotional struggles.

Flip over the coin and I can show you, for example, my incredible son. Lost his dad at eight years old. Once plagued by his own mental health problems, and put into care, separated from the only person on the planet he knew he could count on. Incredible example of resilience. Now home and thriving in both his jobs. He has today, pulled out all the stops to ensure I have had the best lockdown birthday imaginable. I am so grateful. He sorted decorations, cake, presents, made breakfast for me. I’m so blessed.

I can show you my academic achievements. The only person in my family to leave school with exam passes. My battle to go to sixth form when my mother had decided I shouldn’t. Finally putting a graduation photo on my dad’s mantelpiece in my early forties when I gained my foundation degree.

Hard to believe now, but I had jobs where I made a difference. The privilege of holding the hand of someone taking their final breath. The light bulb moment with a young bipolar patient who suddenly understands the importance of ongoing medication, because no one had taken the time to have that conversation with her. Teaching a preschool child a brand new skill, witnessing their pride as they run to mummy at pick up time, yelling, “Look what I can do!” Knowing you were the one who showed them how. Those precious moments.

There were times in my life when things were not maybe plain sailing, but certainly less difficult. Times when in addition to work I did a little extra. Most notably running a youth group and parent and toddler group, both church based. People, whose lives I crossed paths with then, I consider friends until this day. I feel very honoured to have served them and got to know them as I did. I can not tell you how much preparation, planning and administration goes into running a voluntary group like that. But the rewards were beyond words.

And talking of friends, I owe an immense debt of gratitude to so many who have supported me and kept me going over the years. At risk of failing to remember someone, I just want to say an enormous thank you. I will briefly mention WAY (Widowed and Young), an incredible peer support organisation for those widowed before their 51st birthday. Although I parted company with WAY last year, the friends I made in the 11 or so years I was a member are friends for life. I’m so grateful. It truly was the best thing to be a part of at a very dark time in my life. Thank you friends, both widowed and not.

Well I think from here on in, takeaway, rosé wine, video calling and maybe more birthday cake are the order of the day.

👼🏻