Genuinely if someone had told me at the beginning of the year that I would be ending 2021 in a relationship with a wonderful, kind and caring man, engaged, and planning our wedding, I would have laughed in their face. It was absolutely not on my radar whatsoever.

I may have dreamed of being married again one day, but I didn’t actually believe it would happen. And certainly not so soon. In answer to those who are concerned that we haven’t known each other long enough, I present my young-widow-stock-answer; ‘Life’s too short’. End of. We’re so not getting any younger, and life has dealt us both a good dose of challenging times, so it’s definitely time for us to be happy.

And I so am. When friends are messaging me, or commenting on my Facebook posts, telling me how happy/contented/relaxed/alive I look, it can’t be ignored. I mean I know it myself, but apparently so do my friends. And that means a lot to me. Because just sometimes, thanks to my mental health issues, I can doubt myself.

Anyway, back tracking to the beginning of the year. I was less than three months post the man named Dave. I was still desperate to keep communication open with him. I guess I still hoped he’d realise what he was missing by refusing to commit me. Yeah right. I see now that his commitment issues were totally about him and nothing to do with me. Although I did kind of know that back then, I still contemplated the possibility that if I was different, better in some way, he wouldn’t keep using me when it suited him and dropping me like a stone when it didn’t. I finally burned my bridges when I called him out for gaslighting me. I was immediately blocked and I’ve never heard from him since.

Going into spring and early summer I wholeheartedly threw myself back into online dating. I discovered most guys didn’t actually want to date me. Especially when they discovered I had been a swinger for a time. To my shame I had another series of casual encounters (though each promised the earth, obviously) in the hope that someone would see there was more to me. But it wasn’t happening.

It was in July Martin and I connected. I had already arranged a date with someone else when we had begun chatting. I told him, during my encounter with said someone else that he should forget about me, I wasn’t worth it, he deserved someone of superior moral fibre. He refused to be put off. We met for tea, coffee and cake a couple of days later (one of our absolute favourite pastimes) and we’ve been enjoying cake dates ever since.

I’m not certain, but it was probably love at first conversation. There was a genuine sense of ease about our interaction. It was like coming home. When I shared my story with him, he wept over me. I know he’s disgruntled, maybe angry, about the way Dave treated me. He is not afraid to voice that opinion, the truth as I now know it to be; Dave used me and messed with my head. He fears Dave still has a hold over me. He doesn’t. I’m not about to pass up a loving relationship for being manipulated by Dave and used, not just by him, but by whoever he decides. Makes me shudder to think I believed that was better than being alone. Eurgh.

I think it was the train crash that sealed our fates. A sense of realisation that actually things could have been so much worse brought life into focus particularly clearly. For the first week I stayed with Martin near constantly. Simply put, there was nowhere else on earth I would have been when he was so distraught. I think it was towards the end of that week he proposed to me. He’d had a couple of drinks, so I was hesitant. But he was utterly serious, even when sober.

So we have booked a venue and are beginning to plan our wedding. I am beyond happy. The only thing saddening me currently is Martin’s low self esteem and bursts of self deprecation. I know it’s down to the depression and PTSD he’s suffering as a result of the crash, but it’s heartbreaking that he can’t see the wonderful man he truly is. The man I see. The man I love and would give anything to make happy.

Weirdly, my self esteem is currently ok. It wavers still at times, but I think there’s a lot to be said for being loved right. My photoshoot also definitely boosted my confidence. I’ve surprisingly survived another year of Covid times, without becoming too depressed, although I have to say, my anxiety isn’t great. Socialising, busy places, meeting new people, making calls, travel, have all proved more difficult this year.

And then there was the call from the GP to warn me I’m borderline for type 2 diabetes. The online course I’ve been put on really isn’t great. Different facilitators, conflicting information, and the obligatory couple of participants who like the sound of their own voices a little too much. I’m trying to be a bit healthier. I have lost 8.1kg since that call came, which given I have to be careful about dieting because of previous eating issues, plus I have a limited capacity to walk, let alone exercise, I’m quite proud about.

