Ok. Where to start? I guess the new man is forefront in my mind right now, so let’s start with him. Firstly, he’s still around. Despite my crazy bipolar brain doing its level best to throw a spanner in the works. Like messaging him at 3.15am one morning to tell him I couldn’t shake the idea that he’s a psychopath. I think if a relationship in its earliest stages can survive that it’s probably quite a good sign. I have tried so hard not to hit the sabotage button since then! Poor guy has put up with enough. And that’s before we’ve actually met. Yes, you read that right, we are still communicating by messenger and telephone. Although we’ve covered a hell of a lot of ground. It’s pretty intense. 

The main reason we haven’t met yet is down to a problem he’s been trying to sort at work. For weeks now he’s been working every waking hour trying to salvage a contract at risk of being lost. Yesterday was the deadline to complete. One way or another he would be able to take some time off, and we were going to meet this weekend. Until on Wednesday the company decided they needed him on site to sort things out personally. In Malaysia. For two weeks. Not sure of us who was the most disappointed. He cried. I cried. 

I saw my worker from Mind this week. She said I was the most stable and clear thinking she had ever seen me (the last 18 months or so). She also said I was one of the most beautiful women she’d ever met (just as an incidental). Even she had to admit the new man seemed to be having a stabilising influence. And I have to admit I’ve noticed it myself. That and how very happy he’s making me right now. Cautious and well meaning friends and family are getting the same reply, ‘Just let me have my moment’; but I’m not naive.

I am continuing my counselling at RASAC. It’s tough. Challenging. Painful at times. I leave the sessions feeling tired and emotional, but I know it’s because I’m working hard, and hopefully that means it will be of benefit. For the first time in a very long while my future feels really worthwhile investing in. 

So earlier he called me from the airport. I managed not to cry, even though another two weeks feels like an eternity. All I can do now is count down the days until he flies home and I meet him at the airport. For those who keep telling me to make sure our first date is in a public place, you don’t get much more public than the arrivals lounge at Heathrow! 

Am in such a happy place right now.

👼🏼

Oh gosh! This last month has taken me on a heck of a journey emotionally. Beyond my comfort zone is the understatement of the century. I feel like I’ve been flung into a foreign land, where I don’t know the language and I’m unfamiliar with the culture. But kind of in a good way. Scary, but good. I think. 

Little did I anticipate when I signed up to Match after Christmas, in a fit of hypomania, that I may actually meet someone special. Usually the process goes, I’m high, I believe I’m suddenly irresistible, I join a dating site, I discover I’m not irresistible, I break my heart over how I’m unloveable and undateable, I leave the website, I recoil into my safe place of being alone. If I withdraw from the possibility of being wanted and loved then I can’t be rejected, I can’t get used or abused again, I won’t get hurt. And I close down any opportunity of possibly meeting someone. Except this time, something happened unexpectedly to break that cycle. I connected with someone.

At first it was mutual attraction to each other’s pictures and profiles, then we began to email every couple of days or so, and right now we’re messaging each other for various periods of time 3-4 times a day. He wakes me up every morning with a “Good morning beautiful” and although we’re taking things incredibly slowly (partly at my request, and partly because his perception into my vulnerabilities is second to none) I am feeling cautiously optimistic. We’ve been planning our first date. The anticipation feels so good. I’m trying to allow myself to relax into the process and just enjoy every moment. I am trying to keep both my hopes and my fears in check. 

Juggling my emotions however has been tricky. Overwhelming at times. The old demons that tell me, “You don’t deserve to be happy”, “He’s just going to screw you and dump you”, “You’re not good enough for him” have been having a field day. This week I started counselling back at RASAC. I’ve realised since Andy assaulted me last summer that I struggle with my own personal and ‘body’ boundaries. This has already been tested in the new relationship, and I’m proud to say I was able to express when uncomfortable about something. It didn’t feel good standing my ground at the time, but I’m trying to take on board the ‘my body, my rules’ ethos, so that I don’t have to keep living with the shame of agreeing to stuff I’m not really happy about, or ready for. Having been violated in the way I was last summer, this is huge progress for me. If this new relationship is going to work, it’s going to have to be at my pace. While I want to make my guy happy, I’m not prepared to do it at the expense of my own wellbeing, or moral code.

