Ok, so maybe not actually everything. Just enough significant things to give me the illusion of everything in my little sphere of influence. Because my sphere has been a bit crazy recently.

Firstly the selling of my father’s home. Once we’d found a buyer, it was all systems go to get the place cleared and get all the paperwork in place. Obviously my brother armed himself with multiple spanners to throw in the works. So much time and energy expended on dealing with his delay tactics. It was utterly wearying. Additionally the essential correspondence going to and fro, by post, email and telephone was seemingly endless. On one occasion I’d overlooked some papers for a couple of days and ended up delivering them by hand to the solicitor’s office to make up a little time.

Finally when the clearance people had been in and the house was empty I went round to do a final check. Nothing prepared me for seeing the place as just a shell. My childhood home, the only house I’d ever known my parents live in, and nearly fifty years of memories reduced to bare rooms. I left swiftly, it was overwhelmingly emotional and the following day I handed over my keys to the estate agents. When I received the call to say we’d completed I just felt the most incredible sense of relief. My brother’s biggest objection throughout had been that he believed Dad wanted him to have and live in the bungalow. That wasn’t what Dad had told me and it also wasn’t in his will. Hence the lengths my brother has gone to to discredit the will, and in particular, me as the executrix.

There have been many accusations thrown around, including my having breast cancer (I don’t), my M3 killing spree where apparently I drove the wrong way down the motorway (I didn’t) and my mental incapacity. Because of the latter, and his insistence I was unfit to be a trustee of the house trust and to execute the will, my solicitor suggested I undertake a mental capacity test to protect myself in the event of him bringing a legal challenge. I agreed it seemed sensible, despite them insisting they had no cause for concern regarding my capacity. I was actually really nervous and wasn’t too sure what to expect. I’m aware bipolar does sometimes affect my memory and my cognitive processes, especially when I’m stressed. However my mental capacity is officially up to scratch. The process was humiliating; this is the test they use in dementia patients. I don’t know who was more awkward, me or the doctor, who apologised profusely for having to put me through the experience. I said I knew it wasn’t his fault. There was only one person responsible and while I may have been embarrassed for an hour, in the long term, who’s the loser? Not me.

I had been aware my mood was quite low at times. I was under enormous pressure with the house, and without so many of my self care measures since the beginning of lockdown I felt like depression was starting to really take hold. I called the duty GP at our surgery and had a bit of a chat with her. I sobbed down the phone how I needed to see my friends, and in fact not just see them, but touch them. I was skin hungry. I needed physical contact with other people. She told me to see my friends. When I enquired about social distancing she told me my mental health was more important. Obviously I wasn’t about to throw a huge party, but I have seen a handful of friends individually, some distanced, some not, for some much needed chat and cuddles.

The other thing I was totally struggling with was missing the man named Dave. Since I’d parted company with him early into lockdown he had blocked me on about every media I could think of and I’d been resigned to the fact I couldn’t contact him. I would receive odd snippets of updates from him via our mutual friend but he seemed to just be getting on with stuff, with no hint he might be missing me. I on the other hand was pining for him. Heartbroken I couldn’t initiate a conversation and sobbing myself to sleep at night. I was making myself ill, but didn’t know how to turn off those intense feels. Then I got a message from our mutual friend saying he was going to be local the following day, staying at his house here overnight. She knew how much I was missing him and she suggested I could drive up to see him.

Initially I was really unsure. I had a vision of him angry, yelling at me and kicking me off his doorstep. I just didn’t know what to do. But I did feel the friendship was worth trying to save, so the feisty, determined part of me took over and I made the decision to pay him a visit. He looked utterly aghast to see me. I very nearly lost the power of speech as I fought back the tears. But I did find some words, and we hugged at the bottom of the stairs, before he invited me in. Sat cuddled up on his sofa it almost felt like we’d never been apart. He seemed so genuinely pleased to see me. And I can report that absolutely none of the spark between us had gone and we may have broken our lockdown intimacy fasts.

