Just for the readers overseas, today in the UK it has been Mothering Sunday. Also the clocks went forward last night to mark the commencement of British Summer Time. Both things seem to have got to me.

I’ve noticed increasingly in recent years that when the clocks change (forward or back) I seem to struggle with more fatigue, more chronic illness symptoms than usual and more general disorientation. I’m fairly sure I have read of other folks with bipolar and other mental health conditions who experience this too. Or maybe I’m just weird.

As far as Mothering Sunday goes; I miss my mum. Despite the time that has elapsed since her death. Despite her having dementia for five years prior to her death and becoming barely recognisable from the woman we knew. Despite me having a really very toxic and difficult relationship with her much of my life. I miss her. I never stopped loving her. And despite her attempts to control the plans for my first wedding, planning my second without her still leaves a bit of a void in my existence. Not as much as my dad, I confess. If I truly admitted how much his not being around for my upcoming nuptials is affecting me, I’d possibly drown in my own tears.

When friends of my age are still struggling with controlling or difficult parents I have such mixed emotions. I know from experience that putting down boundaries is essential, though rarely easy and sometimes messy. I wouldn’t usually advise cutting off an elderly parent completely, life is too short, but contact can be tailored around you. As much as they drive you batty, you’ll miss them when they’re gone. And looking back with good memories always beats bitterness, resentment or regret.

Another jumble of emotions I’ve been dealing with recently surround my own fertility and facing up to menopause. I saw my doctor recently and mentioned that I thought my IUD was due to be replaced this year. I was distraught when she told me that actually it had expired last summer. Even before I met Martin. The first thing she did was send me to the toilet to take a pregnancy test. In that moment, the practicalities of pregnancy in my 50s went out the window. I wanted that line to appear. I never planned to stop having babies after number one. That was a cruel scheme of my late husband. He didn’t want to be intimate with me and he’d decided one child was enough so that suited him just fine. Broke my heart.

So back in the real world, there’s no pregnancy and at some point after my new coil is fitted I will be starting HRT. My fruitful days are over. That feels sad. I mean I was a useless mumma anyway, couldn’t give birth naturally (told I never would or could after the event) and couldn’t even breastfeed. Thank goodness for c-sections and formula milk. Means me and number one son lived to tell the tale.

I know there’s no point on dwelling on it, but I do wish Martin and I had met each other sooner. Eliminated the years of hurt we experienced with previous partners. In many ways I don’t feel like he’s getting the best of me. But then again, all the years I’ve spent in therapy, at least he’s getting the more emotionally literate version.

I can’t wait to be with him full time. I always said I’d make someone a lovely little wife one day. Hopefully this husband will let me blossom into my best self and not try to contain my quirks and creativity. I sense he’s satisfied to love me as I am, just as I love him. And I pray that our fears around being enough for each other will be unfounded.