But I mean I’m here. I’m still standing (just not for too long ideally). I’m in love. Engaged. Organising a wedding. Happy. A little more confident. A little less obese. I have plenty to be thankful for. I’m looking forward to Christmas with my person. The first Christmas in 13 years that I’ve been in a relationship. It feels very different. Very positive. Life’s good.

Happy Christmas all 👼🏻

When I consider my physical body, it’s not with a lot of love involved. I would rather be a little taller, a lot thinner, have clearer skin, smaller boobs, maybe a back that didn’t cause me so many difficulties and definitely a brain that didn’t have the kind of chemical imbalance that causes bipolar.

But at 50 years of age I have learned to accept my body, at least my appearance, for how it is. I may not be loving it, but I’ve certainly given up hating on it. And although neither my physical nor mental health are great, I can reflect back over those years and identify so many different life events I have survived and overcome, and I feel a degree of pride.

I haven’t always felt this way. Many times I thought life would defeat me. I feel like I rarely achieve the things I would like to, but I keep putting one foot in front of the other, I try to remember to breathe and to give myself credit when it’s due.

I can’t remember the exact point in time I discovered I enjoyed dressing up, especially in posh undies, and taking pictures. When I first met the man called Dave he was astounded that I already owned a large selection of lingerie, long before he started parading me around swinging clubs in it. Although swinging, and indeed the man called Dave turned out not to be for me, I believe the positive feedback I received for both my body and the outfits have contributed to the increased confidence I have now.

I became aware of Johanna Elizabeth’s photography around 4 years ago, and frankly I was in awe. The women she photographed were absolutely radiant. They oozed self confidence. The photographs were stunning. I decided that one day I would like that experience for myself.

This summer I started my own Johanna Elizabeth journey. My first challenge was getting myself to Havant, parking close enough and finding the studio. I got totally lost. Finally found a car park, but it was a bit of a walk and I got lost again. I called the studio to ask for directions and to apologise for being late. I was in the middle of a full blown panic attack when I finally turned up. And I just cried. I was met by Ange, who immediately put me at ease, and we discussed what I might like my shoot to consist of. I went away feeling a lot more positive and looking forward to creating my Pinterest board of possible poses.

After my first shoot had to be cancelled when I went down with tonsillitis, I was back in Havant at the end of October. After being thoroughly beautified by Evie, I stepped out feeling good. I’d opted for a basque, a corset and obviously, my pride and joy, my thigh boots. And I was a little nervous, but mostly excited. A history of swinging at least stood me in good stead for wandering around the studio and dressing room wearing little or no clothing. Something that would have mortified me once upon a time. I wasn’t actually prepared for how much of the shoot I’d spend naked, but hey. I did ache after. Although Jo was amazing at working to accommodate my disability, I was pushing myself hard to achieve the shots I wanted. And I have no regrets.

I collected my pictures this week. Just OMG! First I was presented the prints. I was utterly wowed. I was so incredibly happy to have Martin with me for the reveal session. I’d stated at the outset I wasn’t the sort of woman who’d want to see herself blown up and hanging on a wall. Until Martin decided that’s exactly what he’d like. My bum to be precise. It is a nice bum. And the presentation is exceptionally tasteful.

I was then shown my showreel, the professional slideshow of the photos set to music. That’s when the tears really flowed. I couldn’t believe how amazing I looked. As I have watched it since I have cried again, more than once, and I asked Martin, “Where is that beautiful, strong woman?” Apparently she’s been sat with him all the time. Who knew?

If you think a makeover/beauty/boudoir shoot wouldn’t be for you, then that’s what I thought too. For so many years. But I wouldn’t have missed this experience for anything. It has been truly empowering. For years I’ve had only one photo of myself that I loved. Now I have a box full. And I’m not suddenly totally in love with my body, but little by little I’m discovering that beautiful, strong woman.