I am under no illusions that we can go back to what we were. He moved away and now he’s selling his house here. However my life goes on in Hampshire. I’m saddened, but I do have my friend back, and our dialogue has been reestablished. I achieved my aim that night.

I have something new and different in the pipeline anyhow. More of that another time.

But for now things feel a lot more positive. And manageable. I was told yesterday I looked different, happier. I’ll take that.

Thanks for reading. Big love.

Having accepted an offer on my father’s property recently, it’s all systems go to get the place cleared now. Obviously as things rarely go smoothly in my life my efforts are being hampered, again, by my brother. I have now sorted through my parent’s many belongings, removed what I, my son and my niece wants and have boxed up the smaller items my brother wants. He has been served notice to collect them or risk having them sold. I fear he’s so busy protesting about this and is wasting valuable time. But I guess that is his lookout.

One of the random items I found in my dad’s desk was a brand new packet of razor blades. Yes, sound your alarm bells! My eyes grew wide as I held them in the palm of my hand and I discreetly stashed them in my handbag. I guess old habits die hard. I carried on sorting through things for another hour or two and when finally done, I tidied up and gathered my things to go home. For some reason I retrieved the razor blades from my bag, and popped them back in the desk with the remaining items there. I walked away feeling proud of myself.

In the middle of the week, I had a call from a mobile number I didn’t recognise. I hesitated before answering it, but as I don’t have the number for every single one of my friends in my contacts, I assumed it was probably a friend rather than a foe. Never assume! It was my brother, having borrowed a phone because I have his usual number blocked for my own sanity. Having a conversation with my him, on this occasion an hour and 20 minutes (after which I hung up because he was becoming increasingly aggressive) is rather like being leached by particularly vicious parasites. I’m drained in every way and my head is totally and utterly scrambled. I was feeling weary to say the least, but I desperately wanted to talk to my solicitor about the verbal onslaught. I managed a semblance of coherence I believe but my sense of achievement was short lived. I received a call shortly after from the top man at the solicitor’s office telling me my brother had phoned him claiming to be speaking on my behalf. Only because he knows they won’t take instruction from him.

And I also discovered he’s talking of contesting the will. Because I’m unfit to be the executrix. This, in very simple terms is because I won’t do what he wants, therefore I must be mental (because he has narcissistic tendencies so his way is not only the right way, but the only way). He is more spiteful according to how much I stand up to him. Apparently my decision to accept an offer on the bungalow is further proof of my madness. Seriously I’m tired of it. But I’m not backing down. I’ll waste a bit more of our inheritance taking a mental capacity test. The irony is not lost on me that he’s the deluded one but he’s forcing me to prove my sanity. He’s complaining how much my solicitor is costing, but it’s down to his objectionable behaviour that we now have four personnel working on our case, including the head man. Interestingly the legal people have no query with my capacity. And I’m guessing two years ago when the mental health team discharged me back into the care of my GP that they were satisfied all was well too. I have bipolar, it’s well stabilised, as a result I live with depression to a varying degree dependant on circumstances. Like lockdown.

Last night I hit my lowest point since the start of lockdown. I stood in my kitchen, messaging a friend, making a cup of tea (because I’m still desperately trying to self-care) and wishing that I hadn’t left those razor blades at the bungalow. I did a scan of the kitchen, clocked the knife block and considered for significant moments whether this is really what I want to do. Instead I picked up my phone and opted for emotional self injury instead of physical. I watched his name and number appear on the screen and I hit call. I left a tense, weepy message for the man named Dave. (Definitely not to be confused with the evil sibling of the same name). Thankfully he hasn’t got back to me.

Today I feel different. Not tickety boo but better than yesterday. No urges to cut up. No suicidal ideation. No desire to contact exes. I need to get through a few more weeks somehow. I’m so grateful for friends in real life who have become online friends and for online friends I hope will become friends in real life when this is over. And I know so many of them have been struggling too, so I say this not only to myself but whoever needs to hear it-don’t give up, keep on keeping on.

