I’m aware it’s been a long while since I’ve written anything here. There’s no particular reason for that, other than I continue to struggle with depression constantly, so achieving anything other than survival is a pipe dream most of the time. That’s not to say there haven’t been changes and a handful of small victories since I last published in November.

I finished my counselling at RASAC in January. This was particularly gut wrenching for me, as I had built up such a good rapport with my therapist and we both knew I needed more sessions, but there was no way the charity were prepared to fund any more. As it was I had been seen for a year when they usually limit sessions to six months. This was the counsellor who was honest enough to tell me that yes, it’s possible I will need therapy for the rest of my life. He just seemed to totally get me and I could tell him anything. I still miss having that weekly outlet.

Having said that, I am due to start counselling with a different organisation on Monday. I am somewhat anxious. I’ve heard very mixed experiences of this charity and their counsellors. I’m trying to be positive. But they haven’t managed to find me a male therapist as requested so I’ve agreed to seeing a female. I hope she’s open-minded! Also I’m trying not to be put off by their describing their service as ‘Christian Counselling’, but if I get a whiff of judgement I’ll be out of there as fast as my fat, disabled little body physically can.

So I have also started lithium therapy for my bipolar recently. It’s not the nicest drug. You need regular blood tests to check your levels and it can affect your thyroid function, so that needs checking too. In addition to that it can be pretty toxic if your levels are raised and it’s then necessary to access urgent medical attention. Thankfully the only unpleasant effect I’ve had so far is trembling hands, which is really common. And it’s mostly not too problematic. Unfortunately as yet I haven’t seen any noticeable improvement in my depression. My psychiatrist is keen for me to get out and do more. Which is great in theory, but in reality just sees me more exhausted than ever, and additionally I’m experiencing more and more panic attacks. I feel utterly defeated most of the time.

In an important meeting with my son’s social workers and foster carers it was decided that he will stay with his lovely family post 18 in the summer for his gap year. With my health continuing to be unpredictable, it was decided that staying put was absolutely the best thing for him. That was hard. I know he’d prefer to be at home, so I felt like I was letting him down all over again, but he took it graciously. I’m so blessed to have such an amazing young man for my son.

The one thing I’m really proud of that I have accomplished recently was a course at the Recovery College entitled Recovery Storytelling. It was over four Fridays in Southampton 10am-4.30pm. Those of you who know me will understand what a challenge that was for me. I don’t do mornings, I don’t drive where I don’t know, and I rarely am able to focus on something for that long. Yet I pushed myself (harder than I can express) to do those exact things four weeks running. And there was homework! The course was designed to teach us to be able to share our mental health journey as an inspiration to others, so by its very nature was emotional and potentially triggering. There were so many moments when I considered packing it in. But I didn’t. I earned my certificate.

I’ve also done a limited amount of creative writing at Mind. Unfortunately it was running at the same time as the Recovery Storytelling, so it wasn’t my priority at that point, but it was still enjoyable when I managed to attend. Likewise choir has taken a bit of a backseat this term; obviously I missed four weeks while on my course, but anxiety has also stolen my confidence on a number of sessions. It was good to be there yesterday, despite many tears (thanks panic attack), even though I was utterly exhausted after.

My love life (or lack of one) continues to entertain and amuse. I saw a guy in Chichester a couple of times just before Christmas who turned out to still be very much in love with his ex wife. Then I connected with a gentleman on Tinder who spent Boxing Day watching TV with me at mine and slept on my sofa – who I’ve not heard from since. I had a lovely reunion with Sunny in January for a wonderfully pleasant one off. Since then I have messaged a series of blokes from Match or Tinder without much luck. I did meet one of them recently, but after nearly four weeks messaging I dumped him this week (as politely as I could). It just wasn’t right. There has been one man who’s remained constant throughout most of this, who I message or speak to most days. But as a mate. He’s very protective and has a way of making me spill my guts when I’m stressing about something. I’m not saying there isn’t attraction there, there is, mutually, but it’s not something we’ve really acted upon. I’m keeping an open mind.

Well I think that’s the significant events of the last few months. Many thanks for reading.

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After writing on Saturday I was, to be honest, unsettled. I post on my blog, first and foremost because it’s therapeutic. It helps me process things. My last piece however just left me feeling slightly empty and a tad perturbed. I read and reread it, in the hope I would see in it some glimmer of insight as to what I should do – continue messaging a man who clearly has no respect for me, avoids commitment and is emotionally unavailable, or risk my fears, walk away and go it alone.