I also had the joyous experience (not!) this week of having a procedure known as a flexible sigmoidoscopy (ie. a camera inserted into the lower part of my large bowel via my bum!) Whilst I’m sure no one wants to hear the details of said procedure, it is fair to say I was more than a little anxious. In fact I was beside myself. To be fair, I’m guessing it’s not anybody’s idea of a fun day out, but for someone who a few months before was repeatedly anally penetrated against their will, it was about as triggering as things can get. I opted for the highest level of sedation going. But again, I’m proud to say that I got through it somehow, and I didn’t even cry until I got home to the friend who had agreed to look after me overnight. 

Getting little messages reminding me to get plenty of rest, make sure I try to eat something (when I haven’t really felt like it) and just generally knowing that somebody cares deeply about my wellbeing has really given me a boost. I’m so cautious about the prospect of trusting a man again after a difficult marriage, a long period on my own then the catastrophe that was Andy. Oh and a history of CSA of course, but I’m trying hard to keep an open mind without allowing myself to be at risk. That’s probably a tricky enough balancing act for someone without Bipolar, but for me, well yeah! My new counsellor acknowledged this. I think he and I will be able to work well together. I think it’s important for me to have that therapeutic relationship with a man. It is something I’ve missed since losing Ian as my nurse – a male figure I can actually trust and confide in. 

Well, it’s early days, but I’m ready to see where things go. I will, as always keep you posted. 👼🏼

I made my annual Christmas escape to Butlins exactly as I have for the previous eight Christmasses since my husband died. It is a safe place, a home-from-home sort of place for me. It’s a place where I do very little; enjoy food someone else has cooked, on plates someone else has washed and am entertained by lovely talented people who are paid to entertain. I was accompanied on this year’s retreat by my son, aged 16 and my father aged 81. As much as I love them both, spending too much time with either of them is exhausting, and put them together, well! The teenager was, on the whole wonderful company, it was the octogenarian who stressed me out! To be fair, he nearly didn’t come with us, in the preceding weeks he had said he didn’t really want to, but I hated the idea of him home alone at Christmas, so I talked him round. I spent most of the break wondering why, as everything was wrong for him, and he took every possible opportunity to let us know. I was so fed up with it, but was fighting hard to keep the smile on, for the boy, and for my own sanity. Being the mediator and the matriarch of the family is a role I neither wanted nor have ever felt comfortable with, but it seems to be the legacy of losing my mother. Now I’m supposed to adult, to make important decisions, the implications of which are complicated and far reaching. Me! I can’t even decide what to have for breakfast. That’s if I even make it out of bed for breakfast. 

Since returning home almost a week ago getting up has been a particular issue. The first couple of days I slept. Just slept, and barely ate enough to prevent me vomiting when I took my meds. I was beyond exhausted. The next day I managed to get up by the afternoon to touch base with my support worker at Mind. I did a lot of crying. And I mean a lot of crying on her. My mood was so incredibly low. I cursed myself for thinking escaping Christmas meant I could somehow avoid the difficult emotions that always seem to accompany the season. I laid in bed staring at the ceiling. I had glimpses of suicidal ideation. I tried to reassure myself that this was not an unusual reaction to returning home and that I should just rest if I needed to, and do things I enjoyed if I felt up to it. I’m still sleeping too much, currently waking about 11am, but there’s no point trying to do anything other than go with it.

Because in the meantime, my mood has been very mixed, I have been jokey and giggly in company, and as it felt the need to prove itself present, correct and very much in control, thanks to hypomania I have just joined two dating websites. This is a disaster waiting to happen! I’ve had the sense to put off the guy who wanted to drive down there and then because he wanted to cuddle up with me on my sofa (we’d been messaging each other all of an hour by then and he hadn’t even told me his name!) but I am fearful of what exactly I am capable of doing when this high. The first night I signed up to one of the sites a guy starts chatting with me, and before long we were having a deliciously naughty conversation, and I will be honest, it was only geography that stopped us getting together for the night. My vulnerability, the same vulnerability that threw me into Andy’s arms last year, terrifies me at times. Which brings me to another proof of my hypomania (as if I needed it); I text Andy on New Years Eve. Yes I know, I’m crazy. Thankfully he hasn’t responded as, of course, hypo me didn’t think through the implications of possibly reestablishing contact with him. Not that I really believe he would want to. 

