I’ve never been diagnosed with dermatillomania. Also known as the skin picking disorder. Yet it has been there, largely unnoticed, largely unaddressed since I was about nine. I mean most kids pick at their acne, I get that. But for me it definitely became a nervous habit to scratch and pick at my face and scalp (sometimes arms, shoulders, boobs too) when I was anxious. I suffered quite a lot when I had my first breakdown in my twenties. I used to have a huge perm in those days (didn’t everyone in the 90s?) and I remember my hairdresser sending me away one day because she wouldn’t apply the perm lotion on account of the open sore I’d created on my scalp.

The disorder was fairly dormant after I came out of that prolonged period of depression. It wasn’t until I was unwell again in my mid forties that it reappeared, this time with a more intentional twist. Not just that absent minded picking without really being aware, but deliberately scratching and digging at my arms until they bled as a form of self harm. It gave me a new option when I didn’t have a sharp instrument to hand.

But again it improved as my mental health stabilised. Until recently that is. On top of attempting to get my head around Tier 4 and Lockdown mk III, I have had other challenges that have tipped my anxiety to a level where I’ve come to the unpleasant realisation that I’m picking again. Primary on my face, a little on my scalp. I look like I’ve been glue sniffing thanks to the sores around my mouth and chin. Kind of relieved we can’t go out right now because I look a state. And because I was doing it subconsciously it took a little time for me to fully notice.

So what happened since Christmas Eve when I last wrote? Two significant things. Firstly the gentleman I had been messaging disappeared for four days, reappeared for one text before disappearing again until today. I really do not understand what part of ‘I need really robust communication and loads of reassurance’ guys don’t grasp. I have EUBPD. Never leave me wondering. It’s dangerous. My imagination is only capable of the catastrophic in the absence of verifiable information. However he did apologise today and I explained again why he can’t just disappear if he actually wants to be with me, more than just online. Hopefully it sank in.

And then there was also a particular friendship, that had rather innocuously become more difficult. Words like toxic, manipulative and draining come to mind. I found myself dreading picking up my phone of a morning, because if they hadn’t already messaged before I woke, you could 100% guarantee the minute I opened Facebook or Messenger this friend would appear with their daily dose of drama and woe. I feel mean being this way, but I realise now how much they have been getting me down lately. And actually I’m understating the extent of what I have been through with them. Too often after worrying me sick, they’d post a perfectly filtered, smiling selfie on Facebook, spouting some positivity crap like nothing had happened. They may be able to fool themselves, their friends, and move on but as an empath I’d still be dealing with the after effects of their spin. I’ve had to create space between us. I don’t know yet if it will be permanently, but I have a huge amount of healing to do currently. Not just down to them, by any stretch of the imagination, but the friendship was exhausting and it was one sided. I can’t keep giving from an empty well.

I guess things just crept up on me. I knew my anxiety was pretty bad but it was only when I realised my dermatillomania had resurfaced and I looked in the mirror at my horrible scabby face that I fully realised I’m probably struggling a bit more than I thought. I couldn’t bring myself to turn my camera on at our choir Zoom meeting yesterday. I’m ashamed of how I look. And it’s been years since it’s been problematic, it feels like such a backward step.

I can’t say I’m sorry to see the back of 2020, and I’m very aware I’m not alone in that. Aside from the two spells in my life when I’ve been acutely unwell, and the period immediately after being widowed, it’s right up there on the leaderboard of difficult times. Previously when I have been this mentally unwell I have had the support of the community mental health team. This year I have gone it alone, apart from the support of my son, a handful of close friends and the locum GP from our surgery, who did her absolute best to both support me and get me additional help (sadly with minimal success). So I’m kind of half heartedly giving myself a pat on the back for surviving. Even if that’s all I’ve done.

I would never assume the start of a new year is going to somehow cosmically improve our fates overnight. But I do pray the coming year will be more bearable and positive for all of us. I wish you peace, happiness and health. Thank you for reading 👼🏻

I’ve been trying to get pen to paper for a week now. Or at least fingers to keyboard. But you know how it is at this time of year. Hectic. Even without the frenzy of pre-Christmas visiting, my health has dictated that the amount I would achieve each day would be seriously limited this year. Oh the joys of chronic illness. But I’ve arrived at Christmas Eve, just about intact, physically at least, emotionally I’m hanging by a thread, but everything is as up together as it’s going to be.