I think it’s telling that I have for months referred to the man as Dangerous Dan, because of the above mentioned qualities. In addition he, to me, seemed sexually dangerous, always a bit of an unknown quantity and certainly relentlessly pushing my boundaries. Now I admit, I like things a little out there, but there’s out there and there’s just plain humiliating. As I talked with my therapist yesterday, I reflected that there was a moment of clarity for me when Dan and I were sexting on Friday. Dan was encouraging me to tell him my fantasy, while he responded, “Then what?” At one point after this question I noticed we were both typing simultaneously in response to this question, and whilst my response was, “Hold me until we’re ready to start over again” his was, “Pee on you”. Something crystallised for me in that moment, how poles apart our desires were, and I felt horrible. Disrespected.

I can write just about anything, but getting me to talk about it out loud is something utterly different. So when I rocked up at RASAC yesterday to see my lovely counsellor, I decided to read Saturday’s blog post to him instead of just ad libbing it. Even that is easier than bringing up difficult topics from scratch. Afterwards he asked how I felt. I told him – totally vulnerable. It’s probably the most open I’ve been with him, and that’s saying something! I’m always very honest, but I’m aware sometimes I stick to talking about the safer stuff. But in the hours since that defining moment on Friday I had made the decision not to contact Dan, aware that he rarely initiates the dialogue between us; and after therapy yesterday I sent him a simple message saying that I don’t want to be with him and not to contact me again. I’m aware he’s probably working on his strategy of how best to respond right now, because as my counsellor and I discussed, he’s clearly a very intelligent and manipulative man, but I am standing strong on this.

My counsellor even described Dan’s methods as grooming me. That made feel physically sick. And made me think long and hard. He had destroyed my confidence, my self esteem, and I had begun to truly despise the person I was when I let him into my head and life. I am so proud to say, I have ditched Dangerous Dan, and this time there’s no going back, no matter how horribly alone I feel.

And obviously, me being me, horribly alone is so truly scary, I’ve gone back on a dating website already. Just a bit of friendly chat and banter to make the evenings pass a little more pleasantly. Redefining what I’m prepared to say and do (and send pictures of) because the new reinvented Angel only does what she wants to do and feels good about. A little quote popped up on my Facebook timeline yesterday, that said, simply, “I have the power, right now, to decide what I want to do” and it hit me like a bolt out of the blue. I so needed to hear that yesterday, and mulling things over with my therapist was enough to make me take that phrase as a notion and turn it into an action.

Interestingly some of my friends contacted me after reading Saturday’s blog, to basically tell me I’m doing well. I so didn’t feel it at that point, but it was their belief in me also that made me realise how down on myself I had become. One said (give or take), “It’s such a shame you don’t like yourself as much as your friends do”. That got me. So a bit of self care is my current aim. Without Dan in my head I predict that’s going to be about 100% easier.

Thanks for reading.

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I’m having a quiet reflective day. That’s often kind of dangerous. My mood remains pretty low and I have definitely been overthinking everything. But in particular my relationship with the current bloke. To refresh readers’ memories, this is the gentleman I was seeing back in April / May time, who I rather unceremoniously dumped via WhatsApp because he was unpredictable (he would go off the radar for days at a time), emotionally stunted and was constantly trying to push my boundaries in the bedroom. As I consider those very valid reasons for splitting with him then, I find myself wondering how the heck I even considered giving him a second chance when he started messaging me again in August. But I was on holiday at the time, I was relaxed, my defences were down, and given his difficult life circumstances I felt maybe I had been a bit harsh on him. And I totally believed I was in a different place to when we’d been together in the Spring. My mood was fairly stable at that point. This was before my meds were reduced in an attempt to alleviate the side effects I was experiencing and my confidence was better. I felt in a stronger position to maintain my boundaries. I agreed to meet him, but on my terms.

Well circumstances overtook us, and we still haven’t met. He’s now in Iraq (via Germany) and has no idea when he will be leaving (short version). I have no reason to doubt what he says, but I’m struggling. We weren’t seeing each other when he left, things are still up in the air, and my anxiety and insecurity are making it very difficult to cope with a long distance, maybe on / maybe not relationship. He says he wants me and wants to be close to me, but when I try to pin him down to how he envisages our relationship on his return, it seems a bit hit and miss whether he’s actually looking for anything other than sex. He knows I want more than that and I suspect he’s just saying the odd things I need to hear to keep me interested. He still goes underground when things are difficult and when I challenge him on the lack of communication, he just tells me again how difficult his life is right now. I don’t doubt that, but things here are hardly a bed of roses, and I’m tired of it.