So here I am back on the emotional seesaw of a mixed mood episode, giggly and flirty by night and like the creature from the swamp by day. My sleep is messed up, I cry at the slightest thing, and I am only remembering to eat when I start feeling nauseous. Everything about Christmas and New Year is so incredibly hard. No matter how much I try I can’t seem to fight the reflective thoughts that take me into such a difficult emotional state. I think it’s one of those times when one has to just ride the waves. Ride it out. Let’s face it, I have good reason to be thankful 2016 is done. But at the end of this storm, I’m trusting there is going to be some sunshine ahead.

Wishing you all the very best for 2017.

👼🏼

After the disappointing experience with my psychiatrist recently, I was supposed to see my CPN the following week. I cancelled the appointment because I had so much on, including rehearsals for the two choirs I am involved with. I will elaborate more on my singing activities in a moment, but first, my nurse. She asked why I wanted to cancel the appointment. I told her only that I was busy and already had another appointment that day, and I didn’t want to overdo things. I didn’t tell her that I’m still pretty disillusioned with the CMHT and that I’m not sure what else anyone can do to help in light of what my psychiatrist said. This was on a Thursday. She said she couldn’t book me another appointment until the following Tuesday as she didn’t know what the rota would look like, and could I call her to book something in. I didn’t. That was over a week ago. As I’m surprisingly doing quite well at the moment the slightly naughty part of me is seeing how long I can leave it before she realises. Yes, I may live to regret this, but I’m still reeling from what the doctor said, and if they’re not bothered why should I be? Maybe they’ll discharge me (I can live in hope!) I realised just this week that the support I receive from my wellbeing adviser at Mind is far superior to anything the CMHT have been able to offer me since my previous nurse left. 

Anyway, as I mentioned I have been doing a lot of singing in the last week, and I mean a lot! I was in rehearsals Friday afternoon for Fusion Choir’s concert in the evening, and in rehearsals with our church Christmas choir Saturday and Sunday afternoon for our carol service Sunday evening. I also had my son to stay four nights Thursday to Monday, which is longer than I usually attempt, even when I’m not that busy! I literally cleared all my other commitments in the week prior and just did what I absolutely had to. I actually acknowledged this was going to be a crazy time coming up and that I needed to look after myself and just rest whenever I could.

After singing in the Fusion Choir concert two years ago, the choir leader asked if I would consider singing a solo the following year. Last year it just didn’t happen, so when she asked me again this year, I promised that health permitting I would do it. Mid-October she had emailed me asking me to confirm if I still wanted to do something at Christmas. The email disappeared into my spam box where I only discovered it into November, after being away from choir with a chest infection and I admit I thought my opportunity had passed. It was my choir buddy who talked me into plucking up the courage to speak to the choir leader, and that same afternoon after a quick run through of the song I wanted to do, my name was added to the concert playlist. To say I was bouncing was an understatement.

I used to be much more involved in the music and worship ministry at the church I go to previous to becoming ill three years ago. In fact further back than that, it was not unusual for me to sing a solo item every Christmas carol service, sometimes just in a Sunday service too. It was only when I started to reflect did I realise that I hadn’t sung solo since my husband died eight years ago. He hadn’t been massively supportive of my singing, not that it had put me off then, but in the subsequent years my confidence had just plummeted. I tried hard not to let that make me nervous, and in fact remained incredibly chilled about it, right up to the night of the concert, when everyone in the choir (it seemed) wanted to know if I was nervous! If I didn’t think about it I was fine. The choir leader and fellow singers were positive and encouraging though so I clung onto that.

Even seeing my dad and my boy in the audience didn’t worry me. My son was beaming  every time we made eye contact through the evening program and when I came to do my solo he looked fit to burst. Even my dad has since commented how well I did. If he enjoyed it, it must’ve been ok! 