I’ve learned to lower my standards. The flat hasn’t been cleaned from top to bottom. No one’s visiting anyway. I have some decorations up, but my lounge is not filled with fairy lights that dramatically and simultaneously illuminate at the touch of a remote control button. And unlike my glory days of making three Christmas cakes each year, Christmas puddings, enough mince pies to sink a ship, jigsaw log, marzipan novelties, homemade chocolates and so on, I’ve just bought what we fancied and there’s still enough to feed an army. Didn’t actually anticipate the boy getting a food goody bag from work, and a hamper because he’s still categorised as a care leaver. We won’t go hungry. The boy is having Christmas lunch with his other, other family. I have been threatening to just eat Quality Street and drink Baileys, but we’ll see. And we will have our gargantuan roast together on Boxing Day.

So one week ago I had my fifth weekly appointment at the sexual health clinic in Basingstoke. The previous week they had taken a swab to check the infection I’d had was gone. I had also been having a smattering of genital warts frozen each appointment. I got my swab results back, I am infection free, and when they checked out the warts, they had all gone too. I felt stupidly happy. Trailing to appointments each week was becoming tiresome but I kind of felt I deserved it for my irresponsible sexual behaviour. Walking away from the clinic I felt a huge sense of relief. If I haven’t mentioned this before, having one’s genitalia blasted with liquid nitrogen is bloody painful. Eye watering painful. I do not recommend. Zero stars.

With that sorted, Christmas preparations got into full swing. Cards got posted. Gifts were wrapped. Presents were sent or delivered. Decorations were placed. Shopping was done. Groceries arrived. The boy was dispensed to shop for missing and forgotten food items. Even wine got mulled (the closest I’ve got to domestic goddess status so far).

My dad’s will didn’t leave anything specifically to his grandchildren. He had said to me previously that it was up to me to decide what I would give to the boy. I assume he had the same conversation with my brother regarding his children. My financial advisor warned against giving a large cash sum to the boy. As he had always planned to get a newer car with it, I bought the car for him, as advised by the financial guru. Yesterday we collected it from the dealership. Seeing him so incredibly excited and happy, after all he has been through in his short life so far was an absolute joy. If I haven’t said this recently, my son is an awesome young man and I am beyond proud of him. And as much as I wish he didn’t have to, he looks out for his mental and disabled mum like a boss.

So I have been somewhere between feeling accomplished and absolutely buzzing most of the last week. The thing I had been trying to avoid thinking about was trading in my son’s old car. Previously my car. AKA Little Red Car. The actual star of a car who arrived in my life twelve years ago when my husband died. I had really strong emotional bonds with Little Red. Saying goodbye to her was incredibly sad. I hope she finds a new home with someone who takes care of her. She’s been faithful and reliable and she deserves that.

And then we got home to the news that our area is moving from tier 2 to tier 4 on Boxing Day. I just felt utterly despairing. I want to stay in, stay safe and see an end to all of this, but I also want to get out, see my friends, and get my hair and nails done. Not because I’m selfish and don’t care about others, but because those self care measures improve my very vulnerable mental health. While the boy headed out again in his new car, I sat home alone and howled. Desolate, miserable, frustrated tears. I already feel like I’ve been running on empty for months. How much more?

So what then can I say? What I always say; have the best Christmas you can. Do what you need to do to get through. Look after yourselves and those you love. Survive. Breathe. The rest isn’t important. Sending love x

Christmas 👼🏻

And here’s some penguins. Because who doesn’t love penguins?

Neither my breasts nor my nipples are pointy. The boobs are obscenely oversized and just hang there, the nipples are downward facing and quite flat. I recently removed the piercing from my right nipple as it had migrated so close to the surface, I was anxious what may happen if I left it. So I now just have a bar through my left. I’m not sure my breasts have ever been anything but pointless, they definitely were when it came to nourishing my child, but I fear certain of my sexual partners may take me to task.