My trouble is this, as my mood has slipped again, I don’t really believe I deserve someone better. Someone who will actually trust me with their stuff instead of running away. Someone who cares about my stuff. Someone who calls me beautiful without being prompted. Someone who actually wants to spend time with me, and isn’t commitment phobic. A part of me knows I deserve those things, but the other part is still telling me that being with the wrong man is better than being alone. My rational head knows that after years years of abuse, a man who fantasises about bondage, anal, rape and pissing on me is probably not the best way ahead. And I take responsibility for this totally. Never once have I had the strength to tell him that isn’t for me. Because when you’ve been through what I’ve been through it’s not unusual to believe that is all you’re worthy of. And being the ‘dirty little bitch’ I see myself as, I have a nasty depraved reputation to maintain. I’m aware that makes me sound really crazy and pretty vulnerable. And I know I should ditch him. But the wonderful traits of Unstable Personality Disorder that I display mean that I’ve fallen for him. Hard. Look how long it took me to shake the feelings I had for Andy, even after I knew what he’d done to me was assault. If I’m still caught up on this guy when he returns to the UK I can see history repeating itself, and that scares me.

But I want to believe he’s the nice, genuine man he keeps telling me he is. I want to believe that given time he will trust me more. I want to believe that one day he’ll care about me the way I care about him. I want to look after him and I guess deep down a part of me wants to fix him, even though I know that’s unrealistic. And I know I’ll probably do nothing, because finishing with him would leave me utterly alone, and that’s scary too.

Thanks for reading. No judgement please.

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I shared in (probably too much) detail back in August how my mood stabiliser was causing me rather unpleasant side effects and how the duty psychiatrist had advised me to reduce my dose, which I duly did. Unfortunately along with the decrease in the medication came the mood changes I feared. I had been doing reasonably well prior to the change, but in real terms I have now been struggling with depression since the end of August. As I had been on holiday, and some low mood to follow is not unusual I didn’t panic initially. I felt I had to settle into the new dose. But five weeks on, when I was still finding just existing difficult to cope with, my nurse spoke to my consultant and it was agreed the dose should be put up again to a figure between the original dose and the current one. Unfortunately this created a whole new challenge. The doctor wanted me on a dose of 850mg. The tablets are only manufactured in denominations of 250 or 500mg and must not be cut. So an intricate plan of 750 and 1000mg on alternate days was devised. Excellent if you have a memory. I don’t. I use a dosage box when I have enough motivation to keep it filled. In between I sometimes end up medicating ad hoc. I have pretended I have a handle on this, but the truth is, I’m not doing well. The good news is I’ve had no side effects at all since August. The bad news is I’m depressed as hell and increasingly getting worse.

My nurse had persuaded me to attend an Emotional Coping Skills course which started last week. It’s a twelve week commitment and although I’d done it a couple of years previously, we’d agreed I could probably get more from it. Oh my living hell, it was excruciating. My anxiety was higher than ever. We were crammed in a far-too-small room. I had nothing in common with the other participants, most of whom were very young. Or men. I absolutely hated every minute of it and my depression and anxiety have been worse than ever since. It is just not something I can do right now. I hate quitting but this is about self preservation. With hindsight I can see how I let my nurse talk me into it despite my reservations, but with my weekly therapy, caring for Dad and trying to get him to his appointments, going to choir and my own appointments, it was unrealistic to try to take on anything else right now.

As a direct result of trying to over stretch myself last week I had a massive panic attack at choir Friday. I was then too exhausted to attend the choir workshop Saturday and missed the pharmacist, meaning I ran out of my night medication. So last night I didn’t fall asleep until 7am when I was able to get about three hours kip. That’s totally messed today up and will probably knock on all week. I’m in a mess.

I left a message for the community mental health team this morning. My nurse was off but I was assured I would be called back by a support worker. It never happened. I’ve made an appointment with my GP. First appointment I could get? December 4th. Psychiatrist is supposed to be reviewing the medication after a month. Nothing. I’m weary and tearful and my thoughts are becoming darker by the day. I just want the pain to end.

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I had no idea last night when I made myself sit down to write (at the suggestion of my therapist) how much of a tsunami was waiting to be released. It was like three months of writing mojo hit me all at once, and at least four blog posts were jostling to be penned. So I’m back again with episode two. And the only thing linking it to last night’s epistle is the strand about the faith of the men I have dated this year.

