I’m aware I have a few new readers and followers, and I thought it might be interesting to tell my story a little. Genuinely I could write a book, but I don’t want to be held responsible for the depression of my audience. My life hasn’t been easy (whose has?) and I have been known to describe it as a catalogue of disasters. If you look back over my earlier posts you will see more about some of those life events that have shaped the person I am today, if one feels so inclined. But I thought a little overview, just to give a taste of my past and current challenges.

I was born early and sick. I was also my parents’ rainbow baby, the one who came after the baby who died. My mother’s grief was in no way addressed, and added to her ongoing mental health issues, so she struggled. My early memories were of her crying, a lot, and sleeping, even more. I also recall her suicidal ideation, slamming out the house with her car keys and a big brown bottle of pills. As I recall, she never actually overdosed, but she would disappear off for a time, usually returning an hour or two later.

These days I would have been diagnosed with school phobia, severe separation anxiety and probably generalised anxiety too. But back in the 70s we had no choice but to just get on with it. My first few weeks at school were characterised by selective mutism. But in time I settled and found my voice.

I was sexually abused at around age 6 and again by a different perpetrator between the ages of 11-14. As a teen I was torn between quiet and shy and wayward. I think ‘troubled’ probably summed it up best. I also experienced my first tastes of bipolar hypomania. Although it was decades later before that diagnosis came.

I was married at 19 to a man who love-bombed me and made me believe I was the apple of his eye. Sadly the feeling of being cherished barely lasted beyond the wedding and by the following day I was being put firmly in my place. The control and the domestic abuse continued throughout our long marriage. I guess I just couldn’t see it for what it was until I was on the other side.

My first depressive breakdown came when I was 22. I spectacularly dropped out of nursing school. Over the next three years I spent nearly six months in psychiatric hospital. Although it was grim, I actually felt safer there than at home or facing the world at large.

I recovered from my depression in my late twenties and was blessed with my gorgeous boy. Still very much a blessing to this day. Things seemed to be going well. But when my son was three I lifted him out of bed one night to change him, and my back went. Over the next seven years I struggled with chronic back pain, nerve pain and weakness in my legs and mobility difficulties that became increasingly worse.

My husband, who had always suffered poor health, died in 2008. Life as I knew it felt like it had ended. My boy battled horrendous grief and anger, entirely directed at me, as I was safe. My in-laws called me a bad parent because of my son’s anger. The way we were treated for our grief responses was shocking. In time they became estranged.

My back pain continued. I was being bullied in my job (a job I never really wanted, but it worked well around school hours). I was eventually signed off on ill health grounds and I had my back fused in 2010. Again after that, I dared to think I could build a positive new life for myself and my son. A fresh start.

I started working in early years childcare. I loved it. I did my NVQ2 then skipped 3 and went straight into a foundation degree. I was so happy. My work and studies fitted around my son. I loved how the academic work challenged me and I excelled, often receiving the highest mark in the group. Things went well and I signed up to do the top up to BA year. Then disaster struck. In 2013 my mum died. I struggled again with depression and suicidality. My son was diagnosed with depression, anxiety and OCD. I gave up my job to look after him full time. I spectacularly dropped out of uni.

I fought to get my son support for his mental health. It was painfully slow. And limited. I tried to get support for my own mental health. It wasn’t forthcoming. I was desperate. My son was too anxious to sleep and too anxious to be apart from me. He would eventually crash out, but I’d struggle to relax and the sleep deprivation was hitting me.

I ended up putting my son into care once his treatment was in place. I can not state how hard a decision that was but I was in no fit state to care for him. I exaggerated how bad things were to the social workers, because honesty was getting me nowhere. I was branded an unfit parent because of those exaggerations, but my boy was safe and cared for.