I never imagined, when I started blogging that I would ever write in any detail about my breasts. I certainly wouldn’t have entertained writing multiple blog posts about them. But here we are. As I continue on my journey towards breast reduction it seems to make sense to write through it. And the emotions that accompany it.

Today I had my second, more detailed consultation with my surgeon. I have to say, I think this gentleman is the bee’s knees. I am unaccustomed to private medicine and I know it is said that you get what you pay for, but there is something about him, totally professional, polite, helpful and able to put someone as anxious as me completely at ease. Didn’t use medical jargon but neither patronised me. And incredibly down to earth. I would be happy to entrust my future boobs to this man. And his scalpel.

The good news today is that potentially I can have the surgery done sooner if I am happy to go to one of the other clinics my surgeon practices from. I have no issue with that. I would rather like to get on with it.

My only hesitation is this; in the course of the surgery my own nipples would not be able to be saved. Given the size and pendulous nature of my breasts, the blood supply could not safely be maintained to the nipple. It is relative to the distance between where my nipple naturally sits now (minus bra) and where it would need to be relocated to during the surgery. And thanks to my huge boobs it’s just too far. I would have a nipple graft, a darker area to give the illusion of having a nipple, however, as I understand it, it may not be raised and it certainly wouldn’t come with the usual nerve endings and erectile function.

Which leaves only one question; is that an issue for me? I have already been soul searching on this, but I always come back to the same thing. My breast reduction is about me. It is not about future partners. It is about my posture, my joints and the limitations on my life currently. It was never about having designer boobies. It’s for my health and wellbeing and frankly if anyone ever had a problem with my lack of responsive nipples, then they’d have no place in my life.

Bring it on!

Am trying so hard not to cry currently. Not because there’s anything wrong with crying, but just because I already have a banging headache and trying to type with tears in my eyes would be problematic. My concentration is already pretty poor. I feel like my mental health has plateaued at a very low level. I’m existing and that’s about it. While I don’t have any plans to do anything dire, if I’m honest I don’t have much in the way of plans to do anything at all. I don’t want to get out of bed. I don’t want to get a bath. I certainly don’t want to shave my legs. I don’t want to cook, or eat, or do laundry or go for a walk. I want to stay in bed and hide.

I definitely don’t want to have to go and sit outside in the cold to be able to see my friends. There’s no point arranging a walk with anyone because I can only walk for ten minutes. I know I’m kind of stating the obvious here, but I’m so, so sick of restrictions now. I appreciate the need to control the virus, but I’m losing it rapidly. Humans were never created to be solitary beings.

A few weeks back I was assessed by the community mental health team. The outcome of that was they have decided to send a support worker out to see me and write my crisis plan. It makes the fact that I’ve been managing my own deteriorating mental health since March, including a crisis in September/October feel a bit unappreciated to be honest. And their aim, once the crisis plan is written? Discharge me again. Just reflecting the level of care considered appropriate for someone with severe and enduring mental health problems in the face of a global pandemic. Is it surprising I’m fighting back tears?

I still haven’t beaten the unwelcome infection. I received a call this week requesting I return to the sexual health clinic as their initial diagnosis proved incorrect and I would need a different antibiotic to treat the infection I actually have. So consequently I’m now on my third course of antibiotics and struggling hard to remain hopeful for an end to the itch. I have been warned there’s every chance I could end up with thrush after so much antibiotic therapy, so one intimate itch could well be replaced with another. Genuinely I just want my bits to feel like they belong to me again. Safe sex guys. Voice of experience.

I guess in the face of the new tier restrictions announced today, and the recent guidelines for the Christmas period as well, it just brings home to me how isolating Christmas is if you don’t have much family. There are no other households I can envisage welcoming a grumpy widow for Christmas. My son will continue to socialise in parks and on walks and will probably spend Christmas with friends. And I don’t begrudge that. I just feel sad. A month from the festivities and all I feel is dread. I don’t have family to spend it with. What I do have is an awesome network of friends, with whom I frequent coffee shops and pubs the whole year round. And whom it will be very difficult for me to meet for the foreseeable future.

