I believe I mentioned previously that I had dabbled with the the crap dating app again recently. It’s always a fine balance between starting enough conversations to account for losing a few fellas along the way, or just discovering you don’t actually like some, but not ending up with too many possibles and having to make a difficult decision who to keep and who to drop.

Well I seem to have that sorted this time around. Mr ‘I need you to send more pictures’ became increasingly more demanding until he pushed too far and frankly, really chuffed me off. With him out of the picture, I was left with one definite possible. Despite well meaning advice, taking things slow isn’t necessary the best advice for me. My experience tells me that nothing but prolonged online messaging can disguise all kinds of nasties. Like time wasters. And scammers. At least if I can meet someone in person I can verify they exist. And if they don’t stand me up or ghost me I can perhaps assume they’re genuinely keen.

It was only when I started reflecting on previous experiences that I realised how badly I’d been treated in the past, and how often. I know my mental health makes me vulnerable, and indeed my widowed status, but it’s a shocking list of catastrophes I’ve racked up in my quest to find love over the last five years. Nothing is as bad as being sexually assaulted by the first man I fell for after widowhood and a seven year period of celibacy. But the subsequent liars, cheats, ghosts, time wasters, scammers and thieves really haven’t been great for this girl’s confidence.

So ironically after saying many times, “I’m not dating Daves or Andys” I dispense with a Dave only to move on to an Andy. I hope I don’t live to regret it. The kind of cliches like, “If it seems too good to be true, it probably is” are very present in my thinking. I can’t trust. Or I trust way too easily. No happy medium. At the end of the day I’ve been treated so poorly over so many years, I barely dare to believe that there could be a decent, genuine man out there who could love me right.

Lockdown is a ass for budding romance. I may prefer to meet sooner rather than later in normal circumstances but it’s not happening currently. I want so much to see if it’s as great in real life. And when he mentioned The V Word (Valentines) I nearly lost the plot. Dave’s idea of celebrating was sending me a Gif on WhatsApp. I’ve pretty much ignored that particular holiday since Andrew died. No one has cared that much since. I need to stop bursting into tears every time I’m paid a compliment. Heaven knows I need those affirming words and Andy (or Brian as he suggested I call him when he discovered I don’t date Andys) is so good in that department. Certainly wonderful for a girl’s self esteem. Just want to hug him and have a face to face. Sigh.

I guess we’re going to have to wait a little longer. Hopefully he won’t lose the plot with me in the meantime. And this romance in the air isn’t too good to be true. Watch this space.

👼🏻

This time last week I got back in touch with the man called Dave. Despite the very obvious facts staring me in the face, I was feeling lonely and wanted to talk with him. Filthy-Bloke-no-Longer-in-Stoke was doing what he does best; sod all, and yet again I had a sense that this is never going to be someone I can rely on. I am really aware of all the reasons why I should stay away Dave, but as I’ve said before, I still regard him as my person. Or I did at least.

The chat was flowing, our own little private jokes a plenty, and at one point I had asked him if he fancied meeting for a drink next time he was local. He’d agreed and we’d chatted on happily. I referred a couple of times to how I have changed since we split in October and he seemed surprised but not put off. It was all very pleasant. He asked if I missed our kinky lifestyle. I said I didn’t, that what I really need right now is some genuine affection. He didn’t really know how to respond. It’s unlikely to ever be something he could offer. But we talked on. It felt comfortable.

The following day I was in a more reflective mood. We continued to chat but I brought up that we were not able to meet each other’s needs. That in fact I compromised my own needs for two years trying to make him happy, but he still wanted our mate. In a classic Dave response he said he didn’t know what I was talking about, and I’d definitely been overthinking. I replied he always accuses me of overthinking when he doesn’t like what I say. I told him that’s called gaslighting. And I mentioned, for reference it wasn’t just me who knew he wanted to get alone with our friend, she and her partner knew it too, and so did the readers of my blog.

Consequently, I heard no more from him, because let’s face it, conflict resolution requires an element of emotional literacy, of which he has none. I know I’ve gone back to him in the past, but I feel like something has changed, something gave on a deeper level, and I can’t imagine needing him anymore. Maybe it was calling out the gaslighting. It’s something he’s done before but I’d not been aware or strong enough to challenge. It’s such a toxic behaviour.