At the end of the evening I was buzzing. I was desperately trying to wind down so I could get to bed because I knew I had two more days of rehearsals followed by the carol service yet to survive. Added to that, my back was agonising. I genuinely considered pulling out of the church choir.

I decided I would just keep going as long as I could. Two years back I had attempted the same crazy weekend of singing, and although I managed both performances I’d had a complete anxiety meltdown mid-rehearsal on the Sunday afternoon and had to retreat to the sofa in the pastor’s office to recoup. It had taken me days after to fully recover.

By Sunday morning I could see history repeating itself. I was tired, my back hurt and I was getter tearful. The choir leader spotted me sitting quietly and checked if I was ok. Everything came blurting out and her kindness meant I was able to rehearse sitting down and take a break if I needed to. I kept topped up with painkillers and soldiered on.

If I thought the Discovery Centre was packed Friday, that was nothing on the church Sunday evening. Over 250 people crammed into the building. It was so busy that as a choir we sacrificed our seats that had initially been reserved for us when we were not on the stage in favour of standing in the foyer. And it went so well. Our church is far from traditional, so responses of friends and visitors can be mixed, but I didn’t hear of a single person who didn’t enjoy it. As a choir we had a ball, and our enthusiasm spread rapidly to the congregation.

Again I was buzzing Sunday evening. I planned to rest Monday, but when it came to it I felt up to going to the autobiography group I’ve been attending. I’ve achieved a lot around the flat this week too. The boy and I had done the Christmas tree Saturday evening, but I finished off the other decorations, have nearly finished my Christmas shopping and have been writing cards, in addition to the more mundane household stuff. And I am ok. I kind of expected to crash after the weekend but am fine as yet. It may still come, but I’ll face that if and when. I may be a tiny bit up, but am keeping it in check. I am being so incredibly good at being sensible and prioritising self care right now, it’s almost unnerving. I feel settled. No extremes of mood. And I’m actually kind of starting to look forward to Christmas. And for the first time in a while I’m feeling hopefully optimistic about the new year. I’ve a feeling better things are around the corner.

👼🏼

I saw my psychiatrist recently. I had requested to see her, as I am not convinced my mood stabilizer is keeping me as stable as I could be. In fact I’m not sure it’s stabilising me much at all. So I asked for a review of my medication. 
I told her all the stuff I have been achieving with my singing and the various groups at Mind I have been attending. I told her how my CPN had praised me for working really hard at keeping as well and stable as possible, using mood monitoring, self care, emotional coping skills, accessing appropriate support and sticking to a rigid bedtime routine. However despite all these things, along with faithfully taking my meds, I still feel at the mercy of brain chemistry. My moods still feel all over the place and beyond my control. It takes so much strength each day just to achieve the minimum. I showed her the graphs from my mood monitoring. I pleaded my case, but could already sense I was getting nowhere fast. She claimed my fluctuations in mood are down to my ’emotional instability’ rather than my bipolar disorder and recommended I work on my emotional coping skills further and access support more regularly. When I asked about the more intensive psychological work that had been suggested when I did the emotional coping skills course, I was told the psychology department was already overstretched but that my nurse could do some DBT work with me. She told me I was expecting too much of my medication; then went on to prescribe Diazepam to help cope with distress.
The strange thing is, I never said I was struggling with distress or intense emotions, the symptoms I am battling with day on day are classic bipolar mood fluctuations. Yes, I experience rapid cycling, yes I have mixed moods but that doesn’t mean I don’t have bipolar. If she had the guts to say what she’s incinuating, that is, that I have Emotionally Unstable Personality Disorder (alongside bipolar) I would be eligible for more support from the psychology department in developing my ECS skills (more in-depth group sessions) but by saying I have traits of emotional instability she relinquishes both her responsibility to treat my unstable bipolar (with a different medication) and the responsibilities of the psychology department to support me further. Am I cynical? You bet I am. It is a consequence of feeling utterly invalidated by my consultant and having my opinion and experience ignored. To say I’m disappointed and disillushioned is an understatement. I was so devasted at the feeling of being written off that I couldn’t stop crying for three days. I try so hard to keep everything together and it felt like such a kick in the teeth.
I allowed myself that time to lick my wounds, to absorb the sense of hopelessness and then I began to feel my fight returning. I may hate what has been said, and the lack of any real support being forthcoming, but I’m damned if I’m going to roll over and die. 
I will keep battling on, even if some days that means a PJ day, because that’s all I can manage. I’ll keep taking the meds, despite being unconvinced of their effectiveness. I’ll stick to my bedtime routine, avoid alcohol, monitor my moods, use my ECS skills, my breathing exercises and mindfulness and all the other things I have woven into my daily life just to ensure I stay alive and as well as possible. I’m not giving up. I just pray that one day I will find things are less of an uphill struggle and I will look back on my determination and pure bloody-mindedness with a sense of pride in how far I’ve come. 
Thanks for reading 👼