When I knew the boy was settled in his first foster placement, I stopped trying to hold myself together anymore. I was sectioned by the police for ‘being mentally disordered in a public place’, which in real terms means I was 10 floors up the multi-storey car park with a desire to go over the wall. I had another stay in psych hospital and it was there I noticed my mood was really erratic. Despite generally being depressed, I was often giggly, talkative and up half the night unable to relax.

I struggled with my mentals for some time then. But I finally received my bipolar 2 diagnosis in 2015. It took a while to find the right meds, but I’m pretty well stabilised now. I was also given an EUBPD diagnosis subsequently.

I was severely sexually assaulted by someone I considered a friend in 2016. This sent me spiralling into suicidal ideation and attempts once more. Particularly after the police said they wouldn’t be pressing charges. The ‘friend’ was part of a group support network of six of us. After the assault I was dropped by the group while he got to stay. Just added insult to injury.

My son was able to come home in 2018, which was joyous. Sadly my dad died the following year which broke my heart. In fact it still does. And the treatment I received from my older brother when he found out I was the executor of dad’s will, and that I had no intention of contesting said will so he would get what he wanted, was unimaginable. It was suggested I pushed dad down his steps and caused his death. It was suggested I wasn’t our dad’s child and had I ever had a paternity test done? It was also suggested I was not mentally sound to undertake the job of executing the will (I had to take a mental capacity test because a legal challenge was being threatened). I was abused by telephone and social media messaging platforms. After blocking him across the board he borrowed someone else’s mobile phone to harass me. He was even verbally abusive to me at the funeral.

Even now I just want my dad.

I feel I should probably address the two years I spent with the man named Dave. The endless parading me around swinging clubs, private homes, cars, forests and car parks for men to use me. And the occasional woman. I can’t say I was forced into anything, but he was exceptionally manipulative. He knew I was in love with him and pretty much would have done anything for him. He loved the power and the mind games. Thankfully I had the sense to get out of that when I did.

The only other thing I really want to mention is my weight and eating issues. During the course of bipolar, when I’m very up, I don’t want to stop and eat. When I’m down, I tend to eat more. I’m a classic comfort eater and will on occasions binge. However, if I get to a point of really severe depression, I lose my appetite completely. I have been known in those times to deliberately starve myself and lie to those close to me about what I’ve eaten. I should stress I’ve never been diagnosed with an eating disorder, but I do consider I have ‘eating issues’. I was told to leave a slimming club once by my GP because I was becoming obsessed.

When I was told last October I was pre diabetic I was sent into a tailspin. I can’t say how much discipline it has taken me to lose weight healthily over the last nine months. One of the reasons the journey has been on my socials is because it increases my accountability, both to eat better and also to not overdo things. I’m aiming to make the journey a positive one.

So, right here, right now, life is surprisingly good. I’m getting married at the end of the year to a wonderful man who treats me really well, and as an equal. I have a great ongoing relationship with my son. I have some amazing friends who know exactly when they need to check in with me. I’m losing weight and toning up at a sensible pace that is hopefully sustainable. I’ve reversed pre diabetes (at least for the time being). My mobility is improving for the weight loss. And I’m feeling good about myself.

Please don’t think I’m looking for sympathy. I was inspired by a little meme I saw, that read, “Do you ever just stop and think, wow, I’ve been through a lot of shit?” My response was a resounding ‘yes’ but I’m in a better place currently than I’ve ever been. I’m not angry, not bitter, I’m just getting on with stuff. This strong, beautiful woman can.

I have a very bad habit. When it comes to my communication skills, I’m not as literate as I’d like to be. I’m very good at putting things into written words, but when it comes to verbalising difficult ideas, or feelings, I’m a bit inept. My previous marriage taught me to not have an opinion, not have a voice. What was the point when I would only be disregarded, or worse ridiculed? I learned to stay quiet. And even now, over 13 years since my husband died, I still struggle to speak up for myself. My default is to just nod, mutely, and absorb my unhappiness over time. Even now, although I know I have as much right as any to have my voice heard and my ideas and opinions considered, I still tend to say nothing. I’m terrified of conflict, and am incapable of arguing. So I sit on my thoughts. Keep everything inside.