And at the point I decided not to waste anymore of my life on a man who doesn’t appreciate me, is unable to love me, and makes me believe no one else could love me either. And I put myself back on the crap dating site. Someone has to see my potential, surely?

I have chatted with a handful of men, some with nicer manners than others. I had been chatting with two potential guys, but I began to suspect one is just after photos. But the other seems genuine and he’s doing my self esteem the power of good. I didn’t fully realise how broken I am, when being given a compliment reduces me to tears. Every time. Really looking forward to meeting him in person. Trying to arrange a socially distanced walk when one of us can barely walk is fun though. Watch this space.

Since New Year I have rid myself of three toxic people. And it feels great. Such negativity is draining. And I’m open to what the future holds. There’s space in my life and my heart. I’m ready.

I know it’s another long lockdown. I know everyone is struggling. But just for the record, I feel mentally and emotionally vulnerable. Not at immediate risk, but not great either. Sometimes I can’t be there even for my closest friends, and this was proved recently when I walked away from a friendship to protect my own mental well-being. I have EUBPD, my emotions are characteristically huge and unregulated. I’m an empath, so I find it incredibly difficult to detach from situations and feelings of others. In short, I am struggling to cope with things going on around me currently. With respect, please think twice before you share stuff with me. If it’s emotive, there’s a good chance it will be problematic.

I don’t watch TV. I occasionally watch programmes I want to see on my tablet on catch up, but I have no desire to be bombarded by what is scheduled day in day out. I particularly do not watch news or current affairs programmes, because I find it utterly overwhelming. I’m not in anyway imagining that if I don’t watch it, it isn’t happening, I’m just prioritising my own mental health. It has served me well for a number of years now. I only listen to radio when I’m driving, and I don’t access news websites/apps. Usually the most important news filters through on to my social media, but at the moment it seems it is every other story. Covid is literally everywhere. Facebook is not currently an easy place to be, but on the flip side it is an important tool in keeping me in touch with friends and family. I stress again, I’m not burying my head in the sand, I’m just not coping with the media swamp.

I know my depression is bad because I’ve no appetite. Except that is when I take my Quetiapine at night, which is notorious for making one hungry. I can quite happily go all day, oblivious to the fact I haven’t eaten. My fluid intake is probably pretty suspect too. For me the difference between milder and more severe depression is defined by appetite. Mildly depressed, want to eat everything in sight. Severely depressed, no appetite and often feeling slightly nauseous. I only realised when I noticed I was dizzy when I stood up or bent down and innocently wondered why. I work so hard on my self care in other areas yet I can’t even manage to feed myself regularly. Hopeless.

In more normal times, self care looks more appealing; meeting friends for food or coffee, getting my hair and nails done, going to choir, having an occasional hotel night or short break. Currently it looks like pushing myself to eat and remembering to take a bath. Since when did the basics become so difficult? Since when did having an in person conversation or a hug become a luxury? I say this a lot, I know, but as humans we were not designed to be solitary. We’re supposed to be sociable. I totally understand the need to protect from the virus, but that undeniably equates to risking my mental health. I don’t have any answers.

I’m aware I stated in my previous writing that I would talk more about my return to the crap dating site. I haven’t forgotten. Just still mulling things over.

Take care. Thanks for reading 👼🏻

I wonder how many women are actually content with their breast size and shape. I have one friend who is very satisfied with hers. And I’m happy for her. She is as amply proportioned as I yet she adores ‘the girls’. Whereas I have a drastic plan for mine. So many women I know are in either of three camps; too big, not big enough or not perky enough.

I mean I’m much in favour of body positivity and loving what I have. And maybe if my boobs were not affecting my health perhaps I could learn to love them given more time. Haven’t got too far on that to date but miracles can happen I guess.

I re-embarked on the dubious experience of online dating at the weekend. My reasons for this will no doubt materialise as another post in the next few days when I’ve processed events a little more. It’s an emotional roller coaster for sure. You think, naively, that someone is interested in you, you’re chatting away and everything seems to be going swimmingly, when bam! You’re dropped from a height.