Big love 👼🏻

The quarantine period we are now experiencing was clearly to be expected. We saw it coming. But other than panic-buying certain essentials I was still largely unprepared for it. I read of a young widow, up in arms because analysts had compared lockdown to bereavement. I think when you’ve lost your life partner at a young age it is easy to become so absorbed by the enormity of your bereavement that you perhaps fail to remember that other kinds of loss, from very trivial to totally life changing, exist on a spectrum. And certainly, for me, lockdown has come as a series of losses.

Who anticipated such a loss of freedom? Suddenly I can’t just go where I want. I can’t see who I want. For someone like myself with restricted mobility, walking, running or cycling for an hour was inconceivable. I can just about get my fat little body to the nearest post box. Provided I don’t mind agonising back pain for the rest of the day. So I just spend hours indoors. My favourite bolt hole, Costa, is closed, depriving me of my safe place when the four walls threaten to smother me. Unlike many I don’t have a day structured around work or studies, but neither did my time consist of staying in all day everyday.

As a person living with serious mental illness, I have been taught to self-care to help manage my condition. I have a number of things that are positive and help improve my mood. Firstly I see a counsellor each week, to offload whatever is troubling me. Thankfully I have been able to continue my sessions by telephone. The other things I do, getting my nails done, having a massage, getting my hair cut and coloured, meeting up with friends and going to choir are all on hold for the moment. I’ve had to be really creative to keep up some self-care activities. And I’m really grateful for the friends who’ve realised this would be a particularly challenging time for me and have made a point of checking in with me. I appreciate it more than I can express and I wish I could hug every single one.

Now at the beginning of lockdown I was still seeing my Very Special Friend With Benefits, the man named Dave. After a very brief period apart last Autumn we had reconciled and I thought things were ticking over reasonably ok, despite him having moved permanently to Sheffield and me still being in Hampshire. He still owns a house here and we had met a couple of times when he was local and given the distance between us I was kind of confident we were pretty sound. Until lockdown. His behaviour obviously changed and there were discrepancies in things he was telling me. I had serious doubts that he was quarantined alone as he’d said. Because of my supreme ability to overthink, I needed more in the way of reassurances that he still wanted to be with me, and that we’d survive these unusual and unprecedented times. Sadly he could offer me none. He hunkered down, did what guys do, and went quiet on me. In a ditch attempt to encourage him to interact with me I asked if we could occasionally video call. After a day and a half he finally replied that it would be too difficult for him. The following day I was on Facebook and an advert came up for ‘a hug in a box’ and similar. I didn’t have his Sheffield address so I asked could I post him something? Again he declined. I felt him slipping away, unable to maintain the robust communication I really needed. In desperation I put to him the suggestion that he was with someone else. He completely ignored it, continuing to send funny memes and videos about lockdown. At this point I failed to see the funny side and I dumped him.

To say I was in bits was an understatement. Our only existing mutual friend was confident he’d be in contact to talk things though. He hasn’t. In fact he appears to have blocked me on every conceivable media. I’m so thankful to the friends who let me talk on the phone and cry late into the night as I’ve struggled with the unanswered questions. Although I knew he never loved me the same as I loved him, I did believe he was fond of me and respected me. Now I’m beginning to think that I was only ever his sexual plaything, as in fact, many friends had suggested. He had told me previously I would never leave him because the sex was too good. Shows what he knew.

I know for a fact we’re not the only couple who won’t have survived the lockdown period. But the end of our relationship, at this moment in time, for me, feels massive. We had been a part of each other’s lives for a year and a half and I actually had begun to believe we were for keeps, even if we never progressed beyond Very Special Friends With Benefits. I guess not. I still miss the messages. The in jokes. I miss having that one person that I tell things to. The important things and the important to me things. There is no doubt whatsoever that this is a significant loss. However alongside loss of routine, loss of self-care activities, loss of freedom and loss of physical contact with friends, it feels greater than ever.