I will be having a minor operation tomorrow to remove the lump from my right ear. It is essentially for cosmetic reasons, but it is also becoming increasingly difficult to sleep on and does have a habit of getting face mask elastic caught around it. It isn’t painful most of the time and it’s harmless, just an overgrowth of scar tissue from the numerous piercings I had. Maybe ears weren’t designed to take 16 studs.

I had asked my boyfriend if he could possibly be around the day of my operation, and he’d managed to swap his two rest days so he had Friday and Saturday off with me. However because of that it meant he’d be working ten late shifts consecutively beforehand. As that was going to make it difficult to see each other for a while, I made the decision to stay over at his flat Sunday and have a little time with him Monday morning, maybe grab a coffee somewhere.

I knew he probably wouldn’t be home til around midnight, so I curled up on the sofa, ate pizza and relaxed. At one point I was at a loose end so did a bit of washing up and wiped down the work surfaces in the kitchen. Just a bit of mindless pottering. I returned to the sofa later and I believe I was scrolling aimlessly through social media when I received a call from Martin. “There’s been a train crash, but I’m ok”. He barely said more than that, I think he was on the line seven seconds. If you’ll excuse the expression, I was derailed.

He obviously had no clue when he’d get home and his reassurance had done little to allay my fears. I contemplated the chances of him dying, whilst pacing the floor, as I feel like too many people I love have died already and maybe it’s me. I battled to put those thoughts aside. I think I had a couple more brief calls from him as the evening progressed. He told me he was sat in a van but he was cold and hungry. My heart ached to think of the mental and physical distress he was experiencing. Finally the call telling me he would be home soon in a taxi. I huddled on the sofa, cold and anxious until finally I heard Martin at the door.

Clearly still shocked and shaken he recounted events of the evening to me. I wanted to hold him tight, but he needed to move, to talk, to rant, to swear. There was a point when I, now medicated (I’d waited until he was home safe), finally had to give in and go to bed. I left him sat at his desk, poring over the harrowing images that were already appearing on mainstream and social media, and asking himself ‘why?’

I have stayed with Martin this week, apart from popping back to Winchester to take my pre-op covid test. It has been a whirlwind of meetings and never ending phone calls and every conceivable emotion known to man. The manifestations of shock, stress and anxiety have been evident throughout, and I have done my best to provide a calm and safe space for him to explore his thoughts and feelings.

In the midst of everything a journalist appeared on the doorstep. Despite being suitably vague, and Martin refusing to own the title of Hero Guard the resulting article can be seen here https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-10157127/First-pictures-train-guard-calmly-led-passengers-safety-Salisbury-train-crash-wreck.html?ito=social-twitter_dailymailUK

He led eight passengers to safety, not ninety-two. He had no contact with the mother and young baby, they weren’t even on his train. But he did his upmost to reassure the passengers he could communicate with and made the 999 call. He claims he isn’t a hero. I just reminded him that I loved him before he was famous. The rest of the article is fairly accurate. Obviously with ongoing investigations there is little we can say beyond what is already in the public domain. The crash scene continues to be cleared, the line remains closed and Martin is off track until further notice. I think it will be a lengthy journey for him, and by default for me.

Today I cried because Amazon left my parcel downstairs instead of bringing it up to the flat. Proper snot and tears and heaving sobs. As much as we’re trying to reassure each other we’re fine, we’re not. I’ll be glad when my operation is done and we can get out and about again. Quarantine never did suit me.

We’ll keep putting one foot in front of the other and taking lots of deep breaths going forward. Martin is being well supported by his company and he is fighting for that to be extended to me too. It’s certainly not been the average week. We remain thankful that while things could have been so much worse, only a few sustained minor injuries and just the train driver was more seriously hurt. Our thoughts are with him and his family and indeed all involved on both trains.

It goes to show you never know what’s around the corner. An everyday average work shift that escalated into a major incident. I’ve said it before, but hold your loved ones tight and tell them you love them.