I was talking with a gent, attractive, articulate and rather keen, when it came up in conversation that I have been advised to get my breasts reduced. Now I understand that a woman’s breasts are important to a man, but I didn’t expect to be rejected quite so readily for solely this reason. I did enquire as to the nature of his sudden silence and his response left me open mouthed. He couldn’t (quote) understand why I would get rid of half my assets and the main thing that attracted him to me. Because spiting a man I’d never crossed paths with was obviously the sole reason for deciding to willingly put myself under the knife and my own well being at risk. Potentially. Of course. I don’t have an eye roll adequate for this exchange. I replied I was disappointed it wasn’t my sparkling wit that had attracted him and wished him good luck. He sure as hell is going to need it!

I’m just frustrated I can’t have the surgery now. I am including a little picture of what the weight of my breasts has done to my shoulder this evening. And that pales into insignificance when we consider the effect on my spine. My already compromised spine.

Any guy who feels the need to mourn the loss of my excess boobage should seriously be made to wear a bra with realistic size and weight H cup breast replicas. If such a thing exists. For the rest of his life. Or longer.

Home

Strong tea and cuddles

Back in my safe place

Wrapped in his arms

And it feels like home.

So warm and familiar

Protected from danger

No cause for alarm when

This place seems like home.

My head on his chest

Inhaling his scent

Feeling secure there

He smells like home.

Our lips seek each other

Two tongues collide

The hungriest kisses

And he tastes like home.

All so, so familiar

Bodies explored

The fit is perfection

He feels just like home.

Making our sweet love

Fervent and raw

Coming together

Fuck yes! We come. Home.

I’ve drunk too much. I should remember in future, that just because I can fit half a bottle of wine in my large gin glass, it doesn’t mean I should. And actually it wasn’t one of my better plans. I struggle with depression and too much alcohol makes me cry.

So reflecting on this being the weekend I had planned to have a plush hotel stay and a huge party for my birthday was probably also unwise. I remember putting the idea to the man named Dave, how I planned to book us a room for the weekend, get some spa treatments in, have a huge birthday party on the Saturday evening and leave after breakfast Sunday. Given he always liked to be in control, and he never liked to give the impression that we were a couple; I took the fact that he didn’t say no immediately as a good sign. Whether he’d have actually seen it through is a completely different matter, but I was living in hope.

Until I left him.

We had exchanged the odd message since our saying goodnight to one another in October. Always initiated by me, I’ll admit. And on Sunday we were having quite a nice, light hearted little chat on WhatsApp. Until I admitted I still want him. And he dodged the subject completely. It all came back to me like a flood, his perfect ability to leave me wondering. I’d temporarily forgotten that way he has of making me question everything, especially myself. And as soon as the conversation becomes emotive he ducks out.

I should cut communication with him totally. But guess what? I still love him. I’ve tried so hard not to. Tried to distract myself with other guys. Tried committing to just focusing on myself. But despite everything he’s put me through, I’m struggling to keep away. He always said I wouldn’t leave him because the sex was too good, but it’s absolutely not just the sex. It’s the laughs, the cuddles, the lazy breakfasts, the cups of tea, the chats, the trust, the care, the friendship, the outings, the dynamic, the smooches, and yes, the sex. I miss him being my person. Three times I’ve left, twice I’ve returned. He’s not good for me, he messes with my head. But I love him and life feels empty without him. I’m damned if I do and I’m damned if I don’t. Can’t live with him, can’t live without him. What to do?

A friend reckons I should write a book of my life. Personally I think it would be far too depressing. That’s what I love about blogging; the reader can dip in and out as they choose. When I’ve read biographies before of people who have been through awful childhoods, or shocking life experiences, they always come good at the end. A wonderful new relationship, a job they adore, a new faith, maybe helping others. I don’t feel like I have a happy ending. I’m still surviving, day on day, coping with bipolar, EUBPD, chronic back pain, mobility difficulties, and loaded with more baggage than Heathrow.

So today I reached 50. And I’d planned to throw the mother of all parties. I knew there was a good chance my dad’s estate would be settled around or before now so I was going to have the almighty celebration my late husband had promised when we organised his 40th. Like the bitterly disappointed little girl whose birthday parties repeatedly seemed to be postponed because of snow I have resigned myself to ‘it will happen when it can’.