Until…

One day, in a heated moment, when I can’t bear to listen anymore to things I’m not totally happy with, or maybe I feel assumptions have been made, or decisions taken on my behalf, suddenly, like a volcano, my thoughts and feelings and words come spewing out, in a storm of passive-aggressive.

This happened recently. It’s always a dangerous scenario, because while I’m rarely angry, I tend to have no filter on what comes out of my mouth. I’m frank when I write, and equally I’m frank in person. My friends say it’s one of the things they love about me, but I can be painfully blunt. I don’t mean to offend, but I admit sometimes speaking my mind can be thoughtless.

I hate upsetting the people I care about. It’s never my intention. But I am incapable of lying and I think, having been silenced and belittled so often in my previous marriage, I now am prone to overcompensating with my truth.

My grown-up son is dealing with a painful breakup currently. We’ve spent a lot of time chatting and I’m astounded at the maturity and the openness that both he and his former girlfriend have shown. There’s been absolutely no malice or recriminations between them, just honest discussion. They have made time to listen to each other’s viewpoints and express both their feelings. I could learn a lot from them; I wish I had the confidence and the skills to not only make myself heard, but to listen without judgement, to negotiate and to reach compromise. Sadly my relationship with my mother growing up, and with my late husband have left me a bit fucked up when it comes to interpersonal relationships. Despite many hours of therapy, when push comes to shove, I still struggle.

I am determined that my upcoming marriage will be better than my previous one in the communication stakes. I know it’s agonising going over things and looking for a resolution. It isn’t easy. But it is the way, that as mature adults, we need to forge ahead. Too many relationships fail because of poor communication and I don’t want that to be us. I love Martin far too much to accept less than top notch discussion and problem solving as a team. In reality, sound relationships are not built in the easy times, it’s when stuff hits the fan that you find your strength. And we both deserve the kind of happiness that comes from surviving tough times and coming through victorious. Together.

I admit, I have recently been a little too excited about sports bras in a way I never have before. And I think it’s fair to say that my socials have reflected that. So what’s the deal?

Those of you who’ve been following my journey for a while now may remember I was planning to have a breast reduction. I had seen a cosmetic surgeon during the pandemic, and had his admin team contacted me when he recommenced surgical procedures as they’d promised, I would probably be considerably smaller now, in the bust department.

I did still have niggling doubts. I was not convinced I wanted to permanently say goodbye to my nipples, both from the aesthetic and the sensory point of view. And I guess that’s why I never chased up the call that never happened.

Then last October I began my weight loss journey in an attempt to dodge type 2 diabetes. When I have lost weight previously, my boobs have always been the last thing to shrink. In fact I would go through a phase in dieting where my tummy, hips and bum would get smaller and I’d be all Dolly Parton-esque for a while until my chest caught up.

It was only when Martin and I had a romantic hotel night for Valentine’s Day and I wore a favourite stunning red basque, that it was pointed out to me that my boobs were somewhat lost in the cups. I hadn’t noticed until that point that they were smaller, but they definitely were.

So this current gym membership is far from my first. I initially embarked on a fitness journey towards the end of the long period of depression in my twenties. And it has been a lifestyle I’ve revisited a number of times over the years. I will be honest though; this is the first time I’ve owned sports bras. And there’s a reason for that.

On the previous occasions I have attended a gym, sports bras for big girls didn’t actually exist. Because my breasts were large I wore reinforced super supportive bras every day, and for exercise just the same. It wasn’t an issue. I did notice a while back that some lingerie companies were starting to introduce larger sizes, but most still stopped short of my 46h (pre weight loss journey). Also when I investigated further, those larger sports bras had underwires (something I struggle to tolerate in everyday life, let alone when I’m working out!) The weight of my huge boobs on underwires nearly rips my rib cage to shreds.