I have a very brief piece for you this evening. But nonetheless important.

Life is too short and very precious.

Cherish your loved ones. Hold them closer, for longer and tell them you love them.

Don’t go to bed angry. Patch up that family rift. Don’t hold grudges. Let it go.

When all is said and done, without friends and family, life would be pretty grim. We’re social beings, we function better when we’re loved right.

But none of us know how long we have. Make the most of each day while you can. So much better than living the rest of your life with regrets.

Tomorrow will be 13 years since my husband died and I’m going to say something radical; I don’t miss him. I still have love for him, we spent 20 years together and he was the father of my amazing son, but I can’t think of any aspect of our relationship that I miss.

Now the haters are going to hate, when discussing Andrew, my husband, I hear a lot about how funny he was, and how his faith was astounding, but they didn’t live with him. I did. I lived with the criticism, the put downs, and the controlling behaviour. The faith that was used to guilt trip me and keep me subdued. And the humour – at my expense.

Five years after he died I realised for the first time that the relationship had been abusive, emotionally and verbally. I would also get the occasional gentle slap, not to hurt but to humiliate. And I was repeatedly told I was stupid. I was allowed no financial independence, he managed the purse strings and consequently ran up debts in my name, knowing he wouldn’t get credit himself due to his terminal illness. I never even knew how much debt we had until after his death. He once told me, gloating, “You’ll have to go begging to your dad after I die!” Yeah. Thanks. If I’d realised when he was still alive just how appallingly I was being treated, maybe I’d have left. But I’m the sort of person who looks for the best in people and gives too many chances.

But it makes for complicated grief. I don’t hate him, but my life is improved by my having my autonomy now. And although I’m in a new relationship, that’s not why I feel like I’m finally over him. In fact the new relationship just highlights how a decent man should treat a woman; love that’s unconditional. No strings. Respectful.

I experienced a trauma reaction earlier today. My partner passed me an electrical item. As far as I was aware it could have been valuable. I faltered as he passed it to me and I dropped it. Outside. On the tarmac. I immediately panicked, was hyperventilating and in tears. I was waiting for the onslaught. Andrew would have yelled for the entire neighbourhood to hear. He’d have belittled me. Big time. But there I was, potentially expensive piece of kit on the ground, bracing myself, and nothing. Crying for nothing.

I think it was the trauma surrounding Andrew’s death that lingers, rather than the loss itself. The speed with which he became so ill, the response of the ambulance crew, him arresting in the ambulance outside our home, them resuscitating him, the dash to resus on blue lights, our son seeing his dad so frail, the reactions of Andrew’s parents and brother. I remember conversations from the resus unit to this day. I remember rushing to ITU when they’d moved him and finding him gone as I got there. The sister told the staff nurse to turn off the monitors and she replied, “Just the alarms?” Which sounded bizarre to me as he’d clearly already flatlined. I looked at the sister and said, “He’s gone, hasn’t he?” But I knew before she replied. You don’t tend to get over those moments.

My mother brought me up not to speak ill of the dead. However if speaking up about domestic abuse (however innocuous) helps one person to escape their circumstances, I personally think it’s worth it. I’m still rebuilding my self worth 13 years on. I still have love for him, but I’m doing better without his notion of love.

Thanks for reading 👼🏻

When I was 9 years old, my mother and grandmother took me (and my brother) to the US for an extended holiday. Maybe it was the age I was, discovering clothes and fashion for myself for the first time, or maybe just the huge availability such as I’d never seen, but I brought back a lot of clothes. Including a couple of bikinis. I’d never owned a bikini before. I don’t remember little girls in the ‘70s wearing bikinis to be honest.

I was already a chubby child, but no one told me that two piece costumes were not for fat girls. So I went on fairly oblivious. It was I think my peers who finally pointed out to me that I was too fat to wear something like that. And as I approached the hideously self conscious early teen years I knew it was absolutely the truth for myself. For a time I don’t think I even owned a swimming costume. The thought of being in public showing so much flesh was mortifying.

