Blog! It’s become a bit of a tradition. I think the last time I was here I churned out four or five posts. This time around I’m a little less creative I guess. Or maybe I’m just really enjoying being in the company of my person. Because for the first time in 14 years I’m actually holidaying with a partner; not a child, a parent, or a friend, and it feels absolutely awesome.

I’m integrating my usual leisure activities into our week. I am after all a creature of habit, and find it hard to adjust to too much change. So we’ve been to the spa (I fear much to Martin’s dismay!) we had a wander along the seafront, and now I’m blogging. And drinking tea, obviously. We’ve been to some of the evening entertainment that I’ve not had the confidence to go to alone. One show I’ve finally seen after bottling it the last twice I’ve been here.

As my life progresses I do wonder if some of my quirks are in fact autistic traits. Dislike change, socially awkward, struggle to process sometimes, always anxious, getting overwhelmed in busy or noisy environments and flapping/tapping. Given we always laughed about my dad’s rigid routines and my son’s girlfriend (who’s undertaking medical training currently) reckons the boy’s on the spectrum (as in fact she is) I think I may be the missing link. Maybe.

When I was last here in October I missed Martin ridiculously. But coming here has become so much a part of my life I couldn’t imagine not booking to come back again before I left. And when I said that to him, he said to book for both of us. So I did, but I really didn’t believe he’d come with me. But he absolutely has. True to his word. He’s here, in all his Hawaiian shirted glory. I knew he’d lived in Bognor (and it wasn’t a great experience) and I knew he’d been to Butlin’s previously with his ex wife. And then there’s his menagerie, so I expected him to bail to be honest.

He’s done the driving, which he knows I find stressful. He’s held on tightly to my hand in crowded venues and stroked my fingers and reassured me when he’s sensed my anxiety. In short, he’s been a dream. In stark contrast to my late husband, who would force me into situations I found particularly stressful (rather than do stuff himself) or publicly yell at me for some minor transgression. There have been occasions when I’ve been waiting for Martin to kick off at me, because that’s what Andrew would’ve done, and he just gives me a quizzical look, trying to work out why I’m filled with anxious anticipation. It’s a learning curve. For us both. But as it’s our first holiday together, I guess it’s to be expected. Sometimes I forget how our relationship is really still in its infancy, because most times I feel like we have been a part of each other forever.

It’s an absolute dream to see Martin as relaxed as he is. Even before the train crash last October, he was rarely this chilled. I feel like I’ve done a good thing bringing him on holiday, even if it’s not a sunnier, more exotic location. At the end of the day, we are relaxed, we’re enjoying each other’s company and the sea air is working its magic. I love how playful, silly even, I can be with Martin. I never get told to be more normal these days. I can embrace my quirks. Even when I’m hopelessly ditsy I’m not ridiculed. Just humoured. Since being with him, I don’t feel inherently stupid, like I have for most of my adult life. I love him beyond words, he’s genuinely changed my life for the better.

Life, as we know, is not one long holiday. Not even for me who isn’t employed. It constantly presents us new challenges. But life is so much better when faced with the person you love. Things are not so scary when Martin is holding my hand. I am 100% a better person for being allowed to be myself. And sunny Bognor will always be part of my journey. Our journey

I’m sure I’m not the only person diagnosed with a personality disorder who feels not only defective in some way, but inadequate. Like I’m just not quite good enough. Not up to scratch. It’s not a nice feeling.

It was such an easy diagnosis to acquire. In fact I’m not even sure at what point it was added to my bipolar diagnosis, or even by which psychiatrist. I just, at some point, had people telling me I had EUBPD (also known as EUPD and BPD). To be fair, previous to that I was told I had Histrionic Personality Disorder, which I did dispute, as the symptoms didn’t actually fit. One mental health nurse said to me that if I tried to prove I didn’t have HPD I would be actually proving I did, because those kind of behaviours are typical of people with the disorder. I told him that in case case I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t, so I would continue fighting. The label was removed, but replaced with the EUBPD one instead. Unfortunately it’s no less stigmatising.