I’m a depressive. I fight a battle for my sanity every day. I wish I could be cheerier. More positive. Optimistic. But when life is as difficult as it currently is, that’s hard. This ongoing situation is exhausting. For everyone, but especially those who struggle with their mental health. Today it caught up with me. Months of frustration and stress. I’m going to go for that cry now.

Please take of yourselves 👼🏻

Why is the second lockdown dragging so much more than the first? For me at least, my mental health hadn’t recovered from the first one, so I came into it from a weaker position. I don’t think the time of year helps either. First lockdown the days were brighter and getting longer, the weather was mostly better. I know I mentioned the darkness of the days in a previous blog, but I can’t think of a single year previously that has affected me this much.

Before this lockdown I’d been chatting on a dating site with a lovely gentleman. We managed to meet once before the current restrictions came into force. We went for a cuppa and a chat and given we were getting on well, we drove to a rural car park and had a bit of a smooch in the back of his car. Ok, ok, maybe a little more than a smooch. We’ve been chatting online since, a lot, and have been anticipating a time when we can physically be together again. Seem to be getting along pretty well.

Not long after we met I appeared to go down with thrush. I knew I’d used some scented bubble bath, which is sometimes problematic, so I didn’t think much of it. After three courses of treatment and involving the practice nurse though I was still uncomfortable. She thought maybe I had a urine infection and started me on a short course of antibiotics. Things weren’t improving. The duty GP suggested I contact the sexual health clinic. I’d already done one of their home test kits, but my symptoms were getting worse. Sore, itchy and a vile discharge. The penny was beginning to drop. My insanely promiscuous swinging lifestyle had probably caught up with me. Yet I thought I’d generally been safe. And I took a test every three months without fail. Then it hit me; the undertaker.

I saw a guy on my return from Bognor, at his place of work, a funeral director’s. If I’m honest I knew there was a good chance we would have sex, but I was unprepared for how little dialogue and niceties there would be. He had said he wanted a relationship with me, in fact he’d promised all sorts. I should have listened to my own mantra that says, “If it seems too good to be true, it probably is”. He turned out to be the kind of man who pins you down with his own body weight and penetrates a woman, before asking, “Shall I carry on?” Now obviously at this point I had the choice to say no. He knew I wanted safe sex, I’d brought it up previously but as far as I was concerned the damage was done. Also I experience hypersexuality. I admit I was getting off on the riskiness of the venue and I hadn’t been with a man in more than a month. So I let him continue. Judge me if you wish. Believe me, no one has been harder on me than me these last few days. He ghosted and blocked me the following day.

Can I just say, never, ever have unprotected sex with a random. Because not only does having a infection really suck, but trying to get an appointment with the sexual health clinic is like something from nightmares. Their booking system is shocking, and in my city there’s only a couple of half day clinics run each week. Which are booked up before you can even get your call answered. I am so grateful to my friend in Basingstoke basically escorting me, putting aside her own health, because I would never in a million years have found the clinic, or got beyond my own anxiety around getting to places I’m unfamiliar with. Friends like that are absolutely priceless.

Well I’m sure the less you know about my clinic visit the better. I don’t wish to unnecessarily scar anyone with the mental images. I will however conclude this paragraph by mentioning I am being treated for chlamydia and gonorrhoea and had a couple of genital warts frozen off.

I had conversed online with my new lovely gentleman prior to my clinic visit. Being the painfully honest person I am, I wanted to give him the option to run for the hills sooner rather than later. As yet he hasn’t. But in true Angel style I did warn him that given where his tongue had been, he should definitely consider getting an STI check. Because I’m subtle like that.

And then there were the previous partners to contact. My first communication with Dave since we’d split. He was so lovely to me. Made me realise why I (still) love him so much. One swinging friend, he was unfazed, very matter of fact. And then there was the undertaker. Whose very mature response was to pretend to be someone else. Give me strength.