I continue to have been preparing my father’s bungalow for sale. It has been a long process hampered in no small way by my mental health and my brother’s unwillingness to sell and therefore cooperate. I have been faced with so many memories, in the various belongings and in the home itself, where I grew up and my parents lived all my life until their deaths. I found myself one day last week, curled up in my dad’s armchair, chatting randomly to him, sobbing my heart out as I did. That in itself doesn’t particularly concern me. But spending time with one of my close friends after would have been the pre quarantine norm. A cup of tea, a cuddle and the chance to talk and process was sorely missed. I think continuing to grieve for my father at this time has been challenging, not least on his birthday when all I really wanted to do was book a table for me and the boy at dad’s favourite Harvester. Unable to do that I pushed myself to create a delicious lunch for us. And completely burned myself out in the process. I didn’t achieve much the following day. One day I will learn the constraints of the chronic illness I live with. But clearly not yet!

Being unable to do the things I usually do and spend time with my friends hasn’t been easy. It’s not a life changing bereavement (at least for me personally) but neither is it without consequence. My mental health has been decidedly ropey at times. I don’t exaggerate to say there have been days when depression has pinned me to my bed. It has stolen my appetite. I make myself eat by routine, not because I am hungry. Many days I wonder why I have a headache, only to realise I haven’t had a drink all day.

But in the midst of this I have found the ability to be creative when it comes to self care. I have been writing more. I just about managed to paint my own nails. Despite the lithium tremor. I’ve had some cooking sessions where I’ve topped the freezer with nutritious meals. And I’ve communicated in new ways with friends online. Spent quality time with the boy. Even when things have been hardest I’ve managed to avoid having to call in additional mental health support, and I’m proud of that. Life isn’t at all easy right now. But equally it isn’t all bad.

*since starting writing, some restrictions have been eased, some freedoms have been increased and some outlets have reopened. Hence I may have enjoyed a takeaway Costa earlier today!

When I reflect on the most difficult points in my adult life, times when I was hospitalised due to my mental health, times when I was penniless, when my marriage was most difficult, when my husband died, leaving me bereft and in tens of thousands of pounds of debt and even when my mum died, there was one constant person in my life who invariably helped me pick up the pieces. My dad. And I don’t say this lightly; the legend who was my dad.

It utterly breaks my heart to say ‘was’. I still can’t comprehend it. I miss him so much. In the last 39 days since he died I have organised and attended his funeral. It went off so well and was absolutely becoming of the man he was. Practical, straightforward, no nonsense sort of man. Yet utterly devoted to my mum throughout her dementia and in death. And completely invested in the well-being of my brother and I until the end of his days.

And I have endeavoured to get underway the process of administering my dad’s estate. Despite being the younger of the two siblings my dad considered me by far the most responsible and trustworthy. However he was also aware how vulnerable my mental health can be, so had advised me to go directly to a solicitor and hand everything over in the event of his death. In fact he’d planned to change his will to make a solicitor the executor, but sadly time wasn’t on his side.

Because despite the degree of kidney failure he was experiencing, in addition to a handful of other medical issues, it was a fall that caused my dad’s death. Although we are still uncertain whether he had a stroke that caused him to fall, or whether he simply lost his footing, he appeared to have fallen down the steps near his shed.

Part of me has a sense of satisfaction that the fall responsible for his fatal head injury occurred as he was going about his everyday, independent life; taking a jar of pickles to the shed to pop in the vice to loosen the lid. However seeing him crumpled at the bottom of the steps before the ambulance arrived, in a pool of blood absolutely ripped me apart. Later we discovered he’d fractured his skull and had a catastrophic brain bleed. I don’t believe he was experiencing pain proportionately to such injuries at that point. And in fact when the ambulance technician asked him if he knew why they’d been called, he just managed, “I don’t feel too good”. Those were his last coherent words.

He lived for four days after his fall. We were told that in the unlikely event that he woke up dad would be severely disabled and unable to be independent. Still my brother kept telling him he needed to wake up. I made the impossible decision, with the doctors, not to resuscitate him in the event of arrest. Despite abuse from my sibling and his determination to prove I was mentally incapable of making such a decision, I completely believe I did the right thing. And every time I was alone with my dad I reassured him it was ok to go, if he needed to, that I would take care of everything and not to worry. I didn’t want him to survive at the cost of his independence, he’d have hated that. As much as it was wholly devastating I would rather live (somehow) without him than have him here and desperately unhappy.