When I got married I did start swimming again for exercise and fun. But my husband often reminded me about my chubby little body, “No one wants to see that!” To be blunt even he didn’t want to see it, and he was supposed to love me curves and all. So my swimming costumes covered more than ever, many with a skirt panel. Swim dresses can look quite flattering (although not all!) but I liked to swim lengths and having a skirt flapping about and floating to the surface wasn’t ideal.

I saw a woman in a swim dress yesterday when I was in the hotel spa. It was nearly down to her knees. I wondered if someone told her they didn’t want to see her curves too, or if she’d decided for herself that they should be kept under wraps. I noticed only two women were wearing bikinis and they were both young and slim. Apart from me. Yes, you read that. I wore a two piece for the first time in 40 years.

Now when I say that, let me assist your imaginations a little. Think a crop top. Like a sports bra crop top sort of size and shape. And Bridget Jones’ knickers. There was flesh between but not loads.

I bought the bikini in the summer. I’m not even certain why now. I tried it on at home and filed it in my chest of drawers. But with a visit to the spa booked for this week I dug it out. Along with my one piece in case I bottled it.

Why did I decide to buy it? I’m not entirely certain. I think I just felt the need to show the middle finger to all the controlling men and mean girls who ever told me, “No one wants to see that” or “Women like you shouldn’t wear things like that.”

I expected stares. I expected hushed whispers. I expected to be challenged. I was met with nothing. Amongst strangers in the spa, most probably worrying about their own self consciousness, not a soul cared that this overweight woman was wearing a very bright, multi coloured tie dye two piece. I felt strong. Bold. And surprisingly confident. I’m taking that as a small win.

Thanks for reading 👼🏻

Just a quickie as I’m medicated and my cognitive processing could go downhill rapidly at any given moment.

Recently WordPress have notified me of a couple of things. Firstly I have passed 10,000 all time views. Wow! Mind blown. So to those who take the time to read my random musings; a huge thank you. I never planned to change the world with a blog. Initially I hoped to raise mental health awareness, but it think it’s fair to say the blog has grown and evolved as I have. Secondly it appears I have now made over 100 posts. I think I’m just pleased it is something I still actively do. So many of my fantastical ideas never even get off the ground let alone stand the test of time. But that’s a bipolar thing.

That’s it really. I am proud of PinkPalaceAngel like the parent of an adolescent child who has threatened to go off the rails too many times, yet somehow is still holding things together. And I’m exceptionally grateful to my audience and the positive feedback I receive. It is much appreciated. Thank you.

This time last year I was in Bognor Regis too. And blogging. I’m not sure what it is about being here that gets my creativity flowing, but there’s undoubtedly a link. More relaxed. Less to do I guess. This place definitely seems to bring out a side of me I like. All the worries of the everyday are on hold and I can just savour views of seas and skies until my heart’s content.

It was while here last October that I said goodbye to the man called Dave after two years together. With time and space to think I left him for the third and final time. There was some dialogue between us after that, but never with the intention of getting back together and eventually he blocked me when I pointed out the ways he’d wronged me. Poor misunderstood soul he was. In his mind anyway.

I don’t want to particularly dwell on the two years I now refer to as the red glasses Dave era, except to say I can now see it more clearly for what it was. It was a one sided relationship where he had the majority of the fun at my expense. He normalised my degradation for his pleasure. I was utterly manipulated but I was besotted with him and would have done pretty much whatever he wanted if he whispered the right words in my ear. He held all the power. But I walked away.

It was the hardest thing in the world to leave. He was the first man I’d been in a relationship with since my husband died in 2008. I had such high hopes. But fuck buddies was never what I imagined. Certainly not what I’d dreamed of when I thought about my future. I thought I could hack it. I couldn’t. I thought it would develop. It didn’t. I fell for him, he laughed at me. So I gathered up my strength and the tatters of my self esteem and walked. I deserved better, I was certain of it.