Why am I writing this? Because my emotions have gone through the the wringer the last few days. I’ve felt deep shame because there’s still stigma around contracting a sexual disease. I’m usually a sensible, intelligent woman, I know very well the precautions that would have reduced the risks, yet here I am. My crime? Having an insane sex drive and a tendency to say yes when I should probably say no. And the ironic part is that when I left Dave I gave up my swinging lifestyle. Just wanted to meet one person and settle down. I’ve been less sexually active recently than in the last two years. But it only takes one (immature, dirty undertaker*)

*scumbags are available from all professions.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl with straw-blonde hair and big blue eyes. She believed her family was like other families. She learned conflict was bad; hide from it and depression was normal; blame it for bad days. Anxiety and school phobia made her throw up, morning after morning. She begged her mother to let her stay at home, but apparently the consequence of that would be mummy going to jail, a fate more terrifying than even school. At nine years old another horrendous event occurred in the life of the already distressed child. Breasts.

She felt unprepared for womanhood and watched aghast as her little girl nipples began to swell and bud. Friends her age were still wearing pretty little vests; she was taken to Woolworths to buy her new bra. A guardsman in his sentry box stood watch on each breast. Another on the matching knickers. And no that’s not a euphemism, there were men in busbies on my first bra. Oh how we loved Woolies.

Anyhow the small triangles of stretchy polyester didn’t last long. I was soon upgraded to a B cup lace bra. Most of my friends still had nothing to fill a bra. Boys at my primary school were fascinated by my rapid launch into puberty and demonstrated their appreciation for my new boobs by mercilessly pinging the back band of my lovely new bra until I cried. I would have a sore red line across my back when I removed the bra. As soon as I possibly could. I hated it and everything associated with it. And I discovered comfort eating, a habit I’ve never shaken. And being bullied at school for being fat at least took some eyes off my breasts.

By the start of secondary school I was wearing a C cup bra. How I wish we’d had polo shirts for uniform in those days, not stiff school blouses that gaped on my bust every time I moved. When I was abused as a youngster by my mother’s male friend it was generally my boobs that got the attention. I would cringe under his touch, knowing if I made a fuss he’d take it out on my mum. Until at 14 I told her I wouldn’t go with her to see him anymore. As much as she turned on the emotional blackmail I learnt an important lesson; I could make it stop. I found my voice.

By the time I was married at 19 I was wearing an E cup. My husband (literally) threatened me when I once brought up the subject of having a breast reduction. He told me God had created me as I am and He doesn’t make mistakes, so why would I even consider messing with things? Also he was a fan of big boobs. Not that he ever appreciated the assets at his disposal, but in his mind they belonged to him. I’d lost my voice again.

By the time my husband died I was wearing an H cup. I’d shelved ideas of getting the breasts reduced until maybe three or for years ago, when I presented at hospital with a queried lump. Thankfully the lump turned out to be nothing, but the breast surgeon I met rather aggressively said to me, “Whatever size are they? They need reducing!” It got me thinking, and I discussed it with my GP. He was incredibly supportive and wrote me a glowing referral letter, requesting I should be considered for a reduction operation on the NHS. I was refused. I felt utterly deflated. How could a breast surgeon be so blunt in pointing out how I needed the op and I still be declined.

At that point, I began to mull over the possibility of having the operation done privately when I inherited from my parents estate. Having watched my poor mum become increasingly hunchbacked as she got older because of her own oversized pendulous breasts, as much as didn’t want anything to happen to my dad, I kept that thought tucked away in the back of my mind. In fact on one occasion when he was speaking to me about his will, I did bring up that I planned to have the surgery. He was bemused. He didn’t grasp the health implications and like most men I have discussed the notion with, his reaction was, “Why ever would you want to do that?”

I’ve spent most of my life tolerating my breasts at best, at worst, hating them. In a radical attempt to make friends with them in the summer of 2018 I had my nipples pierced. A bit radical, but it seemed I had nothing to lose. And actually the results were pleasing. I enjoyed the increased sensitivity I gained. And I liked how they looked.

In the two year period I was with Dave, my wayward big boobs were admired and adored, not just by him, but by people we met in swinging clubs, both male and female. And I had some wonderful moments. For the first time in my life, I was ok with them.