Whenever I express the urge to experience a bit more normality in my wonderful roller coaster of a life, I seem to be met with the question, “But what is normal anyway?” I am probably guilty of having said it to others. I certainly have stated normality to be overrated on many occasions, and even once in an online dating profile claimed that, “If you’re the kind of guy who describes himself as ‘nice and normal’ you’re probably not for me. I can’t think of anything more boring!” So why now am I suddenly craving just a little more normal? 

Ok, firstly, as I’ve brought up the dating thing, I guess this year I got my fingers burned through my attraction for the ‘not-so-nice-and-normal’ man. I’d love to say I have learned from the experience, but if I’m honest I knew Andy was no good for me before I ever got involved. I acted out of loneliness, hypomania and the influence of alcohol. A rather potent combination I might add, and a place I may at some point find myself again (if I’m not extremely mindful of my vulnerability). So I guess, should I ever come around to feeling up to dating again, Mr Nice and Normal may not be such a bad option. Balancing out some of my crazy rather than adding to it may actually be a positive.

Anyhow, I digress, this is not a dating kind of post. Let’s not go there. I told my previous Care Coordinator that if I ever even so much as looked as if I was going to join a dating site again, he had total permission to put the wheels into motion to get me sectioned, as clearly I had taken leave of my senses. This was just prior to ending up with Andy. Oh the irony.

Still, normality. I have noticed recently how my Bipolar has been holding me back. The cocktail of meds I can cope with. The early nights I can accept, on the whole. Living without drinking alcohol, or maybe just having an occasional one, that I have no problem with. What gets me is just how much of my time and energy goes into surviving my extremes of mood. It leaves me exhausted. I’m surviving but not living. And I’ve just realised how much that is frustrating me. I have been a little bit up, though not worryingly so, and I’ve been able to achieve some new things (more of that in a moment), but I’m tired, and constantly nagging at the back of my mind is, “When am I going to crash?” 

I asked my nurse if I could see my psychiatrist to review my mood stabiliser, and I now have an appointment in the system. The current medication I have been taking for the last year and a half, and I am still swinging high to low like there’s no tomorrow. Just asking felt like a huge deal, because I kind of get the impression that if I’m not causing the Community Mental Health Team a lot of hassle, they are content to just let me be. I have realised however that I am not content. I want my life back, not merely an existence. And I’m aware that a meds change (if the doc agrees to it) is a huge gamble in its own right. There’s no guarantees in mental health, but I can’t bear this non-life.

My nurse has actually acknowledged how hard I work to monitor and manage my moods. In the past, some of the CMHT have openly criticised my emotional disregulation, and I’m the first to admit, sometimes it’s flipping hard to keep a lid on things. In addition to my Bipolar diagnosis I have traits of Emotionally Unstable Personality Disorder, so I think it’s kind of understandable, and clearly having a go when I’m distressed is such a wonderfully therapeutic intervention. Not. However, even my nurse seems to be backing me up on this occasion. Time will tell.

