I’ve been thinking about blogging for a week or so now, but I am struggling for words. Therefore I request you forgive me if this turns out to be a chaotic ramble. That’s just how my head is currently.

Please excuse this. Just need to get it out my system. I don’t feel right. I don’t feel right. I don’t feel right. I don’t feel right. I don’t feel right. I don’t feel right. I don’t feel right. I don’t feel right. I don’t feel right.

I don’t feel right.

There’s a good reason why May is the month I have disappeared to Bognor Regis for many years previously. It’s a very personal escape and pilgrimage to get my head into a better place and my toes into the waves. It became apparent last year that Martin didn’t share my enthusiasm and I didn’t rebook for us this year. Also of course, Butlin’s changed the rules which meant I couldn’t even go back alone. And I had no clue how hard I was going to find that when the time actually came.

My Facebook is overloaded with memories of previous trips. Alone, with Chris, and with Martin. I’ve found it heartbreaking. I just want to be there. There have been days when I’ve considered just getting in my car and driving to Bognor for the day; just to have a paddle and drink a cuppa on the seafront. But I haven’t quite managed it. Despite the weather having been gorgeous.

I keep trying to console myself that I’ll get back to Butlin’s in October with Penny, but right now I’m anxious. I’ve paid nothing towards the holiday since putting the deposit down, and although it’s not loads, this year has been my hardest financially in history, and I just don’t have a lot of spare cash. I need things to look forward to, and I’ve realised, not only that, but I need familiar things to look forward to. Butlin’s is safe. I know the site like the back of my hand. I know the routines. I even book the same hotel room each time because I love the location and the sea view.

I feel almost bereft not getting there this month. And it’s the being bereft that I’ve gone there previously to distract from. May is the month of mine and Andrew’s wedding anniversary and his birthday. Despite having been told that now I’m married again to Martin, I should put memories of my previous husband behind me. While I have breath in my lungs I will not cease to speak his name, remember our happy times, and honour his existence. I loved him to death and the love with which I reminisce in absolutely no way detracts from the love I share with Martin.

I went to the gym a couple of days ago. I thought getting back into exercise might help my rather squiddly mentals. I hadn’t been for eight weeks, which I felt incredibly guilty about. Although to be fair, I’d had a niggling knee injury all that time, which started unexplainably after my last leg day back in March (just before we went away in the motorhome). Clambering in and out of the motorhome really didn’t help. Neither has being an oestrogen-depleted midlife woman. Soft tissue injuries now take forever to heal, sadly.

So my trip to the gym this week wasn’t disastrous, despite my knee, actually both knees now, still twinging. In fact it felt so good to be back. Then the next day I hurt everywhere and was exhausted to the point of tears. I feel old, and weak and useless. I don’t feel right.

I did finally get my nails done this week. I hadn’t been since January. Gone are the days unfortunately of a manicure every three weeks. Like so many of my self care things it has been hit by austerity! And I’m finding it all a challenge. I’m trying so very hard to hang on to the glimmers, but the struggles with my mental health are constant. Despite doing the right things I still don’t feel right. And I’m not sure I even possess the tools to make things right.

The more I click on interesting articles on the internet about neurodivergence in women, the more I become aware of how many symptoms I have. No, I haven’t heard anything about my assessment yet. I’m guessing it won’t be for a while. It will be interesting to have a definitive answer at some point though. So many times I’ve struggled with not feeling right, being out of sorts, discombobulated, and no one can explain why. I wonder. I don’t know.

I’m missing my parents too. Not unusual when I’m not feeling right. I still wander round like a lost soul, saying, “I want my mum.” But what I actually want is someone to care for me like I’d have wanted my mum to but couldn’t. Actually I want my dad who showed his love and care for me through practical help. And the occasional penguin. What I wouldn’t give for a lunch at Harvester with Dad now. Oh my heart.