And I don’t really know how to describe the first 50 years of my life. Difficult; often, challenging; yes, boring; never! And despite the most horrendous of difficult times, there is much to be thankful for. I genuinely wake up some mornings and wonder how I’m still here. Depression has taken my desire to stay alive on so many occasions, yet here I am. I may just be plodding, just existing sometimes, but I’m here. As I sometimes say, “Can’t get rid of me!”

So in a life, tainted by childhood chaos and abuse, an often unhappy and abusive marriage, loss, pinnacled by widowhood at 37, and followed by losing both parents and four friends, struggling with lone parenting, two complete mental breakdowns and hospitalisation, having to give up my son to the care system, ongoing spinal and mobility difficulties, terrifying spinal surgery, chronic mental illness, victim of a serious sexual assault and so many lesser setbacks over the years, I have, I guess just endeavoured to face each challenge as it presents itself. The mantra, “It is as it is” I have owned in the last few years. It has helped me no end in my emotional struggles.

Flip over the coin and I can show you, for example, my incredible son. Lost his dad at eight years old. Once plagued by his own mental health problems, and put into care, separated from the only person on the planet he knew he could count on. Incredible example of resilience. Now home and thriving in both his jobs. He has today, pulled out all the stops to ensure I have had the best lockdown birthday imaginable. I am so grateful. He sorted decorations, cake, presents, made breakfast for me. I’m so blessed.

I can show you my academic achievements. The only person in my family to leave school with exam passes. My battle to go to sixth form when my mother had decided I shouldn’t. Finally putting a graduation photo on my dad’s mantelpiece in my early forties when I gained my foundation degree.

Hard to believe now, but I had jobs where I made a difference. The privilege of holding the hand of someone taking their final breath. The light bulb moment with a young bipolar patient who suddenly understands the importance of ongoing medication, because no one had taken the time to have that conversation with her. Teaching a preschool child a brand new skill, witnessing their pride as they run to mummy at pick up time, yelling, “Look what I can do!” Knowing you were the one who showed them how. Those precious moments.

There were times in my life when things were not maybe plain sailing, but certainly less difficult. Times when in addition to work I did a little extra. Most notably running a youth group and parent and toddler group, both church based. People, whose lives I crossed paths with then, I consider friends until this day. I feel very honoured to have served them and got to know them as I did. I can not tell you how much preparation, planning and administration goes into running a voluntary group like that. But the rewards were beyond words.

And talking of friends, I owe an immense debt of gratitude to so many who have supported me and kept me going over the years. At risk of failing to remember someone, I just want to say an enormous thank you. I will briefly mention WAY (Widowed and Young), an incredible peer support organisation for those widowed before their 51st birthday. Although I parted company with WAY last year, the friends I made in the 11 or so years I was a member are friends for life. I’m so grateful. It truly was the best thing to be a part of at a very dark time in my life. Thank you friends, both widowed and not.

Well I think from here on in, takeaway, rosé wine, video calling and maybe more birthday cake are the order of the day.

👼🏻

Back at the beginning of the original lockdown I joined a Facebook group called ‘Putting your bins out in your ballgown’. It made me smile and provided a little light relief in pandemic times. I hadn’t contributed to the group, but watched from a distance and found the daily themes quite entertaining. Then yesterday, on wedding Wednesday, I finally contributed a photo from my wedding day. What I hadn’t expected was the emotions it would evoke.

I was only 17 when I got engaged to my late husband. He was a little older but had no more experience when it came to wedding planning than I did. Unsurprisingly. Some catering insight. And what I discovered in the subsequent months dramatically opened my eyes. I had grown up very close with my mother, a relationship I now recognise as toxic and scarily codependent. But when it came to organising my wedding she was in her element. She actually did next to nothing, my future husband and I did the leg work. She dictated what we would have on our wedding day and ensured absolutely everything was done on an unrealistically limited budget. And when we finally pulled off a pretty successful wedding she did her best to take the credit.

So in our quest to reduce costs I made the flowers for myself and the bridesmaids, made the three fruit cakes for the wedding cake (did get someone more competent to ice them), created the front cover for the orders of service, refashioned my parent’s cake topper with new flowers, and I made my wedding dress from scratch.

Prior to making my wedding dress, my skills as a seamstress were epitomised by making a basic wrap around skirt in needlework at school. But because my mother had made her wedding dress back in the sixties, she deemed making my own dress was good enough for me. When I look back now, it breaks my heart that I never got to experience that moment in a bridal boutique of finding ‘the one’. Yet I remained optimistic.