And it’s not an easy label to shake off once you’ve got it. So many people who experienced traumatic or abusive childhoods are diagnosed with it. It seems to be a post trauma response, but unlike those who are diagnosed with PTSD who tend to be offered help and treated with compassion, those with EUBPD tend to be shunned, branded as attention seeking and manipulative, even by professionals in mental health. Rarely does anyone recover from EUBPD it seems.

The classic treatment for EUBPD is Dialectical Behaviour Therapy. I have to say, for me, the principles of DBT have been revolutionary. I am so much better equipped to deal with my big emotions, and to manage my mental health generally. I’m in a better place mentally than I’ve been for a while. But sometimes we all need a little extra support, right? Not because I’m unwell mentally, but because I have some big life changes going on and I would benefit from talking things through with a neutral person.

So I did what I have always done at these times and contacted a local counselling organisation. In fact the same people who have offered me counselling before, with successful results. I had an initial assessment via Zoom and was told I would be added to a waiting list. And then I received a call this week from the head of counselling to inform me they were not able to help me. And the reason? My EUBPD diagnosis.

I was told in a rather patronising tone that people with BPD don’t benefit from regular talking therapy and need something specialised called DBT. I said I was aware of that, and had received it in the past, but as it was not my EUBPD symptoms I needed help with, and that regular talking therapy is just what I need to talk through feelings about my new relationship and upcoming wedding. I also pointed out that on two previous occasions my EUBPD diagnosis had not been a hindrance to them offering me counselling, but frankly, the woman was adamant.

She was astounded that I’d even heard of DBT, let alone been offered it. In her naivety she asked if the mental health team could offer me more support. I laughed. I told her I’d been discharged from their care a number of years ago and I was far too well to qualify for their help currently. As politely as I could I told her that even during the lockdowns when my mental health had really suffered, and I’d been experiencing suicidal ideation, I had been ‘ reassured’ that I was fine and declined any intervention.

In short, I’m too mental for the local counselling services, and not mental enough for psychiatric care. I was advised to obtain private counselling, which I’m really not sure is sustainable.

I feel rubbish. Inadequate. Beyond help unless I can pay for it, and I’m not confident I can. I once had an excellent counsellor and I expressed to him how I’d had lots of talking therapy in the past, and how it has helped to know that once a week I can just offload all the stuff in my head. I said I cope better with life when I’m able to do that. He said there are some people who would benefit from perpetually being in therapy, and he thought I was probably one of those people. Sadly no provision exists for us. Not attention seeking, but traumatised by life.

I’ve said this before but my life is very limited. I can’t work. My mobility isn’t great. I struggle to get out of bed some days. My anxiety is shocking. My memory is poor. My processing is rubbish. I find it hard to keep up with my admin. Money management is haphazard. Making a call is scary. But, I am, of sorts, doing ok. I’m doing pretty well. Which is why this woman’s attitude is hard to stomach.

Don’t make me feel like I’m too mental to be helped. It’s unfairly stigmatising. I know how hard I’m fighting to remain as stabilised as I currently am and I don’t appreciate feeling a failure for daring to ask for a little extra support.

March 30th; World Bipolar Day, in honour of Vincent van Gogh’s birthday. Renowned, but troubled Dutch painter, diagnosed posthumously with the disorder. An artistic genius, identified as little more than a madman while alive. Maybe someone will stumble upon my writings after my death and brand me a literary genius. Most probably not.

Growing up with undiagnosed bipolar was a challenge. My tutor at secondary school described me in my report as, “Experiencing more ups and downs than her peers.” Too right. With hindsight I had my first hypomanic phase at around 14 or 15. And before that I was very depressed, but that was unsurprising given I was being viciously bullied at school and sexually abused by my mother’s bloke.

I took my maths ‘O’ Level exam at the end of my fourth year (now known as year 10). I remember silently humming a song on a loop in my head that I’d learned at church, throughout the whole process. Somehow I passed the exam, I was considered bright, but my brain was in overdrive that day.