But I miss him like crazy.

So many tears writing this. Hoping it will be cathartic.

Since dad died the relationship between my brother and I has deteriorated further. It is in no way what I want, but I owe it to dad to ensure his last wishes were respected and executed. A man who was so fair in life and always made sure both of us were provided for, would want nothing less in the event of his death.

It’s going to be a long journey. When I consider it, it overwhelms me. Not only all the ongoing administration, but an inquest into dad’s death, because it was sudden and unexpected, and apparently investigations at both hospitals where he was a patient following his accident.

At some point I need to learn to be my own rock. Already aware since mum died I’d been thrown rather reluctantly into the role of matriarch; now people are relying on me to make the grown up decisions for others like never before. How did this happen? How do I do all this difficult stuff without my rock?

All I really know in this is how great my friends are. They’ve carried, supported and protected me in recent weeks. Widowed friends, mental health friends, family members, and of course my incredible best friend Frances. And Dave, the unexpected friend from the dubious origins of Plenty of Fish. Now affectionately known as The Old Perv. He makes my life a little brighter by being in it. I guess this is how I get through, until I develop the rock within myself that I can depend on.

It’s getting on for six months now since the gentleman formerly introduced to you as Graduation Man subtly appeared in my life. I think from now on, I’ll refer to him as Dave. That is, after all, his name. I will, at some point, disclose more about our unorthodox friendship, but first, a little something from November.

Six weeks after meeting Dave, and spending increasingly more time with him, he announced to me, that after Christmas he was being moved for work to Lincolnshire. I had absolutely no clue at that time, how that may play out. All I could focus on was how cruel life could be, that having found someone who made me feel alive for the first time in I can’t remember when, they should be relocated a few hundred miles away (when I experience travel anxiety).

I was at the time attending a creative writing course, and it was our usual procedure to free write for a certain length of time at the outset to warm up. This is my free writing from 15th November 2018 having spent the previous day and night with Dave and learning his future plans.

“Don’t you dare disappear on me now I’ve found you. I’ll stamp my feet and have a tantrum, because frankly, it’s not fair. You turned up in my life, turned upside down my life, you just can’t go again.

You have been my enabler, my facilitator, and so much more. We’ve watched my confidence grow – together we’ve watched it. You saying I’ve done it, but me knowing that without you it would never have happened.

In the near darkness I watch your chest rise and fall. The familiar sound of your breathing comforts me. I’m not alone. Please don’t leave me alone.

Only you have ever made me feel the things I’ve felt. Only you have taken me to such delicious places and I can’t bear the thought of losing that bond between us. You laughed when I described us as unorthodox, but that’s what we are. We don’t fit the mould. We forge our own path. And what a path!

Early morning light and a hand appears on my body. Soothing my fears, calming my alone-ness. My body responds to your touch, in that familiar way, and I melt my form into yours, two bodies become the divine one. How could I give this up? My heart would shatter into a billion pieces. Please don’t do that to me.”

Well he went. It was best for his company. It was best for his grown children. But the good news is, he still has his home here and gets back as often as he can. Sometimes he’s still required to work locally so I still get to see a fair bit of him.

I miss him. But it’s ok. Sort of.

👼🏻

A little over nine weeks ago I had found myself back on the notorious online dating site, Plenty of Fish. Not that my fishing skills had proved up to much of late. I’d abandoned the alleged naval gentleman I’d been messaging, something just didn’t feel right about him, so I decided to dust off my rod again and see if I could net myself someone with a little more promise.

I had plenty of interest and I messaged a handful to see what transpired. One message sat in my inbox for a few days. Although I didn’t immediately respond to it, I was impressed that the sender had copied and pasted my profile picture and added the caption “I like the look”. It had taken more effort than a simple ‘hello’ and I assumed from the comment that he did in fact like the look of me. I scanned his profile, looked at his lone photograph (a very formal graduation shot – taken from some distance so it was near impossible to distinguish his facial features) but I kept coming back to one thing; he was only seeking friendship and fun. I’d literally rejected a guy a couple of days before because he was only up for being my fuck buddy, yet for some reason on a Friday teatime in early October, I decided to contact Graduation Man.