Anyway, in the meantime I have been working on the aim I set myself in September, to devote time to self development, and doing (particularly the creative) things I enjoy. I did get a bit distracted for a while, a wave of emotional fallout from the assault followed by a series of significant difficult dates knocked me off course a bit, but I’m coming back! I have an assessment for counselling next week with a different organisation (as RASAC had said they couldn’t even assess me until January). I started a self-confidence course last week and an autobiography group this week both through Mind, am continuing a creative writing course, and I am in rehearsals with two choirs for three different Christmas performances. At my usual choir’s concert, held in the performance space of our local library, I will be doing a solo piece. I am beyond excited! The Christmas concert is pretty much the pinnacle of our year, is always a sellout, and raises loads of money for small local children’s charities. You could say I’m feeling pretty positive right now, and I’m aware as readers, echoes of ‘hypo’ may be lurking furtively in your minds, but I’m actually surprisingly grounded. I’m aware I’m a bit up, but am sticking rigidly to my bedtime routine, resting up on the days I have free, eating reasonably well, and being realistic about my priorities if something has to give. And I haven’t even remotely written a book or tried to go back to uni this month (yet!)

I’m taking things as they come, bearing in mind it may not last, but just trying to enjoy the fabulous opportunities that have afforded themselves to me at the moment. As I say it’s incredibly hard work keeping a balance but I feel a strength in myself I had lost touch with and I’m taking full advantage of that. A choir friend I was speaking to recently got me thinking – she pointed out how she’d only known me since I’d been ill and what must I be like when I’m well and what must my potential be? It sparked a dissatisfaction in me to not just accept surviving, and to strive for a little normal amidst the chaos.

Thanks for reading 👼🏼

Dear Andy,

Firstly I’d like to apologise. Maybe if I had a bit more self esteem, was more confident in myself and had more respect for myself things wouldn’t have turned out the way they did. Perhaps if I hadn’t been so needy, so lonely and had found it in myself to say ‘no’ more, rather than passively let you do to me what you did, everything would be different now. But it is what it is. I find it hard to separate my emotions out from physical intimacy, and I think you always knew that if you’re honest. You knew how incredibly vulnerable I was, yet you still went there. We should never have gone there. I totally see that now, but at the time I was blinded, just so sold out on being wanted for the first time in many years. I didn’t see the harm. And for those reasons, I’m sorry. 

And I doubt you have given my wellbeing a second thought, but I have been wondering how you are. If you are getting the support you need. And you probably don’t believe me when I say that I care – but I do. Despite everything, in my mind you are still my friend and I can’t just switch off caring about you and neither can I change how things have turned out.

You had even told me it was a bad idea. You said you didn’t want me to get hurt. When you said that to me, I thought you meant you didn’t want to break my heart, but that was a risk I was prepared to take. Now I wonder if you knew it would end in me getting physically hurt too. Is that just how you treat women? The ‘over a hundred’ of them. My God I was pitifully stupid to go there. I get that now.

Over three months I’ve waited for the results of the blood tests I was advised to take after you mashed me up. I know you promised me you were clean, but you also said you didn’t want to hurt me. Get where I’m coming from? I spent the summer wondering, dreading what you might have given me. In addition to the bruises and the broken heart that is. Thank God it appears you were telling the truth on that occasion. I’m clear. You have no idea the tears I wept just hearing those words, the relief I felt. Because unlike you I don’t have a string of dubious exes. You’re the only dubious ex in my life. This was a part of the nightmare I wasn’t prepared for, feeling I should be ashamed of myself because only stupid girls and sluts have unprotected sex. But as my friend, I trusted you. Guess that proves how stupid I actually am.

I figure you know why I kept coming back for more and let you do the things you did? I know this is just more proof of my stupidity, but I actually believed, and probably still do if I’m honest, that you would at some point realise that you could love me. That being with me (other than just for an occasional fuck) was something you could actually do after all. To be fair you’d sent out so many mixed messages over the months, I just kept hoping that one day your emotions and your reasoning would catch up with they way you looked at me, and indeed the blatantly obvious chemistry between us. You never just screwed me and left. You were very happy to hold me as we slept in my bed. I still reflect on how perfectly our bodies just fitted and how incredibly safe I felt with you. Ironically. I still can’t get over that. I miss you.

I miss getting pissed with you. Or watching your drunken antics when I was stone cold sober. I miss bantering with you and the amicable way we took the piss out of each other. The way you would spontaneously turn to me and cuddle me. Driving you home and enjoying that oh-so-slightly lingering kiss goodbye. I miss flirting with you, safe in the knowledge that you would always politely turn me down. Until that day when you said ‘maybe’ and my logic and emotions began to totally unravel. And yes, I’ll be honest, I miss the sex, because let’s face it, it was so damn good. Until it went bad. 