I was first identified as having mental health issues in my twenties, but was only ever diagnosed with depression at that time. I was a student mental health nurse when I spectacularly broke down. The charge nurse who headed up the ward where I was on placement said to me, “I don’t know what to make of you, one minute you’re bouncing off the walls, the next you’re depressed as anything!” For someone running an acute psychiatric ward, I think he missed a trick there. There was definitely more to my mood disorder than straight depression, but my psychiatrist at the time was adamant I didn’t go high. My GP knew it, he’d seen it, but I used to taunt him saying, “You calling me manic? My shrink says I don’t go high!” Poor man.

I had, I think four voluntary hospital admissions in my twenties. The memories are hazy. I was chemically coshed for my own safety. I also was prescribed antidepressants that are contraindicated in bipolar, making me worse. But I always found friendship amongst the other patients. In the real world I felt different. In mental health circles I fitted in.

I had a couple more spells of mild hypomania in the subsequent years, but it was a quiet period for me on the whole. No medication for 14 years. I had my son (and despite many women with bipolar apparently experiencing mania/hypomania postnatally) I stayed well.

I still stayed reasonably well when my late husband died. Some people felt it necessary to point out they thought I was depressed, but I was surviving. Loss is never easy. Single parenting isn’t easy. Lone parenting a grieving child while trying to deal with your own emotions is nothing short of hell. But I hung in there, still medication free.

It was only when my own mother died that the floodgates of the last five years of living with grief and being strong burst open, and life was irreparable. To be honest, it hasn’t been the same since.

I received my diagnosis of Bipolar 2 in 2015 at the age of 44. The year previous I was picked up by the police from a tall building and taken to hospital; sectioned under the mental health act. Section 136 pertains to being mentally disordered in a public place. For me that equated to being suicidal on the tenth floor of the car park. The approved social worker who assessed me wanted to send me home. I begged them to let me stay in the hospital for a while until I felt safer. Reluctantly they relented but it was made very obvious they disapproved highly of my request. They didn’t understand me. It seems I don’t fit the mould for a psych patient; even when acutely ill I have insight and intelligence intact, which leads people to the conclusion I must be fine.

Even after another couple of weeks as an inpatient, no one picked up on the fact that I was both up and down in mood during my stay. I was wide awake until 3am every night, agitated, feeling like a caged animal in my room, because I couldn’t pace the corridors at night like I did in the day, for fear of disturbing others.

When finally I was diagnosed with bipolar, the first mood stabiliser I took was horrible. I felt empty and nauseous much of the time. If I ate, I felt better, but consequently piled on so much weight. People with bipolar are more susceptible to type 2 diabetes, heart disease, stroke and circulatory problems. Mainly because the medications used in bipolar cause weight gain or hunger. In an attempt to keep brain chemistry in order, physical body has to suffer. The straw that broke the camel’s back with that first medication though was the bed wetting. It was unworkable for me. I genuinely felt I had enough to deal with.

I subsequently made the difficult decision to start taking lithium to stabilise my mood, but despite not being a particularly nice drug, it has been reasonably painless for me. I can live with the three-monthly blood tests, the taking it the same time each day (mostly) and staying well hydrated. Generally keeping my alcohol intake low. And going to bed by 11pm (usually). The bedtime thing is down to the illness rather than the meds actually. Additionally I did thorough mood tracking at the beginning, but the lithium generally keeps me at a level, and I’m more than familiar with what signs and symptoms to be aware of now.

The level lithium keeps me at is, at least in my mind, questionable. I am living with a low-key depression all the time. More exhaustion and lack of motivation than actual low mood. But I also take a very low dose of antipsychotic medication at bedtime, just to still my mind and help me settle. So that could be responsible for my weariness. Or the chronic pain I live with. Or the effects of living with serious mental illness. Who knows?

I know I can’t work anymore. Again, probably a combination of the aforementioned factors, but I do feel like since the bipolar diagnosis, life has been very compromised. I miss my work in the nursery, but realistically who wants a nutter caring for their precious preschooler? I’d have thought twice in my previous ignorance. There’s more misunderstanding and stigma still around mental illness than I think people care to admit.