I remember mother and I going shopping for a pattern and fabric. The pattern was easily selected, it was the only full length dress that was in my size. So I was told that was that. I remember looking at some truly gorgeous fabrics, but was pulled away in the direction of the the remnant bin. A roll of satin was pushed under my nose. A much reduced price because it had a flaw in it. I was told it was only a small flaw and I could work round it. So that was my fabric selected too. To have protested would have been shamed as my being ungrateful so I accepted what I had.

I soon discovered that my mother had no intention whatsoever of helping with the making of the dress. Oh, I lie, she did pin the hem of the skirt while I stood patiently in the dress. Sadly that hemline was desperately wonky, and our lovely photographer’s assistant on the big day spent much time and effort doing her best to disguise it. The rest of the dress looked ok, good even, but that hem!

The not small process of making a wedding dress was often fraught. My friend from school, in a bizarre exchange of “If you make me a bridesmaid, I’ll help you with your dress” turned out not to be a great deal. She was much better at needlework, her mother regularly made clothes for the family and had a dedicated sewing room so was on hand for expertise. But we fell out after our second dressmaking session. Temporarily. She was still bridesmaid, I carried on with the dress alone. The night before the wedding, everything done and ready to go, my mother, decided it was a good time to my criticise my efforts. Focusing on some stitching in the under arm area of the dress, she deemed it too scruffy and it required finishing more neatly. I’m afraid at this point I did tell her that if she didn’t like it, feel free to finish it more neatly herself. Funnily enough it obviously wasn’t that bad after all.

Our wedding day was beautiful. A strange mismatch of extravagant and spendthrift. Depending, I think with hindsight, which parent I asked for the funds. Because my dad was busy working and not wanting to be involved in planning he would just give me cash. Whereas mum wanted control and to spend as little as possible. My late husband too chipped in the cost of various things, deemed to be his responsibility according to the little wedding planning book. He didn’t scrimp. I arrived at the church in a white Rolls Royce. I was wearing white lace gloves that I’d bought at a car boot sale for forty pence.

Three years after our wedding we moved to the flat I still currently live in. It was a new build. The housing association moved us in in a great hurry. We had a spare bedroom with a built in wardrobe, and we used it for storage, including my wedding dress, my husband’s two suits and other smart dresses of mine I didn’t wear too often. We didn’t know anything about just-built properties. We never knew the plaster hadn’t dried out when we put our best clothes in that cupboard. One day we opened the doors to find everything covered in damp mould. My other dresses could go in the washing machine, but I knew my handmade wedding dress would never survive a wash cycle. My husband was muttering about having to get his suits dry cleaned, and I added, “Yes, and my wedding dress.” He looked at me like I was utterly stupid, and said, “We can’t afford that!” I was young, and I’d trusted him when he’d denied me financial autonomy when we married. I looked at him pleadingly. He said, angrily, “Well it’s not like you’re ever going to wear it again. Why can’t you put it in the washing machine?”

After explaining to him, I pulled the dress off its hanger, scrunched it into a ball and stormed out the flat. Tears of frustration, anger and just devastation streamed down my face. I strode across the car park to the communal bins, opened the lid and dumped my not-perfect but perfectly adequate but now mouldy wedding dress in the trash. Hours of work and dedication and the memories associated with it, just gone.

Should I ever get married again, (stop laughing!) I shall have that moment in the bridal shop. I’m done with being controlled. I’ll have what I want.

I crave you, need you, desire you,

You said you are mine. And I yours.

Too many miles apart,

Yet connected. By heart

We know each other

Intimate visions shared

Honest, naked, unashamed,

Our dreams, our bodies bared.

My imagination brimming

With you, with us,

My yearning dancing, swimming.

Anticipation rises,

Gaining urgency still,

I crave your warmth, your touch,

Possess my body and fill

Me with your passion

Make your strength mine

As we’re joined in loving

As if by grand design.

No longer my own but yours,

And you belong to me

Lovers, rough, yet lovers tender,

Exploring, with so much still to see.

Just trialling a poem on the blog. Would appreciate any feedback on using the blog as an outlet for my creative rather than factual writing. Thanks 👼🏻