Back in April / May I was casually seeing a guy I (wrongly) believed to be Syrian. I was able to come to this incorrect assumption by putting together small pieces of information he let me in on and what I had seen on his Facebook profile. Lack of communication is a dangerous thing, but when it was fairly obvious that his life in the Middle East had at times been traumatic and he’d been diagnosed with PTSD, I hadn’t liked to ask too many questions during the few dates we’d had. Then the relationship fizzled out before it had really gone anywhere (my decision) so I’d not thought much more about his origins.

One of the reasons I’d given up on us was because it felt too much like hard work. His emotional unavailability and my Bipolar did not make for great companions. He would shut down on me when things got (more) difficult in his life and I never quite knew when I would hear from him or see him again. So anxiety would kick in and I found that hard to cope with, especially when he would inevitably reappear after a few days like nothing had happened. So I ended it.

He had tried to initiate conversation a couple of times since then, which I’d ignored, but when I was on holiday in August he caught me nicely relaxed and with my guard down. I didn’t see the harm in seeing how he was getting on.

I had loosely been seeing a guy at that time but it wasn’t serious, he’d made it very clear he didn’t want commitment, so another month or so later when I had still been messaging my ‘not-Syrian’ friend and things seemed to be developing I told the guy I was seeing not to come back. It was a crazy time with some really mixed emotions for me, as during this time instead of the two of us meeting to discuss if we had a future, he ended up in Germany caring for his sick mother.

We still haven’t actually seen each other (only on a phone screen anyway) but we’re slowly getting to know each other again. Via WhatsApp. And after a couple of days of silence recently I have now discovered he’s taken his ill mother home to Iraq. So I ask, “Is that where you are from then?” No, apparently he’s originally from Iran. Oh and all the airports locally are in lockdown due to security issues. My poor anxiety. Not sure asking details was a good idea with the way my head works.

I have no idea when he will be back in the UK. He understandably doesn’t want to leave his mother while she’s sick. And now the airports are closed anyway. I just wish he’d keep me up to speed a bit better and not let my imagination run wild. I don’t know if he will ever be able to open up to me or not, but until we’re physically back together I can’t predict. I know I want to give him a chance though.

Oh and as a sideline, a Dutch guy I chatted online with earlier in the year also got back in contact. I told him I was with someone and that I wasn’t interested so he declared he was going to wait for me until I was single again. Sigh. I told him not to hold his breath.

I feel like I’m back in the realms of the imaginary boyfriend again! I mean I know he exists, but he’s never to be seen. Hopefully before too long, because for someone I haven’t physically connected with since May, I am missing him rather a lot. We will have to see at that point if we actually have a future. But we’ll give it good go.

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Hey! It’s been a fair while, and for that I apologise. I’ve been paralysed by a goodly dose of depression again, and doing much more than merely exist has been a challenge. I’ve wanted to write on a number of subjects, but motivation is gone, inspiration limited and creativity nil.

When I first started blogging, I included in my bio a little about my Christian faith, and how it links with my online alias Angel. It is something I have not majored on in my writing, but something I refer back to from time to time. I’ve made no secret of the fact that it is something I have grappled to make sense of over the last couple of years, but things now feel like they have come to a head. It is something I discuss endlessly with my counsellor and he has identified how it currently brings a lot of conflict and dissatisfaction to my life and I need to find some resolution for my own peace of mind.

I had a conversation with a good friend from church last week about focusing on truth rather than our feelings. But that assumes the Bible (in its entirety) is the truth, that Christianity is the truth. The way and the only way. What if I doubt that right now though? Ah, well apparently that’s where faith comes in. So I can’t trust my feelings, but I’m expected to accept by faith teachings that no longer sit well with my principles and feel alien to my logical thinking. Reject sense in favour of faith. I’m not sure.

That’s the trouble though. I’m not sure about anything. I’ve never been a black and white thinking sort of person. To me everything is grey, and presently more blurred than ever. But the faith that has served me well for the last thirty years now seems problematic. I’ve always been utterly dismayed that Christians are often portrayed as spewing judgement and hate. And I’ve met a few in real life too who resemble the Pharisees of the Bible much more than they do Jesus. I don’t want to be associated with those people or that stereotype.