I’ve become so accustomed to guys messaging forever, that I was totally unprepared for Graduation Man to invite me to meet him that evening. I agreed, but I was concerned. I didn’t have time for a bath, I hadn’t shaved my legs, in fact I only just had time to change out of my scruffy jeans and put something half decent on. No pretty undies, no niceties, just tidy myself up a little and go. He took me to McDonalds. I still tease him about being mindful what you get free with a happy meal. He’s been stuck with me since!

I never envisaged leaving the restaurant with him. My common sense tells me you don’t go back to the home of a guy you’ve just met. But I guess we just clicked. There was obvious mutual attraction and conversation flowed so easily. I messaged a friend to let him know I was on a date and going with the guy back to his place, he simply warned me, ‘Be careful’. Yet I didn’t feel I was taking a risk, so at ease, already, was I with Graduation Man.

His home was modern and immaculate (in stark contrast to mine). We sat on the sofa, drank tea and watched rubbish television. When he slipped his arm around my shoulder I was totally relaxed with him. As he gently stroked my hair I let my head sink into his shoulder. Twice he asked if I was falling asleep on him, as I was so utterly chilled. I felt completely safe, and perfectly cherished. At around 10 o’clock, out of nowhere, I announced that I needed to make a decision whether I should set off for home, or would he like me to stay? I think my boldness probably surprised us both to an extent, and yet not, because it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Once we’d established I was going to stay, things completely ramped up a gear. I remember the moment as we held each other, hands roaming each other’s bodies, when my mouth sought his, and we kissed for the first time. I wasn’t disappointed. The sexual tension was palpable. Soon he led me by the hand up the stairs. Two things happened that night that are out of the ordinary for me. First, during the course of our lovemaking, he brought me to orgasm. Twice. (I’m notoriously bad for never being relaxed enough to get there when I’m with a partner). And secondly, after; I slept. I think it’s safe to say that this all pretty much blew my mind. I think I decided more or less there and then that if friendship and fun was this good, I could live with it.

Little did I know that was just the beginning of a voyage of discovery that is ongoing. It was been a whirlwind of new, pleasurable experiences. But that’s a whole other blog.

Thanks for reading.

👼🏻

I have no idea where the months go to. As Autumn approaches I feel what I can only describe as slight bewilderment as to how I got here already. It will be that infamous midwinter Christian festival before I know it. God give me strength.

Something I failed to mention previously on here is that I had my driving license revoked on health grounds. That was the end of April and I am still fighting to prove my capability to drive now in September. Despite numerous assurances from my former psychiatrist, I am still minus license.

And yes, I wrote that right, my former psychiatrist. Not because he left or retired, but because he discharged me back into the care of my GP. It was an amazing moment, let me tell you. And the irony is not lost on me that my mental health is the most stable it’s been in nearly five years, yet this is the time that somebody, in their wisdom has decided I’m unfit to drive. You couldn’t make this stuff up.

Coinciding with my discharge from the mental health team, because Sod’s Law seems so often to go that way, my much loved and respected GP of the last 15 or so years retired. And unfortunately the practice didn’t seem to handle finding his replacement terribly well. Finally I know who my new doctor is, and she seems nice enough, but there was a prolonged period of uncertainty I could have done without.

During the summer I took a course at Mind called The Decider which looked at handling difficult emotions. I recommend. The content was similar to ECS but it was presented in a fun, quirky and lighthearted way.

At the end of the course I was fully expecting to be discharged from Mind; that had been on the cards for a long time, before I’d started The Decider, and I was fairly confident that having completed that I would almost certainly be out on my ear. Imagine my surprise then when the lovely Liz, my support worker said she absolutely wouldn’t be discharging me yet given I’d just lost the support of the mental health team and my trusted GP. She did say they probably wouldn’t be able to offer me a lot of input, but I could always email her or phone in if I needed support. That meant a lot to me.