So back in the here and now; attending gym, boobs smaller (not entirely sure if that’s due to weight loss or them losing density thanks to me being old and menopausal), currently wearing a 42f and discovering that sports bras are finally manufactured in my size. Without nasty spiky wires. And to top it all, colourful, funky and fun to wear. What’s not to be excited about? Another first at 51. Get me!

I think I just managed not to cry at the gym Monday. It was still a challenge though. All week, to be honest, my emotions have been a challenge. I just haven’t had my usual strength, and keeping tears in check and dealing with social or administrative conversations have been trickier than usual. I feel better than I did, but I’m still weepy on and off. It’s hard.

One or two people commented to me about the tearful gym photos and sad girl hugging her penguin pics I posted on social media. It is never my intention to seek sympathy. What use is sympathy to anyone? Nor would I delight in, “You ok hun? Message me.” Just makes me cringe. Those who know me well are already in touch on such days. The ones who I really matter to. To be honest, they are probably already concerned for me. So why do I put myself out there when I look and feel so wretched? Very simple. I want others to know that it’s ok not to be ok.

I’m not some picture of perfection social media influencer. I am real, even on my worst days. And as I have bipolar, EUBPD and chronic pain there will always be difficult days. I’m not about painting the world a picture my imaginary perfect life, but am all for honesty, integrity and straight talking. And if someone can identify with, for example, pushing myself out of my comfort zone and into the gym on a tearful day, then amazing. If someone did something equally challenging on a bad day because they saw I did, fantastic. Sometimes days are easy and fun, others are tough. That’s just life. But whether I’m out and achieving stuff, or tucked up in bed having a rest day, I’m me and I’m real and I don’t post stuff that makes me look better just for effect.

I have been told before that I have a tendency to over share. I am aware. Topics of conversations I’ve had this week include; my decreased boob size, boudoir photography, swinging clubs, sports bras, wedding veils and women’s rights to an abortion. For starters. I know I’m quite blatant. Unapologetically so. Apparently I have no filter. I will also admit to dropping the F-bomb too often, but conversationally rather than offensively. If that makes sense.

I guess I believe my contribution is equally important regardless of my mood. I no longer feel the need to make myself less, or more, to please others and fit their box. From here on I’ll just be me, doing me things 😊

I have been finding things really hard going the last few days.

I had planned Friday to do some baking and tidy up a bit, take the rubbish and recycling out. I did none of those things. I was going out in the evening, Martin was picking me up, and we were to have dinner with his daughter and her boyfriend. I admit I had a degree of anxiety about being sociable with people I don’t know well but I was also looking forward to it. So how it took me all day just to get myself up and running and ready, I’m not entirely sure. I was nearly there when Martin arrived, I was just putting some make up on.

We had a really enjoyable evening, conversation flowed easily and the food was good. By the time I got home though, I was absolutely pooped. In fact beyond pooped. I stumbled into bed exhausted. I don’t think I woke until after 10am on Saturday but even then I couldn’t muster up the energy to drag my sorry ass out of bed. With the exception of a couple of trips to the toilet, I didn’t manage to get up until well into the afternoon. I still imagined maybe I could clean up, do the baking or get the rubbish taken out. But it rapidly became apparent that I was going to have to be satisfied with resting again.

I’d opted not to go to Martin’s this weekend because of the things I wanted to get done at home and because he was working long shifts. It made sense to save fuel given the current petrol prices. But by this morning I was starting to climb the walls. My son is currently on holiday so it’s been just me and Ian Penguin, and as much as I adore Ian, he’s not the chattiest. I knew I had to get myself going today. Depression was starting to take hold and I needed an escape from the four walls.