After my dad died, and as dealing with his estate progressed, the reality of that operation loomed suddenly very real. And something I’d contemplated for so long suddenly filled me with every kind of doubt. I talked to lots of people. I talked to Dave, as he was the closest thing I had to a partner. He was incredibly supportive. I had to discuss the particulars with my financial advisor because of accounting for the cost. That was a surreal conversation I can tell you. I made tentative enquires. And this morning I had an initial mini consultation with my surgeon.

I was absolutely in bits, my anxiety was having a field day. I am so thankful for great friends who were cheering me on. I wanted Dave’s support, but I knew contacting him would be counter productive. I stayed strong. Also I wouldn’t wish breast cancer on anyone, let alone one of my closest friends, but when they turn out to be perfectly placed next door to the cosmetic surgery clinic I can’t help but be grateful.

The surgeon was so lovely. He listened to my concerns. I felt he really heard my heart, my struggle. I was not in any way dismissed or patronised. He clearly explained the procedure to me, gave me everything in writing, which is always good with my intermittently woolly brain. From being fearful and doubtful if I should even proceed on arrival, I was utterly reassured and full of hope when I left. Currently the clinic is not doing any cosmetic surgery because they have handed their theatres over to the NHS in light of Covid. Also I don’t have the money for the operation yet. But we decided we will go ahead when we can. And I’m excited. Any fears have gone.

Right now life is about making positive choices for me. Finding my voice again, discovering myself, building up my strength and resolve and evolving into a woman I’m content with.

Thanks for reading 👼🏻

I’ve had a series of moments today. ‘Overwhelm’ moments. It feels like grief (because let’s face it, I’m no stranger to loss) but it could just as easily be the super sized emotions that go with having EUBPD. Maybe a little of both. But they were the kind of moments that stopped me in my tracks and set my mind off on that old familiar roller coaster. Before I know it, tears are streaming down my face, and I’m struggling to do what I was doing.

It kicked off this morning with a picture a friend had shared on Facebook. Or maybe a meme. I’m not too sure what qualifies as a meme. But it read, “Unpopular Fact: There is still grief involved with letting a toxic person go.” Unfortunately it was not credited to anyone, so I’m unable to reference it, but it spoke volumes to me. It was 12 years at the weekend since my husband died. Plus I’m still getting my head round having said goodnight to Dave and walking away from our friendship.

After wrestling most of Saturday I did mark Andrew’s sad anniversary on Facebook at about 10pm, by posting a photo of him and a simple caption acknowledging he was still loved. I wrestled because I find the gushing comments about what a wonderful man he was, how hilarious, what a legend, such an inspiration etc, just a bit too much. I spent 20 years of my life with him, loving him and caring for him. It was the funny, brave inspirational young Andrew I fell in love with. He was the father of my only child, and as dads went, he was pretty good. But as a husband, he was toxic. A bully. I never had any financial independence. He would stand over me making me sign credit agreements he’d filled out in my name, and then when he died I had a shedload of debts. I was told what I was allowed to wear, what hairstyle I must have, who I was allowed to see, what I was allowed to watch. He’d regularly make basic decisions on my behalf. I was very often referred to as, “Stupid” that apparently was now my name. He had a generic hatred for people with mental health problems, which was bad news for me. But as with every previous year I have sucked up the well meaning comments about him. But know that after Andrew died I grieved for him pretty normally. I didn’t realise until 5 years later that the relationship had been abusive. And that’s when my emotions really hit the fan. Oh my.

And then there’s Dave. In an attempt to process the ongoing situation of missing him, yet hating myself for missing him I created a very short poem. It did make it on to my Facebook, but I’m putting it here too in case anyone missed it.

Ode to Dave (not my brother)

When you made a date,

With my mate,

You sealed your fate.

Arsehole.