I had a conversation earlier this year with a woman who worked in the nail bar I used to use. We met on about three occasions and got on well. At one point I mentioned that I went to a very fundamentalist church, and how my then lifestyle was not in line with what was expected of me. She asked me, “So you’re homophobic then?” I flinched. Until the last year or so ago I didn’t really have LGBTQ+ friends, so it was an issue I had not had to confront. I just went with the Bible said it, so it must be right. But it never really sat well with me. I remember a song lyric from my youth that asked, “What religion or reason could drive a man to forsake his lover?” I think I get it now. Why is who we love such an issue?

I’m one of the least homophobic or judgemental people I know. I accept anyone. I’ve been told I attract ‘freaks and weirdos’ because I cannot find it in my heart to turn people away. I’m not perfect, so why would I dream of judging anyone else?

My counsellor actually recommended getting in touch with the local gay community, not because I’m questioning my sexuality (I’ve always known it’s a little blurred around the edges) but because I would encounter people who accept me. What does that say about my experience of the church? I am extremely vulnerable because of my mental health, but the church feeds my insecurity instead of offering reassurance. It’s a very sad place to find myself in. How much suffering is one individual able to endure? I feel I’ve exceeded my quota. And guilt. Christianity is laden with it. I so don’t need anymore of that sh*t!

Of course the Bible also warns against relationships with a partner of a different faith or none. This has been an issue to me this year. I understand the logic here to some extent, but having been married to a fellow Christian previously who emotionally destroyed me, I guess I’m curious what could be worse. And that same question that Andy Bell posed in my teenage years pops up again, about causing an individual to give up the one they love. Why? Why can’t we just give a little respect? Live and let live. I do feel in the nine years I have been widowed I have given God every opportunity to provide me a good Christian husband. But no, and it seems the only guys who find overweight, pierced, tattooed and pink haired attractive are of Muslim origin. So yes, I admit, I have found acceptance with a man who doesn’t share my faith tradition.

There is more. I could elaborate further the points of doctrine I am struggling with, but I am not sure it would help. Because of recent changes in the church I attend (ie, the minister being asked to leave and the decision not to replace him) I don’t feel like I have a trusted spiritual mentor. Today I found myself in a different church and that felt easier. Soothing rather than unsettling. It’s not a long term logistical solution at present, but it is certainly something I will be considering.

Since starting medication for my bipolar disorder around two and a half years ago, one thing I haven't mentioned much about are the side effects. There are two reasons for this; firstly, I've been extremely fortunate not to experience any side effects bar one, and secondly, that one is kind of embarrassing. A bit too much information probably. But then again, this is me we're talking about. Since when did TMI put me off? And since my meds were increased a while ago, said side effect has become significantly problematic, to the extent that I called my care coordinator today for some advice. So this is where I'm at; my mood disorder is without any shadow of doubt more stabilised than I have known it during this current period of acute illness, however, I wet the bed. And it's becoming a right pain.
It is listed as a side effect of my mood stabiliser, and in the two years I took the drug at a lower dose, it happened, I think three times. That was bad enough, especially as one time it was while holidaying in shared accommodation with another family, but since the dosage has been increased, so has the incidence of my nocturnal accidents. I thought my days of bleary-eyed bed changes in the early hours were done with, at least for the time being, until I became a good deal older and less in control of my bodily functions. But no, it seems not.
So after giving the new dosage a go, and experiencing the benefits of settled mood for some time, I have now been advised to reduce the medication again to a level between what I took before and what I take now. As it was a Friday afternoon and nothing can be sorted before next week, I will be continuing my existing dose while I'm on holiday, as of Monday. I will however be taking precautions to protect the bed from accidents for the time being. Especially after discovering that my 'waterproof' mattress cover actually wasn't, and I was left trying to sponge urine from my mattress at 5 o'clock this morning. Not fun.
But of course, aside from the inconvenience of the bed wetting, am I going to sacrifice the stability of my mental health by reducing my tablets again? This has taken a long hard fight on my part, not aided by my useless care coordinator on the most part, and the thought of losing what I have begun to achieve frankly scares me witless. The sinking depressions and the mindless, risky hopping into bed with whoever during the highs are chapters of my life I'd rather like to think I'd moved on from (at least as much as one can with a chronic mood disorder). I don't want to go there again if I can avoid it. I guess I'm obliged to give this in-between dose a try, but weighing up the pros and cons of unstable mood with the embarrassment, inconvenience and lack of sleep associated with the night time mis-haps is leaving me a bit at a loss.
Giving up cola, restricting my alcohol intake, going to bed at the right time, setting up my support network, managing difficult emotions, trying to eat healthier, mood tracking; those are all things I have done to try to remain as settled in mood as reasonably possible, but it was been the meds increase this year that has brought all those those together and given me a stabilised baseline upon which to build those self care measures. But this has left me feeling a bit all at sea. It's so hard to admit that due the side effect of the medication, the price of my stability was just too steep to pay.
I guess we'll just have to watch this space. And I'll invest in a new mattress protector.
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I’m not entirely convinced this is an occasion to celebrate, but I do feel it deserves acknowledgement. Today is a year since I last self harmed. Physically at least; one could argue I have still engaged in self destructive behaviours, but I haven’t cut, scratched or picked my arms for twelve months. And I guess in my own quiet way I am proud. It’s not that I haven’t had the urge, I absolutely have, time after time, and as recently as splitting with the boyfriend recently, but I’ve managed not to actually do anything.
I don’t particularly have a go-to strategy. Sometimes it’s a matter of distracting, other times it’s a case of extra meds and early bed. But whichever way, it has been consistently successful for a year now.
I know staying clean is possible – I did it for 14 years prior to becoming acutely ill again four years ago. Yet all that time I carried a small pocket knife in my handbag, it made me feel secure somehow, that it was there if I needed it. I still do. Even though I have no immediate plans to use it again.
I would love to believe that self harm as a coping strategy is one I can permanently put behind me, but I know better than to take anything for granted on this journey of life with mental illness. So I will just be thankful today that I have at least come this far.
Thanks for taking the time to read 👼🏻