It still took me forever to get ready, but I did eventually manage it. I’d decided I’d try and get a gym session in while it was quiet, give myself a head start on this week’s attendance. I’d been quite tearful earlier, had put it down to missing my dad on Father’s Day, and being generally under the weather, but didn’t expect to full on cry at the gym. Thankfully I think I got away with it. The member of staff on duty didn’t seem to know me, although I think she may have clocked my tears, she mercifully didn’t mention them.

Despite the effort required and the public cry, I managed to plod on through my workout. I was rather relieved by the end to retreat to my car and head home.

Back indoors, I tidied up the kitchen, took the rubbish and recycling out, baked the sponges for two birthday cakes, made myself a healthy, fresh dinner from scratch and washed up. I was still intermittently crying but I’d found the strength I’d been lacking the last couple of days.

When I spoke with Martin this evening he stated that if I hadn’t got out of bed today he’d have driven over after work and dragged me out of bed. Genuinely I can’t promise what kind of reception he’d have got. I live with chronic illness and this week I had overdone it. If I need to stop and rest, that’s just how it goes. I’m my own worst critic, so I’m unlikely to allow myself to be lazy and pointless unless it’s absolutely necessary. Resting up as an essential act of self care never feels particularly easy. And I need to stop with the self judgment. It is as it is.

I’m hopeful that by tomorrow I’ll be all reset and back to (my) normal and I can start getting on with stuff again. That’s the plan anyway.

I’ve been wanting to write this all week, and yet I’ve been procrastinating. I think mainly because I don’t want my dear friend to think I hold her in anyway responsible for my struggles. I truly loved every moment of being with her as her beautiful daughter was married last week. It was a privilege and an honour.

However, my anxiety was off the scale. I didn’t really know anyone outside the immediate wedding party, and obviously they were preoccupied. My friend took time to introduce me to people, but still I was painfully awkward and couldn’t think of a single topic of conversation. I spent considerable time sitting alone, just quietly watching the celebrations, not at all perturbed by my own company. In fact it was a relief to be able to stop trying so hard. And still failing.

Things, from my point of view were also exacerbated by the fact I knew my fiancé was in a bad mood, and obviously I believed this must be my fault. (A particularly destructive throwback to a marriage where I was constantly blamed for everything imaginable). My other half was due to be joining me for the evening reception, something I was desperately looking forward to, so I wouldn’t have to isolate myself or attempt more awkward small talk with people I didn’t know.

I felt that having made my best effort (it honestly was) to be sociable, I was absolutely exhausted emotionally and just wanted my big man to give me a huge bear hug and tell me everything was going to be ok now.

The evening was really very enjoyable. I was even briefly enticed onto the dance floor, but as I have made no secret previously, come 11pm, I am liable to turn into a pumpkin. My brains turn to mush and my cognitive processing rapidly evaporates. So we headed off to our room a little before the end of the celebrations and despite being in a new place, I slept reasonably well.

We were up fairly early for breakfast, which was delicious, and we exchanged pleasantries with other wedding guests, as well as catching up with my lovely friend before heading back to Martin’s for the weekend.

I didn’t realise he’d invited his friend to join him for the weekend too. And that’s absolutely not a problem. Normally. I didn’t even foresee it being a problem this time. But I didn’t fully realise at that point how much the wedding had taken out of me. It was only at dinner time when faced with a stressed fiancé with hands full of hot plates of food, while I just stared at him blankly, that I began to realise that not all was well. My brain refused to process what the heck I was supposed to do. I could hear the frustrated tones of Martin, and all that happened was my eyes prickled with tears and I started to hyperventilate. He must have put the food somewhere because he came to me and told me to stand up. I actually didn’t know if I could. I had jelly legs and my head was swimming. He held me to him.

Usually I can manage my anxiety through controlled breathing, but this big, overwhelming panic attack absolutely caught me out. I was emotionally exhausted and unable to do a damn thing. And all in front of Martin’s friend who has no real understanding of the varied ways my mental illness affects me. I felt like an absolute freak show.