Dave’s toxicity was more subliminal. He was clever, unlike Andrew. His strength lay in holding 100% of the power in the relationship. Only telling me what he considered I needed to know. Despite him being fully aware of my mental health condition that causes me to wildly overthink in the absence of robust communication. We had a Dom/sub dynamic, so he used the fact that he was my Dom to control me far beyond the scope of those roles. He relied on my inexperience to suggest what was expected of me, even if, as I found out later his requests were nothing more than his personal preferences. He created a dependence in me that he then rejected, appearing amused by my affection for him. I made the decision to walk away after Date-with-a-mate-gate for my own sanity (what’s left of it) but I’m currently missing him like crazy. My last ‘moment’ came as I was eating dinner. An, “I want to die and I miss my old perv” double whammy accompanied by a flood of tears. Completely floored me. I wish I could be angry with him. But I can’t. I just hurt.

I also have some random thoughts on toxicity and grief I would like to voice. 1. Just because you love someone doesn’t mean they can’t be toxic. 2. Because someone is/was toxic does not mean you won’t grieve for them when they’re gone. 3. Some Dominants are toxic, that doesn’t mean you won’t miss and grieve for them, and the dynamic, when it ends. 4. Just because the person is your partner, or your child’s parent, doesn’t mean they can’t be toxic. Or any other family member/friend for that matter. 5. Grief for a toxic person is blinking complicated. And this collection of observations is far from exhaustive.

Just as a sideline, my suicidal thoughts are rare and fleeting currently, which is a big improvement. A break by the sea was a tonic. And the referral made to the Community Mental Health Team has resulted in me being offered a telephone assessment with a senior nurse this week. Watch this space.

Thanks for reading. Take care of yourselves and each other. 👼🏻

When I last wrote, I was awaiting a call from my doctor, or at least the pleasant doctor standing in for mine. It was decided she would contact my former psychiatrist as she was inclined to concur that perhaps currently I need more support and potentially a tweak in my medication. She reassured me that I had done the right thing in asking for help, and was impressed at how hard I had fought to hang in for this long, and with the self care measures I had in place.

Those of you who know me personally may have seen what I posted on Facebook that day. Mostly friends were supportive but I’m always wary of replies beginning, “I don’t want to put a downer on things….” I was depressed already, maybe that was the thinking? It’s so hard to stay positive though when told there’s a 9 month wait for treatment. This is still unconfirmed as the doctor promised she would contact me after she’d heard from the shrink, and as yet there’s no news.

So this week I am finally on my annual escape to Butlins (only 5 months after it was originally booked for). I did hesitate whether being away from home, alone, when quite low was sensible, but although still depressed I think the fresh air and sea view have definitely perked me up. Sunny Bognor Regis by the sea has not failed to deliver. Again. I have mainly stayed in my hotel room, popping out some mealtimes, but I did have a very slow, very gentle walk along the seafront yesterday. I found a kiosk open where I could both purchase and consume a cup of tea and take in the view and the people passing. I took my bridge camera out with me and just snapped whatever caught my eye. Sea, sky, pebbles, a curious adolescent seagull. I’ve so enjoyed the sky recently, incredible cloud formations, amazing sunsets, and wondrous patterns of light. It’s humbling and grounding to allow the enormity of the sky astound me over and over.

I have also spent a good amount of time thinking. At the end of the month I have an initial mini consultation with a plastic surgeon with a view to having my breasts reduced. It’s something I’ve considered for a very long time and have said for many years that I would do when I had the means. In theory I will soon have the means and in light of a conversation with an NHS breast surgeon about 4 years ago, I am currently in the place where I am very seriously considering having the surgery for health reasons. It is not something I would do lightly, I’m very overweight so even the anaesthetic would be a risk. But I will go with my questions and then I’ll decide.

I also started thinking about my friend Dave. It was recently two years since our first date, an anniversary he refused to acknowledge. I confronted him again recently as to whether he would consider progressing our relationship into the realms of ‘serious’, ‘committed’. Again he declined, stating as always he can’t do commitment and he didn’t want to hurt me. No amount of reassuring him made a difference. He was adamant. With massive sadness we have parted company on amicable terms. I will be putting myself through the hell that is online dating once more. As much as I would love to have stayed friends with Dave, it would have been impossible for me to move on, and it would’ve been utterly unfair on whoever I go on to meet. The dynamic with Dave is such that if we ever met as friends, we would have ended up in bed. No question. Sexually we were a perfect fit.