We’re accustomed to seeing bipolar celebrities like Britney, Kanye, and Kerry Katona having very public meltdowns. At some point, these crises are likely to happen in the life of any person with bipolar, we’re just not so obviously recognised. Staying medicated helps, but it’s not foolproof. Trying to live a healthy lifestyle helps. But healthy choices and depression don’t tend to sit well together. It’s a challenge.

So what do I have to look forward to as a middle aged woman with bipolar disorder? Well, apparently bipolar can become less stable and more symptomatic as we get older. Oh joy. And then there’s the life expectancy thing. For years the statistic went that the average life expectancy of someone with bipolar was 59. I’m already 51. Currently, the statistics seem to suggest a life expectancy of 9-20 years less than average. For a UK woman that gives me 61-72 years. Okay. I should probably be living life to the full right now. If only I had the energy…

Sometimes, when I tell Martin I love him, he asks me why. I always find this hard, because it appears to me it comes from a place of insecurity. I worry that if I don’t give a good, convincing answer, he may argue with me, stating the reasons he feels undeserving of my love. I also panic, because sometimes in the spur of the moment, my mind goes completely blank. Which is much more down to my cognitive processing issues than my not actually having an answer for him.

I remain patient and kind at these times, because I oftentimes feel unworthy of his affection too, and it is his grace and understanding I seek in those fragile moments. Because we are similar in our insecurities it is in reality not the other’s love we doubt, but our own worthiness of that love. We’ve both been damaged by lovers who came before, who talked a good talk, but didn’t walk the walk. If you catch my drift. Let’s just say they had their own agendas, and folks like that eat kind, people-pleasers like Martin and I for breakfast. We’re kindred spirits.

Anyhow, enough of the rookie psychology for now. Why do I love Martin? Well as stated above, his desire to please is outstanding. He would do anything for me. That is an absolute and I know it with all my heart. He would genuinely do anything in his power to put a smile on my face. When I’m struggling with depression it breaks my heart to see him concerned that he’s done something wrong. Or not done something. I tell him over and over that bipolar depression doesn’t have to be logical, so many times it just is. Yet still he’ll drive me to the beach to clear my head, or to the cake shop to comfort eat. Never once has he criticised me when I reward his efforts by continuing to be depressed after a trip out. He’s never moaned about wasted money because I’m still ‘miserable’ despite his best efforts.

Having mentioned cake, I feel I should elaborate a little on our shared love of cake and our infamous cake dates. Martin’s ability to eat cake and drink coffee is only matched by my ability to eat cake and drink tea. If one of us had loved cake and the other had been a healthy eating freak, cake dates probably wouldn’t have been a thing. We both have our reasons for needing to eat healthier in reality, but also both recognise that life without cake is like summer without sunshine. Cake is good. It’s kind of our thing.

I love that I can have an informed conversation with Martin. He doesn’t belittle my views. We laugh together but he never makes me the butt of his jokes or shows me up in front of others. He’s kind to me, caring, protective without being controlling. He brings me a cup of tea in bed every single morning. He humours my love of pink, and penguins and has even shared his bed with me and Ian Penguin.

He loves to squish me, which I’m never sure if it’s designed to be a treat or a punishment, but I love it. Being close with Martin, holding hands, sharing cuddles, kisses, intimacy, is just the best. He’s the best. Because I know he loves me unconditionally and that makes the physical stuff even better than ever. We’re both open minded about these things, and that again just makes things easier. And we both are very tactile in non sexual ways too, and that’s great. Again both have previously been in relationships that were more hands-off and I know I for one hated that.