I don’t believe you went out to hurt me that night. Although I saw traces of anger in you I’d not seen before, I still believed I was safe with you. I thought it was generalised and not particularly aimed at me. Now I’m not sure. Can I just say you really hurt me. Actual physical pain. I should’ve tried harder to say no. But maybe it was just the knowledge that this was to be our last night together that caused me to allow myself to be humiliated and hurt, I’m not sure. Maybe I just have so little self respect that I didn’t really care. Perhaps I figured if I let you degrade me like that you would come back for more. I don’t think logic particularly came into it. 

I wish we could enjoy a pint together and a laugh – I’d give anything for that, but I’m still too vulnerable. The fact that I can still easily imagine inviting you back to mine for the night proves that. I need to heal, and I suspect you do too. 

For what it’s worth, it wasn’t me who called the police, it was the doctor I saw. But you shouldn’t have left me needing medical attention in the first place. I don’t feel angry with you. As we’d acknowledged previously we’re both just fucked up and for that reason we should probably never have got together, even on a casual basis. But that doesn’t stop me wanting you. You have no idea how many times I’ve thought of coming to try and speak with you, but have held myself back for fear of getting hurt again or rejected. It’s a constant battle between head and heart. It’s tearing me apart. I know you never loved me, but I am still wholeheartedly sold out on you and would do anything to be yours, even despite the cost. I love you, you bastard, and would forgive you anything. 

You know I still want you to be happy. I hate seeing the way your demons keep you down. I wanted to be the one who held you and helped you heal, but I can’t can I? Even if you let me in, I’m not sure I’d be strong enough to deal with your fears and my own, but I’d try, given half a chance. I’d do anything.

Your Angel x

I had a meeting with the police officer who handled the assault case today. She had been asked to see me by the inspector who was reviewing the case at my request. I had little idea what to expect, the meeting had only been arranged yesterday, but I guessed from the fact they had asked my support worker from Mind to be present that they were anticipating I was going to get upset. Actually it turned out that the review was complete, and the inspector had agreed with the original decision not to prosecute. That was, to be fair, what I had always expected the outcome to be, what I hadn’t expected was how hard it would hit me. As much as I had tried to prepare myself emotionally, I was reliving it all; not just the assault, but the intimate medical examination, giving my statement in minute, humiliating detail and the exact feelings all over again of the day we’d previously had the same conversation; the CPS would throw it out because it was my word against his. In my mind I’m calculating what tablets I have at home, which I have enough of to overdose on. It was like a default reaction to the pain. I need out. 

I had a lot of support from Liz & Liz (the police woman and my worker at Mind) but as much as I want to close this chapter of my life, as desperately as I want to put it behind me, I don’t know how to when my brain keeps switching into replay and I relive over and over the pain and the humiliation he put me through. I’ve lost friends over it, people I relied on as my support network. I feel alienated from others, purely beacause I am so ashamed of myself. It’s not just something you drop into casual conversation. Brave as I am pouring out my heart into cyberspace, when it comes to real life, I am a bit stuffed for people to support me through this. Aside from Liz at Mind nobody seems particularly bothered that I feel like I’m on the road to self-destruct again. When I post in the couple of closed groups I use on Facebook, all I seem to harp on about is ‘the assault’. I’m sick of it myself, so I can’t begin to imagine how others feel keep seeing it. I’m like a broken record. Stuck. Yes, that’s exactly it, I’m stuck. 

What I need is counselling. I was due to be assessed again by RASAC next week, but they’ve just discovered I was seen earlier in the year for childhood / domestic abuse. Jolly bad luck of me being assaulted three weeks after I finished counselling with them in June, now their policy says I have to wait until Janaury for another assessment. I know they’re overstretched and it’s so they can offer support to as many people as possible, but right here, right now, for Angel, THAT SUCKS. I now have to try and establish if there are other counselling services locally, and preferably free, or very cheap, who could possibly see me sooner.