After a truly emotionally charged online exchange between us, I was, for a while, inconsolable. During this time a friend had messaged me unaware of the circumstances. I explained where I was at, but never a fan of Dave, he decided to twist the knife. And additionally he has an ongoing joke about me being ‘a bit special’ and talks to me like I’m stupid. Well funnily enough I was not in the mood for said joke, which has been wearing thin for a time now anyway. And as mild as I usually am, I told him where to go. I just wanted him to back off, but despite apologising for swearing at him, he massively took offence and disappeared, threatening I wouldn’t hear from him again. I was not as you can imagine, in a good place. I lost two of my closest friends in one evening and I have sobbed intermittently throughout today.

However, tomorrow is another day and I’ll be back in Winchester after an interesting week beside the seaside. Oh and guess who has a date already? Onwards and upwards.

I was asked recently when I would next be writing on my blog. I didn’t at that point have an answer. I didn’t feel I had anything to say. Or rather, maybe I didn’t have anything worthwhile to say. Anything interesting. Anything positive. Anything encouraging or inspirational. Truth is, I’ve been struggling with significantly low mood for a while now, and it doesn’t want to shift.

It’s as if the changing of the seasons somehow carried my state of mind along with it, robbing me of the light and warmth of my soul. Replacing it with darkness and gloom. Eternal Autumn. Where some see mellow fruitfulness, I’m stuck in cold, decay and death. Opulent golden leaves turn quickly to the mucky brown sludge of pavements and gutters.

I’m not bothered by the rainfall. The patter on the window soothes me. Reassures me. It matches my gloom. It is cleansing. Many times I stare out and the same thought strikes me, “It’s so dark”. And again I’m uncertain if I refer to what is within or what is without. Like the marshmallow strands of a Flump, they are entwined, inseparable, inextricably linked. Can’t beat a confectionary analogy.

It started with a late and disturbed night one day last month followed by a particularly manic (in the busy sense not the bipolar sense) following 24 hours. And it was like I never caught up. I believed some extra rest, interspersed with some enjoyable, light hearted activities would cure me. But my head wouldn’t stop. I remained bombarded with negative thoughts, and of course my EUBPD fired up, causing me to overthink absolutely everything.

I couldn’t have felt more inadequate, more pathetic if I tried. Meanwhile my friends were going through their own horrible, heartbreaking stuff and I’m just looking on, unable to offer them the support they need. The niggling voice in my head telling me what a rubbish friend I am, and how selfish I am for trying to prioritise my own well-being, and how useless I am because I can’t even do that.

I’ll be honest, I miss having a partner at times like these. Not the partner I had, as I realise now how actually he exacerbated my depression, but the person a partner should be. I feel like I’m truly unlovable with my shocking mental health and my physical constraints. Do you have any idea how many men on dating sites want a woman to go on long walks with? That’s me out then. I didn’t expect to still be single 12 years after being widowed. I just didn’t. I’m lonely. And yet in more positive glimpses I believe I’m a decent person who deserves to be loved, who deserves to be happy, it just isn’t happening for me.

Still the closest thing I have to a relationship is the man called Dave. Not to be mistaken for my brother (who has gone remarkably silent since the bungalow sold). Dave my old perv, who makes me exceptionally happy when we’re together, but lives a million miles away and is adamant we will only ever be friends. I love Dave and would do whatever it took to be with him. But he doesn’t want that. Doesn’t want me I read that as. And I know he has his own stuff going on, so I try not to take it personally. But I definitely take it personally.

I started obsessing about buses. The way they come rattling down the main road past my flat at a rate of knots. I dreamt of casually walking out of my road into the path of one of them. It seemed so appealing I didn’t leave home for two days, just in case I actually did it. Thankfully that strong urge has passed, at least for the time being and suicidal ideation has gone back to being a more passive notion again.

I’m waiting for a call from my doctor. Not that I’m pinning my hopes on there being any useful advice offered. One day at a time. It can’t feel this dark forever.