Why else do I love Martin? He is my person. He’s wonderfully imperfect, yet perfect for me. He’s generous in spirit, a man who seeks to make others happy. Compared to me he’s much more outgoing and gregarious. If I’m feeling shy or quiet in company he’ll cover my back, all the while gently trying to ease me out of my shell, but never forcing the issue. I love when we’re all dressed up and out for dinner. I am still undone when I think of my birthday and the proposal cupcakes and the perfect engagement ring. Definitely one of the happiest moments of my life. I can not state this emphatically enough; I can’t wait to be Mrs M and wake up next to my lovely husband. Every. Single. Day. For the rest of our lives. Why do I love Martin? No man has ever made me happier. I’m a better person for his love. He’s my soulmate. My friend. My lover. We just fit.

And maybe just because…

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.

I met with our wedding florist at the weekend. It was one of the few things I felt brave enough to organise on my own. I appreciate that sounds a tad pathetic, and I do my best to be the smart, independent woman I know I can be, but my anxiety is pretty high these days. Any new situations, meeting new people, and making decisions can be torturous. But at the end of the day, I’m the bride, I know exactly what I have in mind, the colours and the styles, so I bit the bullet.

I must say the two ladies I met were lovely. I didn’t even panic when the little dog decided my ankles needed kisses. The iron staircase was daunting but I took it slowly. And once in their workshop office I was given a cuppa and was a lot more at ease. They are already contracted to our venue to provide the table centrepieces so it made sense from my point of view for them to supply my bouquet, Penny’s posy and the buttonholes and corsages for the bridal party. We talked through styles, I showed them my board on Pinterest I’d created and photos of my mum’s vintage 60s bouquet for an idea of what I envisage.

We discussed the colour scheme, chatted through different flower options and addressed my love of all things sparkly. I felt we were on the same wavelength. They showed me roses of different shades, and various other blooms (don’t ask me the names!) and foliage that would work well together. I took a couple of photos, just to have a visual record of some of the things we discussed.

I left it that they would email a quote through to me and that we would meet again in the autumn to talk specifics. I felt quite accomplished and was eager to share my adventures with Martin when I saw him afterwards. I’m rather enjoying this wedding lark!

Anyone who remembers my post from the beginning of last year entitled, “Here’s one I made earlier” will probably be familiar with the story of making my wedding dress when I was married first time around. It wasn’t a happy tale. It was a catalogue of decisions made on my behalf, a smattering of emotional blackmail, and a few incidences of fat shaming sales assistants in bridal shops. The resulting dress felt second rate, mainly because I was no seamstress and it was in no way something I had chosen. I forced myself to feel proud on the day, because I had, against the odds, produced a bridal gown from scratch, but it was never a dress I’d seen, tried on and fallen in love with.

I’ve had a little obsession in recent years with television programmes like Say Yes to the Dress, Curvy Brides Boutique and even Don’t tell the Bride. I was fascinated by the moment a bride stepped out in front of the mirror in ‘the one’. I loved to see her face light up. Her entourage coo their approval.

I’ve made no secret of wanting to get married again. I have said, I want the chance to have a better wedding day (that is, what I really want) and to do better at marriage itself. I was way too young and naive the first time and ended up manipulated and abused.

I met Martin at the point of his second divorce finalising. I honestly didn’t expect him to want to revisit marriage. But here we are. Planning our wedding for December. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say we’re both happier in this relationship than we’ve been previously. We just fit.

When it came to considering dress shopping, I was honestly pretty overwhelmed. I didn’t know where to start. First I ordered a simple, very reasonably priced gown online. It wasn’t amazing, but it did fit. I consoled myself that if I couldn’t find anything else, it would do. Then I started a conversation with a company that made vintage style wedding dresses. I decided I absolutely wanted a 1950s style swing dress, with all the petticoats and seamed stockings. Until I realised I couldn’t have the lace top to the bodice I wanted without visible bra straps because the gowns from that supplier didn’t have any inbuilt bust support.

Eventually I started Googling bridal boutiques near where I live. I was naturally drawn to the one claiming to cater for curvy brides, so I made an appointment. I contacted my Best Lady and asked if she was free to accompany me. I was delighted when she said she could. We set off in my little car into the depths of the countryside until we arrived at a little trade park in the middle of nowhere.