Just when I thought things were going swimmingly with the new bloke, yet another spanner got thrown in the works. I honestly don't know why I expect any better these days. I swear my life is cursed. As much as I try to stay upbeat and not feel sorry for myself, sometimes I just think, you know what, I've been through far too much shit for one lifetime. And I'm not even old. Really.
My counsellor is on holiday (if ever there was a time I could really do with seeing him), oh and I received the news last week that my 1:1 sessions at Mind with my wonderful support worker Liz are to cease by September. I'm not feeling confident at all about a future with reduced support right now. I'm only seeing my (useless) care coordinator monthly now and that's mostly pretty unhelpful. I'm scared I'm going to end up in crisis again. I'm just hoping I will feel a little more positive when my counsellor returns from holiday.
Anyway, back to the bloke. I was so content, thinking I'd actually found someone who really cared about me. Yeah right. After spending the day with him last week, I was tidying up my bedroom, and as I was about to do my online grocery shop I checked the drawer to see if I needed to restock the condom supply. I was fairly confident there should have been plenty, but something made me double check.
Discovering some missing turned me into a bit of a crazy bitch for a time. First I pulled both the drawers out the bedside. Then I moved the bed. Checked the bins. I messaged my very good friend, "I know I'm prone to paranoia, but can you think of a logical reason why your so-called boyfriend would steal condoms from your drawer unless he's screwing someone else?!" She couldn't think of another reason either.
I was utterly floored. In disbelief. I cried a veritable river. I had trusted him with my poor battered heart and yet again it has been trampled by an unscrupulous bastard. In the two days it had taken me to decide what to say to him I went through indescribable pain and all the time I never heard a word from him. Finally I simply sent him a text message saying, "So I hope you enjoyed my condoms, don't contact me again." And he hasn't. I'm still totally reeling from it all. The endless lies.
While I'd been with him I had received a message from a guy I had met earlier this year. I'd politely told him I was with someone now. However finding myself single again I couldn't resist letting him know that, and consequently we spent a very pleasant evening together. It was almost certainly a one off, but it definitely cheered me up, albeit fleetingly.
I was just beginning to feel less tearful when I suddenly felt like I'd been whacked round the face with a baseball bat after lunch yesterday. I ended up seeing an out of hours doctor who diagnosed parotitis (inflammation/infection of the salivary glands). I've started antibiotics but heck it's painful. I've been trying not to just feel completely miserable, given the circumstances, but it's hard. Am doing my best to keep depression at bay, but my mind keeps wandering through the catalogue of disasters that has been my life. The only good thing right now is my amazing boy, but even that is tinged with sadness that I'm not well enough to have him living back home with me. He's currently on holiday abroad with his foster family. On his return I'm hoping he'll be able to perform a miracle on my currently defunct iPad, so I can write a little more comfortably. Heaven knows what I'd do if I didn't have my blog to pour everything out on….
Thanks for reading 👼🏻