I’ve never been diagnosed with anxiety. Is it part of my bipolar? My EUBPD? A throwback to past trauma? Probably all the above. And as I’ve mentioned previously I’m not entirely convinced I don’t have undiagnosed ASD traits. It would account for the social awkwardness, the hit and miss cognitive processing, being prone to sensory overload, the need for structure and routine. Oh and anxiety.

So reflecting on these events, I have a lingering niggle. Am I going to be able to cope, emotionally, at my own wedding at the end of the year? There’s no doubt it is going to be a very long and full-on occasion. I am mad excited for it, but I have put it to Martin that likely I will need to just rest and recoup for however long after. Literally bed rest if necessary.

I forget sometimes that a year ago, I hadn’t even met Martin. Despite not being able to imagine now a time that we weren’t a part of each other. We’re still learning each other’s little idiosyncrasies. It takes time. But there’s no one else I’d rather be with. And talking of people I can’t be without; the lovely friend, aforementioned, with the newly married daughter, is to be my best lady on my wedding day. Hand-picked for her ability to keep me calm in any given situation. My awesome son is giving me away. So I know I have the finest team around me, and ultimately I will just have to deal with each challenge as they present themselves. And be patient with myself.

👼🏻

If you’ve known me personally for a while, you’ll know this isn’t a first. I was introduced to the benefits of exercise for mental health as far back as my first breakdown in my twenties. However this time it has surprised even me. Although I have had periods of gym attendance since, mainly alongside dieting, it has been with varying degrees of commitment and success. Before my spinal op I could barely walk, let alone work out. After I was considerably more mobile, until my bipolar diagnosis and the meds that went with it. In my late 40’s I was heavier than I’d ever been. Piling weight on caused considerable pain again. I struggled to bend, to walk, to carry things.

I did attempt to start exercising again, but I had so much back pain and so little willpower. For me, success in the gym was generally associated with having a gym instructor who would work with me in a personal training capacity, but without the cost. Going to the local council leisure centre on a health referral this would sometimes happen and I knew how lucky I was. Without that additional support, I’d struggle after a while. I think the last time I signed up for gym membership was in 2016. Sadly not for very long.

As I’ve written previously, I’ve been on a weight loss journey since last October. My initial intention was to change my eating habits as I’d been identified as borderline for type 2 diabetes. But I was also taking advice from my son, who has been both losing weight and getting physically fit. While I’m not seeing results on a par with his, I am gradually reducing my weight and have reversed my pre diabetic state. But the boy continues to be my inspiration. And source of all kinds of diet and fitness advice.

I guess I was feeling a little stuck, and getting a little discouraged. I added a food diary app on my phone so I could keep better track of my intake. Since my son had been asked to join the staff team at the local gym where he trains, we’d talked often about me going for a visit and potentially signing up. He’d told me about a couple of promotions that were being run, and I admit the offer of free stuff piqued my interest sufficiently to ask him to accompany me on a visit last week.

And I must say, as an obese fifty-something with body confidence issues and horrendous social anxiety, a small, private gym was way outside my comfort zone. I didn’t notice it so much when I was with my son, but going back alone yesterday was challenging, even though he was on duty, and all the staff are friendly. Everyone looks very young and fit compared to me. But I guess we all have our own issues and reasons for being there.

I think in some ways, knowing I won’t have a fitness instructor constantly holding my hand is forcing me to take responsibility for myself. For my own progress. Of course there’s always someone around if I need help, and I can pick the brains of the boy at home if I need to. But it feels like quite a different experience for me, much more proactive and in my control. Maybe that will spur me on to stick at it.

I think I’m in the right place. I’m able to reduce my calorie intake without obsessing and making myself ill. I’m undertaking sensible exercise for someone of my age, fitness and (dis)ability and utilising the support available. So I’ll see.

Gosh. I’m experiencing one of my adventures in overwhelm currently. Never a good ride. Today encapsulated the most despondent I’ve been in the wedding planning journey to date and I’m trying not only to process it all, but to decide what my next course of action should be.