It was all very plush. A room full of every type of bridal gown you can imagine. I told the consultant how I was dreaming of a tea length, 50s vintage style dress, lots of petticoats, seamed stockings and Mary Jane shoes. And then I added, “But if I find something completely different that I absolutely love, I am happy to keep an open mind.”

I didn’t see any tea length dresses that were even near my size to try on. I was told a number of the full length gowns could be ordered as a shorter length, but I found it hard to envisage what they would look like. So I tried a few of the full length dresses I was drawn to. Until the fourth one. As soon as I was laced in and excess fabric pinned out the way, I knew it was my dress.

My Best Lady said my whole demeanour had changed with dress 4. I had my head up, I was smiling, I apparently looked confident. As I stood on the podium in the shop, and looked in the mirror, a shiver ran through me, manifesting as goosebumps all over my body. I was physically moved by how lovely I looked. My eyes filled with tears. My Best Lady came close and hugged me as we sobbed together. She told me I was beautiful.

My dress is ordered. And we have a date in the diary to go back to shop for a Best Lady dress. I never imagined myself having that breathtaking moment of saying yes to the dress, but my life is peppered with surprises these days. Since I met my person.

I realise now that wanting a shorter, vintage style frock was me sticking with familiar things. If I have an occasion to attend, a swing dress with petticoats is my go-to. I’m comfortable in them, they look nice, they’re familiar. Safe. A stunning, show stopping, full length bridal gown pushes me out of my comfort zone. It’s the dress I felt I never deserved since I was a teenager, because it was too expensive, and I was too fat and not special enough to warrant it. Well I have news for that poor, defeated attitude; no more! I’m wearing that dress. My dress.

Normally I’m useless of a morning. This is usually the middle of the night for me. I’m not sure if it’s the medication or the bipolar itself that renders me so pointless before lunchtime but it is as it is. I am just gentle on myself before midday, and heaven forbid I do have to be somewhere, I must allow plenty of time to get ready. Everything takes me a good bit longer in the morning.

I was a little low over the weekend, without an obvious cause. Apart, perhaps from my birthday coming round imminently. I realised that over the years, mainly my adult years to be honest, I tend to gear myself for disappointment on my birthday. As a rule my birthdays as a child were usually ok to good, but once married and certainly through widowhood, they were hit or miss. More miss. My late husband would lay into me, blaming me for the timing of my birthday (3 weeks after Christmas) and using it as an excuse to make things as uneventful as possible. I fear he would ask me what I’d like as a gift, just so he could tell me, “I can’t afford that!” He loved to pile on the guilt.

After spending the weekend with Martin, I returned home yesterday and began to tidy up. It’s the kind of pathological tidying that I immediately associate with being hypomanic. An urge to purge my space of the unnecessary. I’m not full blown hypomanic by any stretch of the imagination but in addition to tidying, my need for sleep is reduced, I haven’t been brilliant at remembering to eat or drink and my sex drive is up. I will have numerous tasks on the go, flitting from one to another. All the tell tale signs that my mood is elevated, but without the elation, the euphoria, or the reckless, out of control behaviours. It’s a very diluted version of hypomania. In my experience, I believe it’s a time when I would have been full-on high, but for the deadening down of the Lithium I take.

So hence I’ve been awake for the last 3 hours. I’m tired, yet my brain won’t switch off. Later, after my hair appointment and my blood test I’ll be absolutely shattered I imagine.

It just goes to show, that even on Lithium, an effective, tried and tested mood stabiliser, used over several decades; bipolar disorder demonstrates how it can be suppressed, but rarely vanquished. I should add that I’m really careful around medicating and bedtimes as these routines aid my stability, yet still the illness lurks, seeking a chink in my armour. It is the constant little reminders that cause me to say that I am bipolar, as opposed to I have bipolar. It is in me, it runs through my veins, it resides in my head, it’s embedded in my very DNA.