More adventures on dating sites ensued. More hopes dashed. My poor heart trounced all over again. And then 12 weeks ago, I got a message from Martin. I replied. We chatted online. We met. We ate cake. We clicked. After our first date we hugged goodbye. But neither wanted to let go. I think even then we knew.

It’s been a whirlwind, but does that concern me? Not one bit. I realise now why none of the dates worked out. I see why Dave couldn’t make me happy. Because the one for me wasn’t even known to me then. The one who has ambushed my heart (in the nicest possible way) has changed everything.

All that heartache a year ago. The absolute fear of ending up alone. When in reality I was making way for the best person I could ever have hoped to meet. I had no idea what my future held and I was scared to let go of the sham of a relationship I was clinging to. But it’s opened me up to the best adventure imaginable. I’m so pleased I found the courage to realise I deserved to be fully loved and not just picked up and put down.

Have I found the perfect man? Nope, but he’s perfect for me. He makes me feel safe. He calms my crazy. He gives the best cuddles. Brings me a cuppa in bed. He’s honest. Has great communication skills. Empathy. He stimulates my mind. Sexy as. What more could I ask for?

I could never have known a year ago what was around the corner. I didn’t envisage having someone in my life who I’d miss this much when away for a few days. But there we go.

Thanks for reading 👼🏻

End of last week I had a telephone call scheduled from one of the doctors at my surgery. I have no idea what has happened to my own doctor again, I couldn’t even be bothered to ask. I mean she’s pleasant, but she doesn’t get me. I don’t feel like many people get me.

So what I thought was going to be routine lithium levels from my last blood test turned out to be, “Your sugars have increased since your last test and you are now categorised as pre-diabetic!” That is, if I don’t change my diet/lifestyle I will imminently develop type 2 diabetes. Shit.

I can’t pretend to be in anyway surprised. I do know my diet is shocking and I struggle to exercise because of my chronic back pain. But I am nonetheless gutted. I guess I hoped I could somehow get away with it. Or at the very least that I had more time.

I’ve been overweight since I was 9. As soon as the boobs arrived and the bullying started so did my comfort eating. As an adult I’ve never been within the realms of normal weight. I’ve always been overweight, obese or morbidly obese. I have managed to reduce my weight on occasions, but since being diagnosed with bipolar and taking psych medications, I’m now heavier than ever. Also, I have been through periods of eating issues. An old GP of mine told me in no uncertain terms to leave the diet club I’d joined as I was so obsessed with weight loss he feared for my mental health. He actually said he’d rather I stayed overweight.

So I have. And now it’s caught up with me.

I will be referred to a course to discuss what changes I need to make. I tried to establish if that was a one off or a series of sessions but I am still none the wiser. And I dared to ask what I should do food wise in the meantime. Apart from cutting out all carbohydrates and drinking Pepsi Max instead of regular Pepsi, I didn’t glean all that much.

In the absence of useful information I obviously stormed the world wide web. Oh silly me! So I got passed those trying to sell me diet plans, meal replacements, supplements, life coaching and personal training and hit another raft of confusion. The various websites supposedly dedicated to teaching me about a pre-diabetic diet were characterised by conflicting advice. Fat is bad. Sugar is bad. Carbs are bad. Carbs are like death on a plate if I believe all I read. Green things are good. The only other thing with consistent approval is fish. Particularly oily fish. Sigh. I don’t hate fish, I mean it’s ok. But it’s not cake. It doesn’t appeal with a nice cup of tea of an afternoon.

I’m frustrated by the lack of clear information. This week I’m away from home and I’m starting to make some changes but it’s like feeling my way in the dark. I’m very thankful for the men in my life (son and boyfriend) giving me lots of support albeit from home. They’ve helped me to not fall apart.

Hopefully once I’ve completed the prescribed program I will have a clearer idea of what I need to do. I’m not ready to accept diabetes just yet if I can avoid it.

Thanks for reading 👼🏻