Two years ago Mind ran creative writing sessions, co-facilitated by a local poet, in conjunction with The Winchester Poetry Festival. The poet runs various initiatives locally and I subscribe to his emails. It was via said email that I discovered he was coming back to Mind this year to run poetry sessions again. I immediately emailed Liz to ask if my name could be put forward, and within a few days I had a call inviting me to attend the course. So exciting!

First session was last week and it was so much fun. I’m not much of a poet, but working in a group alongside a published author is massively inspirational. I remember two years ago feeling exactly the same. Suddenly my head is bubbling with words, scrambling over each other in an effort to become a part of something bigger. Something beautiful. Something poetic.

And I did get to thinking. Two years ago I had not long ago been sexually assaulted. I was feeling incredibly angry at life. In the writing group I had been crowned Queen of the F-Bomb, such was my overuse of the word. It just summed up my attitude to life at that point. Despite having been discharged by the CMHT I still experience depression to a more or lesser degree, much of the time. My anxiety has been worse in the past months than for decades. I’m far from out of the woods, but I’m doing ok. I’m reasonably stable most of the time. My fear is, that my creativity tends to awaken in my most extremes of mood. I have no idea if I can pen poetry in stability. I guess I’ll see.

And as I don’t feel like a blog is complete unless I make reference to my love life, here goes. I launched myself into the online dating scene with a vengeance. Again. Three guys who said they wanted to be with me either stood me up or just disappeared. All in recent months. It’s safe to say I’m getting a complex! Currently I am chatting online with a gentleman who claims to be serving in the navy and based in Portsmouth. He’s apparently at sea at the moment. Or he could possibly be a scammer in a Nigerian internet cafe. I’ve pretty much given up trusting my judgement. My judgement sucks! Time will tell.

Well until I write that award winning poem, that’s probably enough from me for now. Take care all and thanks for reading.

👼🏻

Gosh I am loving the relaxed holiday vibe now I’ve pushed through the anxiety. My writing head is back on and the creative juices are flowing beautifully.

This blog has been a long time in the pipeline, I started forming it in my mind weeks ago when I had one horribly sleepless night. Sleepless, I later discovered, because I found my night medication laying on the table about three days later. It’s not called bipolar brain for nothing.

Anyway, my lack of sleep got me thinking, and the seed for the blog, “Things I would never have done if my husband was still alive” was sown.

Now don’t get me wrong. I loved my husband, and in fact always will. But I’ve made no secret of the fact that our marriage was extremely difficult at times, and that he liked to keep me controlled. So consequently, over the last nearly ten years, as I have had to learn to forge my own way, I have discovered myself, and ways of doing things that previously would not have been smiled upon. So I thought it might be fun to compile a little list.

On a serious note, I would never have been able to go back to uni and get my foundation degree. Certainly not while volunteering to get my work experience. The idea would have been dismissed immediately, probably on the grounds that we couldn’t afford it. But additionally, improving myself was generally frowned upon. I believe it made him feel insecure.

On a more frivolous note, I would, in no way on earth, have numerous piercings. And do you know what? I adore the fourteen coloured studs in my right ear. I have frequently described my right ear as my best feature, so much am I in love with it. While I can’t attribute meaning to each piercing, many of them represent a time in my life where my emotional pain caused an expression of physical pain. They are part and parcel of my story and I totally embrace them. But my husband, given he nearly lost the plot when I had my ears pierced in my mid twenties (just one in each lobe – nothing weird) and promptly sent me to Coventry, would probably have disowned me for the current state of my pinna.

In a similar way, I absolutely wouldn’t be tattooed if I was still married. Some of my widowed friends have memorial tattoos. My husband would turn in his grave if I opted for remembering him in such a fashion. I imagine, if he’s watching over me he’s probably furious that I’ve been inked at all. But as I love to remind anyone who happens to have an opinion – my body, my choice. And when you have experienced the kind of relationship where your body was apparently the property of your spouse, freedom is to be cherished, choice to be celebrated.