I have heard different stories of people with bipolar who claim they wouldn’t give it up if offered the choice. They claim it makes them the person they are and sparks their creativity. I do get that, although I’m not fully ascribed to the theory that madness equates to creative genius. And it would be impossible to know what I would have been like without bipolar, so it’s hard to judge. Would I have been so susceptible to trauma and abusive relationships without the illness? Difficult to tell. But swinging from the crippling, suicidal existence that’s bipolar depression, to the reckless, out of control chaos that is hypomania, I would give that up in a heart beat. Even the diluted, medicated versions. In fact that’s the reason I do comply so enthusiastically with my meds regime.

Because bipolar sucks. Despite my compliance I experience low level depression pretty much constantly. Sometimes it worsens. There’s the mini highs, like currently. The ongoing anxiety. The brain fog. The cognitive and sensory processing issues. And a side effect rather than a symptom; the lithium tremor that messes with my fine motor skills.

I do my upmost each day to live my life the best I can within my current constraints. And sadly bipolar disorder isn’t the only one. There is much I can not do right now. But I’m thankful for what I can do, for what I have, and especially for the people around me. The ones who truly get me and embrace my unique quirkiness in particular. I do what I can. And I try to be kind to myself when I can’t.

I received a notification recently to remind me it is 7 years since I launched the blog. I have written about so many things in that time, when in truth I only really started out planning to write about mental health. But like me, the blog has evolved and diversified as time has elapsed. As in my life bipolar will always feature, but isn’t necessarily at the fore. However revisiting it from time to time is helpful if only to evaluate, or to reflect on my progress. Which is actually staggering.

A life without bipolar? Well ok, maybe it would be a tad boring 😉

I’m still marvelling that one year ago I had never yet met Martin, the man who rapidly moved up through the ranks of date, boyfriend, person and now fiancé. How six months ago we still hadn’t met, and now he’s my husband-to-be. And in another year’s time, we’ll be wed. By the beginning of 2023 I’ll be his wife.

As I pointed out in my previous blog, I never envisaged at the beginning of 2021 that I would be settled into a committed relationship by this point. I was still very much carrying the baggage from my marriage to Andrew and from my ‘friendship’ with the man called Dave. Both previous partners were manipulative, both were controlling and both undermined my confidence, crushing my self esteem. Despite many hours of therapy, I was struggling to believe I would ever be considered relationship material. In my mind I was good for fun only.

And that was pretty much how the first half of last year went. Even the ones who vehemently assured me they were looking for long term, all changed their minds once they met me. I tried so hard to believe there were still decent men out there, but I felt emotionally battered, disappointed and despondent. I came to the conclusion I must be too broken, too mental, too used to be loved. And I couldn’t even see a way out. Over the last few years I’d totally used sex as a substitute for genuine affection. The worse I felt about myself, the more I’d rely on the wrong kind of attention from men. It was a vicious circle. While it maybe briefly lifted my mood, inevitably I’d feel lousy given time. The entire two years with the man called Dave was spent like that. And beyond. The contacts I made during my time on the swinging scene ensured I was never lacking attention if I wanted it. But I was constantly feeling empty and the words I used to describe myself were becoming increasingly unkind. I crossed one of my own boundaries one night. It was an all time low for me. All I ever wanted was one man who would love me and treat me right. That seemed like some sort of holy grail, all but unattainable.

And then along came Martin. My good man. My would-be knight in shining armour on his imaginary unicorn. My not-a-trainspotter. Keeper of reptiles. Funky DJ. And genuinely the kindest, most generous, attentive and loving man I have ever met. He rapidly became the focus of my life. I’ve learned since July that I’m a very different woman when I’m loved right. I’m content. I feel secure. And I don’t feel so broken or mental when he’s by my side.

I think I’m the luckiest girl in the world. But the weird thing is, he’s convinced he’s the lucky one. We acknowledge that despite our previous relationships, neither of us has ever felt so loved. During our everyday conversations, one of us will inevitably blurt out, “We’re getting married!” And we giggle and squee like a couple of kids. I’m beyond excited to be planning our nuptials together. I never dreamed, even a year ago that I could feel so happy. And who’d have imagined that 2022 would be the year I get married? So much to do!

Wishing peace, joy and good health to all this year 👼🏻