Today was the day I’d made appointments at the suit shop for Martin and the Manchild to be measured for custom made wedding suits. Even coordinating an appointment day around one’s weird shifts and the other’s two jobs had been a challenge. This appointment was booked weeks ago. So I was seriously unimpressed when the young woman in the shop seemed not to be expecting us and told us we’d have to wait as they were busy and behind schedule.

Although her attitude stank, I remained polite and we hovered awkwardly while she attended her customer in the fitting room. To be fair she wasn’t ages, but we were getting increasingly stressed. The Manchild was visibly unhappy about wasting his afternoon. Martin was simmering away – like a volcano readying itself for full on eruption. And then there was me. Already rattled by the saleswoman’s brusque attitude, anxious, socially awkward, and well and truly out of my depth.

Finally she gave us her undivided attention. Firing question after question at me about what I wanted. It wasn’t at all how I expected a consultation to be. I thought we would be guided through the process step by step. She dropped the bombshell that they wouldn’t be able to order Martin’s suit as she had nothing in store large enough for him to try on as a baseline.

I was cringing at this point, because I know how sensitive he is about his weight. The woman left me with a shedload of fabric swatches, although I already knew what fabric I wanted. I was in the process of picking out a lining, but Martin and I were not agreeing and I struggled when he basically said I should just tell him what he was having, as that’s definitely not my style. The woman disappeared again for so long, and I was so agitated by this time, I actually asked the guys if we could just walk out. We didn’t, but when on her return she asked me a second time if we would be making the purchases today, I’m afraid we did tell her we were going. What would be the point of committing to a suit for the boy, when we’d had no assurances that it would be possible to supply a suit in Martin’s size too?

We sent the Manchild on his way and I apologised for wasting his time. Although it wasn’t my fault, I felt responsible, and the next time we have to do this all again from scratch, that is what he’ll remember and will probably be even less enthusiastic about the whole affair.

Martin and I wandered to another gentleman’s outfitters, as we were already in the town. We were warmly greeted by an old school sales consultant, quite possibly the store manager. Although he wasn’t able to help us, his customer service skills at least restored my faith a little, and he suggested a couple of other places we could try.

We walked back to the car in sullen silence. How could ordering made-to-measure suits have gone so wrong? I thought I was desolate when we were struggling to negotiate what we wanted from our wedding venue, but today was an all time low. This had rocked Martin’s already fragile self confidence and I hated not knowing the best thing to say, or even what to suggest as a solution going forward. I felt impotent and also as a empath, I took on board some of the hurt he was experiencing.

Very differently to when I was married before, this time around, I, as a plus size bride, was able to walk into a shop, and have my pick of a selection of beautiful gowns. Even if I’d been significantly larger than I am, that still would have been the reality. So how is it, that larger sized guys can’t walk into a shop, seeking a wedding suit, be treated with dignity, and be able to buy what they desire? I was willing to buy ‘to order’ because I appreciate the shop don’t stock Martin’s size, but I have no desire to spend my money in that particular store. Possibly not the company as a whole.

It really didn’t help that there was a customer in the shop while we were there who was collecting an item for a wedding tomorrow (he told us he was the best man) that had been missed from his original order, and when he tried it on, it had been ordered in the wrong size. He told us in no uncertain terms we shouldn’t shop there, the service had been shocking. Hope he found a shirt in time.

I guess with the time of year, between my wedding anniversary and my late husband’s birthday, I’m probably feeling even more emotional than usual. The tears are randomly falling. I keep thinking I’ve upset Martin and he keeps thinking he’s upset me. But in reality we’re just upset. Today was soul destroying.

But I guess tomorrow’s another day.