I’m going to very blunt now. Well to be fair, I’m guessing by now dear reader, you’re used to that, but just by way of warning in case anybody new has stumbled upon the musings from the Pink Palace for the first time. For twenty years I was with a man who appeared to have no sex drive whatsoever. Neither did he have any sense of responsibility for addressing the intimate needs of his wife (that would be me). So I guess it’s hardly surprising, that after many years of frustration, I have become a little more active and experimental in the bedroom (or wherever else for that matter). And I could probably name a number of sexual activities that have been experienced on my journey of discovery but I’m going to concentrate on one – oral. I’m 47 and until two years ago I had never given or received oral sex. And I have to say, I’m rather happy to have added said acts to my repertoire. Despite my husband’s protestations that it was horribly unhygienic, I’ve yet to have been caused any ill by it. On the contrary I believe it to be rather splendid and utterly beneficial to wellbeing.

Returning to more serious matters, I believe wholeheartedly that my son would still be living at home and not in foster care. If his dad was still alive it is unlikely that he and I would have experienced mental breakdown at the same time and I feel sure that we would have had more support from my husband’s family even if we had. And we’d have been the tight little unit we always were. I often reflect on how desperately disappointed my husband would have been that I couldn’t cope, actually given his shocking misunderstanding of mental illness he would probably more likely be furious with me. That was his usual approach to my depression.

So to lighten the mood again a little, I think it’s safe to say that I wouldn’t have had pink hair. Or purple, blue, black, blackberry, red, or even the lovely bleach blonde look I’m currently sporting. It is lighthearted, but when you’ve been told how you can have your hair styled for so many years, it’s a revelation to discover pink! When I ditched my pink hair at the end of last year I felt wholly torn. Could Pink Angel continue to exist without pink hair? I concluded that Angel will always be pink at heart and maybe at some point in the future I will revisit pink hair. But the key thing is, I have the choice. I’m free to have my hair as I please.

And that’s powerful. I wish I had the insight when I was married that I have now. I wish I’d known there’s another way. I have merely highlighted a handful of ways my life was controlled. There were more, so many more. And I wish I knew I had the choice to walk away.

Thank you for reading.

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I have been anticipating this break for months. I’m back in sunny Bognor Regis after a year away. It’s my annual escape from reality and responsibilities. And the 19th. Except with the way the dates have fallen I will be home for the 19th, and avoiding wedding anniversary related thoughts and memories could be a challenge with a whopping great royal wedding happening that day. I will probably hide as much as possible, avoid the TV (unless I suddenly get the urge to torture myself) and pretend none of it is happening – the royals and my own memories. How successful that will turn out to be, I’m unsure.

So here I am, surrounded by the usual chaos of a Butlins holiday. And for the first time it’s getting to me a bit. My anxiety has been bad, I’m blaming that, because the other alternative is that I’m getting old, and I refute that notion passionately. The noise and small people are just kind of getting on my nerves. And this from someone who worked with 0-4 year olds. It’s not like me. I just spend a lot of time wondering where the parents are, or what are they thinking? Maybe it is my age.

Anyway, the anxiety. I got a good deal at the spa hotel, but I’d never stayed there before. Now I remember why I tend to stick with what I know. The first day here I only briefly came out of my room to eat and pop to the shop. I’m not massively loving the hotel restaurant, it’s quite small and is always pretty busy. Thank goodness I’m not booked there in peak season. I’ve overcome my fear of the ENORMOUS shower head, and finally worked out the many light switches (I think).

I think it’s safe to say, if I do come back (and I probably will, but I’m wavering) I will go back to the hotel I have always previously stayed in. I guess for people who don’t experience the level of anxiety I do, something as small as a change of hotel being so limiting is incomprehensible, but in Angel’s world it’s huge. And I’m massively proud of myself for facing my challenges this holiday, but actually I prefer the other hotel and certainly the dining arrangements.

I haven’t done a lot. Enjoyed the sunshine. Went to a great Freddie Mercury tribute show. Had a massage. Got my nails done. Done some colouring. Rested. Spent time thinking. Spa experience and more treatments booked for tomorrow. Despite my gripes with the unfamiliarity, I now feel ok. Happy even.

Maybe I will rebook for next year.

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