I can’t help feeling the Community Mental Health Team are letting me down. They seem to have their own agenda completely, and I sometimes wonder if I actually feature in it at all. They don’t seem remotely bothered that my moods are unstable – all the time. I can’t cope. Keep swinging from high to low is more than I can bear.

I want to move on. I don’t want to be defined as a victim forever. I want to close the book and say enough is enough. But then I saw Him again today. Looking sorry for himself. For a split second I felt like slapping that pathetic look off his face. I wanted to yell how dare he mope around like a wet week. I’m the victim here! But I’m better than that. Stronger than that. Plus I really didn’t want to smash his face in in front of witnesses when I knew the police officer was about to arrive. 

So where do I go from here? I’m not at all sure. I’d be lying if I said I had succeeded in banning those thoughts of taking every damn tablet in the house, but I’m trying to keep them at bay. Alcohol seems like a good alternative right now. Lots of alcohol. Oh God this is hard.

👼🏼

It has been an emotionally charged day for me today. I’m a little concerned that I’m actually not outwardly emotional. The phychologist who taught me Emotional Coping Skills would probably be rejoicing in this moment; I however am not. As difficult as my emotional disregulation is, for others as well as for myself, at least I’m getting stuff out. Distracting is great, but those emotions have to go somewhere, if they’re not visible I’m probably suppressing them, essentially bottling them up for another time. I did ask her once what you are supposed to do with negative emotions and the best answer she could come up with was ‘let them go’. I asked her how. I told her I didn’t know how to safely let out my negative feelings without causing damage to myself or property. Her reply? Probably you need more individual work Angel. Individual work the mental health trust weren’t prepared to provide. In short, I’m stuffed.

I had my last poetry group this morning. I feel so sad about that, I had just begun to feel safe in the group, safe enough to really let myself put a bit of me into what I was writing, and that had proved to be incredibly powerful and beneficial. I have also experienced the motivation and creativity to start writing more outside of the sessions, and I don’t want to lose that. Mind you, I am still hypomanic, and creativity tends to go hand in hand with that. When the crash into depression inevitably comes, my words will probably run dry as I concentrate on just surviving once more.

Then this afternoon, I saw Him. I don’t feel the desire to call him *Matt any more – it isn’t his name, I just can’t quite bring myself to actually use his own name yet either. So Him will have to suffice for the time being. As I walked up the path of the mental health centre we both use (in my clompy boots) he looked up to see who was approaching. For a brief moment we looked at each other. Awkwardly. Then I looked at the ground, he looked at the table where he sat, and I sat down on an adjacent bench. The others around the table greeted me, he was silent. I smiled and said hello and made chit chat with the others, while unable to look at him any more than to glance at the side of his head, just enough to notice his hair had been recently shaved. God I loved stroking his hair when it was newly shorn like that! I chain-smoked three ciggies, one after the other, just like that, until I could bear it no longer and headed inside to put the kettle on.

Considering it was the first time I’d actually been face to face with him since he’d inflicted indescribable pain on me, I think I did exceptionally well. Probably the awkward silence between us, which to be fair, I think only the two of us were really aware of, was about the best I could’ve hoped for. I am so far from over this, over Him, it is unbelievable; but we are going to cross paths, even aside from using the same day centre, we live in a small town, and I can’t let this control my life for ever. However since actually seeing him in the flesh, my desire to physically be with him is stronger than before. It is scary, disturbing, how much I still want him. I can only hope those feelings will fade in time.

After the events of the day so far, obviously the only thing to do was go on a crazy spending spree. I’m so stereotypically bipolar it’s unnerving! Hypo girl flashes the cash. Just great.

When I finally got home and opened my post I had a letter from the police officer heading up the review into the case against Him. I had finally decided to exercise my Victim’s Right to Review when I was away from home a couple of weeks ago. I don’t expect the outcome to be any different, I just felt the need to prove I had done everything I could not to just be another unheard victim. I have about accepted there won’t be a prosecution, but I took the review option because it was offered, and I could.

So a lot of emotions looking for an outlet. Hypo me says lets hit the town and get ratted. Wise mind me says have a warm bath and put my bedtime routine into action. It is needed more than ever when I feel least like actually doing it. I’ll let you guess what I’ll actually do!

Thanks for reading 👼🏼