Pride, they say, is a sin. And not just a sin in fact, but a deadly one to boot. As someone who spent over thirty years of my life attending a very fundamental church, I’m much more familiar with shame than pride. The mentality of my ‘good works being like filthy rags’ before God is deeply ingrained, that is, nothing I can ever do will measure up or make me good enough. And for someone who experiences depression, it just reinforces what I’ve known all along; I’m rubbish.

Feeling proud of my achievements doesn’t, in any way come naturally to me. I feel awkward in the limelight. I struggle to receive a compliment, let alone praise. Thanks to a marriage where I was regularly undermined and belittled, feelings of pride in myself and my accomplishments were actively discouraged. My late husband really didn’t like people giving me attention, and if anyone did manage to slip through the net and say positive things to me, he would be sure to come behind them and whisper his criticisms to counteract their kindnesses. I don’t think I’m speaking out of turn here when I say his disability/terminal illness earned him a lot of fuss and that’s how he liked it. Woe betide if I should take away from his need for attention.

I wasn’t aware until now, how bad I still am at feeling a healthy sense of pride in an achievement. I’ve been reluctant to talk too much about my weight loss journey, as I get that’s a subject that’s sensitive for some. But I did share last October that a routine blood test had showed significantly raised glucose levels, such as to take me into the pre diabetic category. To say I was gutted was an understatement. Both my mother and paternal grandmother had type 2 diabetes and I was worried that with a strong genetic link, anything I did to change my diet or lifestyle would probably just be too little too late.

I struggled with the online course I was sent on, one or two of the older gents really did like the sound of their own voices a bit too much. I rarely seemed to get a chance to have any input. In the end I was only attending so that it wouldn’t be fed back to my GP that I didn’t bother. But I have now missed the last two sessions, not deliberately, just through circumstances, and I’m not sure if there are further sessions, as we were only given three session dates at a time at the end of the previous three. I think it is fair to say I didn’t learn a lot. I have known about the eatwell plate since I was at secondary school. I took assorted courses on nutrition when I worked in school catering. I was considered the food hygiene guru when I worked in nursery school! I’m always open minded to learn new things, but when it came to making lifestyle changes, I relied more on my 21 year old son than the specific NHS pre diabetes course. My son, I should add, is on his own fitness journey; has lost 50kg and has recently started work as a fitness instructor after being head hunted by the gym where he trains.

A while back I had cause to see my new GP and I asked her, in light of the diet and lifestyle changes I’d made, could I possibly have my glucose levels (HbA1c) checked again when I next had a routine lithium blood test? I was curious to know if what I was doing was actually helping. She agreed that would make sense, so when my bloods were done recently the sugars were included. I looked online last night to see if the results were back, and genuinely I nearly fell off my chair! My HbA1c reading has gone down from 44 to 33. Normal range is 0-41. I had to see my GP again this morning and I asked her about it, just to make sure. She was seriously impressed. Told me well done and to continue doing what I’m doing. And the best bit, she said I had completely reversed my pre diabetes.

Am I over the moon? Hell yeah! Yes I have changed my diet, but I worked hard at keeping my intake realistic, in that, I knew if I cut out all treats I would just end up feeling deprived and I’d probably end up pigging out ridiculously. A lot of my changes involved making healthier swaps and cutting things down. When people have commented on my weight loss I have used the phrase, ‘eating less and eating smarter’ and that’s pretty much it.

So right now, in addition to feeling happy, I’m kind of trying to embrace feeling proud of myself. It doesn’t sit well with me. Yet in this instance, as my son pointed out when I thanked him for his support, I did this all myself. No one could make those changes for me. In terms of my weight loss journey, I still have a long way to go. I’d lost my way a bit before my holiday last week, but I’m back on it now. And in terms of keeping type 2 diabetes at bay, well that will be ongoing, but at least I have an idea that what I’m doing is beneficial. And it feels worth the effort now I’ve seen a tangible test result.

I think I’ll risk the consequences of that deadly sin. I’ve worked hard over the last seven months to get to where I am now. I think I deserve to feel proud. At least for the moment.