I’ve been attending a poetry group recently through Mind. I don’t claim to be any good, but I have often written poetry when life has been tough, and this has come at a good time for me with so many emotions floating around since the assault. I have struggled the last week with hypomania and hypersexuality which is always dangerous. It’s how I came to be in such a toxic relationship in the first place, that ultimately ended in such devastation. I am still so drawn to him, it’s like an addiction. I have fought myself every evening not to go and track him down, not because I’m angry with him, oh no, that would be much too sensible. No, my hypomanic self is set on getting him back. Despite the fact he never really wanted me before, and I imagine even less so after being picked up by the Old Bill. So in (another) attempt to distract, whilst maybe giving those overwhelmingly strong urges some voice, I wrote this.

Aftermath

The scent of us hung in the air there,

The bed still messy, unmade,

And I stand aghast, unbelieving,

Still in shock and totally dismayed.

Hours before I was jubilant,

The man that I loved was here!

Despite his protestations and denials,

He’d still succumbed to my wiles.

Every nerve in my body a-tingling,

All my inmost desires cried out,

Yet now I stand here in the aftermath,

Wond’ring, what was all that about?

How the man I was desperate to be with,

Could leave me so damaged and raw,

Wond’ring what the hell made him like that? 

And what the hell I did so wrong.

As my flesh burnt with pain, torn and battered,

And my heart broke all over again,

I crawled back beneath those covers,

And hid my face with the shame.
The physical pain is all done now,

It’s true that time heals – in some ways,

Yet my head and my heart remain broken,

As I struggle through day after day.

The worst thing is how I still love him,

Despite all the pain and the shame,

And I know I’d move Heaven to be with him,

If only he’d want me again.

Thanks for reading 👼🏼

Those of you who read my blog regularly, or at least as regularly as I bother to put anything on it, have probably gathered I can be a bit blunt. Sometimes I just need to say something, whether that be to a friend, or a professional, or here into cyberspace, just to get it off my chest. Just to air it. See how it sounds, or how it looks written down. How it reads back. I guess I’m beyond the stage of being massively concerned about judgement or trolls. If people don’t like me, that’s life. If they want to judge my life, so be it, I know only too well how perfectly imperfect I am.

So bear with me. I need to say something.

I am missing Matt.

Yes, I know. I’m an idiot. I’m missing the guy who messed me up so bad I couldn’t walk straight for a week. The bastard who left me battered and bruised and utterly mashed in the head. The one who wasn’t even my boyfriend, just a friend with occasional benefits, who openly admitted, “Angel, I don’t love you, I don’t have feelings for you, I just enjoy fucking you”. Him. I miss him so bad my heart feels like it’s being ripped from my chest.

Because the truth is, we are both us screwed up as each other. We should never in a million years have ended up together; we were the worse possible concoction of toxic elements imaginable, who ended up in the same putrid cauldron (also known as the mental health services).

I still want him to love me. I still want to be the one who holds him when the insecurities of the past rock his foundations. Even though I know he would never have the emotional capacity to reciprocate when I flounder. I still want him to realise what a good woman he passed up. Even though I knew that was never likely to happen and unlikelier still since I reported him to the police.

I saw him yesterday, walking past the window of the room I was in. I immediately had that kicked-in-the-guts feeling again. I was totally rigid for that moment, praying he wouldn’t see me. He didn’t. I had to concentrate hard on breathing, just to cope with the anxiety I felt. The same man who makes me sick to the stomach also gives me butterflies and sets my heart racing. I think that probably makes me as sick and as depraved as him.

All my relationships have been crap. Probably because of what I bring to them, my past experiences, my shocking childhood and teen years, my Bipolar disorder and BPD traits, my fears, my anxieties. I taint everything I touch. My present is the sum of my past and my imperfections. I am broken, sullied, used. Fallen.

Angel 👼🏼

I thought when the police called last week to say Matt had been questioned, I couldn’t feel much sicker, or much lower. Sadly I should have learnt by now that life has a habit of just getting worse for me. I’d like to say ‘worse before it gets better’ but right now, better is beyond my realm of thinking. I know that’s depression speaking, and I seriously doff my hat (or halo) to my regular readers who put up with my endless negative ramblings. I guess I would write this stuff regardless of whether it was being read or not, as it is a therapeutic outlet for me in its own right, but just knowing it helps a handful of you understand more where I am coming from, is a real bonus.

Anyway, back to my latest nightmare. After the call from the police Tuesday I was struggling a lot, and when I had a meeting with my case holder from Mind on the Wednesday, I broke down, big time. She was really worried about me and asked if she could call the Community Mental Health Team on my behalf. I agreed, and in the absence of my regular Care Coordinator she was put through to the team leader who agreed to see me there and then. I guess I was trying to hang on to the hope that they may be able to do something to ease my distress. Yeah right. I think patient shaming and emotional blackmail are the best phrases to describe her approach. Maybe some people respond to such methods (not sure who!) but all it did was get my back up. As someone who struggles to express anger, all I did was go into passive-aggressive mode and try and get the hell out of there as soon as possible. 

I have been doing everything I can to survive. Distraction, relaxation, mindfulness, you name it. I have set myself simple, basic goals. One day it was ‘stay alive’ as that is all I felt mentally and physically able to aim for. Then on Thursday afternoon I received a further call from the police with ‘some news’. Short version; due to insufficient evidence the case was being dropped. For the second time that week I felt liked I’d been kicked in the guts. I thought I might vomit. Or faint. My emotions shut down in that split second, unable to process the complexity of feelings in response to what I was hearing. Suddenly it was dawning on me, the medical examinations, the photos, the statement and all the stress that went with them, they’d all been for nothing. And I imagined him, Matt, smug and gloating that he’d got away with it and this ‘crazy bitch’ had got what she deserved.

At some point that afternoon or early evening I sent a message to my son telling him I would always love him and to keep making me and his dad proud, before downing 51 Quetiapine tablets. He realised straight away something was wrong, and when I wouldn’t answer his calls he had the sense to call our friends who live in the next door flats. I fairly calmly told them I needed to go to the hospital. If I find myself in this situation again, I will try to remember that Quetiapine is a rubbish drug to take in OD. It makes me hypersensitive to pain, which is really pants when medical / nursing staff are trying to take blood or insert a cannula into my impossible-to-locate veins. I was in such a state of distress I recall hearing myself shriek, “Don’t let that man hurt me again!” as the doctor tried a vein on the top of my left foot, and I sobbed and instinctively recoiled, but in my head, it wasn’t the doctor I wanted protection from, I was mid-flashback to the ‘alleged’ assault, as I now feel obliged to refer to it.

I ended up admitted overnight to a medical ward. I was seen by the MH shared care team the following morning who announced me fit for discharge, despite my stressing to them that I felt extremely unsafe to be home alone with my thoughts. I was reassured I would get a phone call in the morning to reassess my needs. Not sure I have ever felt less reassured that I would be OK, but such is life as a MH patient in crisis. I actually have only praise for the nurse on duty who visited me twice over the weekend, and indeed for the gentleman I spoke to out of hours on the telephone. It was this morning when I spoke to my own CCo I began to drain of any hope again. Am fairly sure if I hadn’t pushed it, she wouldn’t have seen me until our planned appointment Thursday. As it is, she has now said she will come out tomorrow. 

My thoughts and feelings are just all over. I told the nurse at the weekend that I would benefit from a short hospital admission to enable me to feel safe and looked after for a few days. It won’t happen. I am nowhere near ill enough, but funnily enough, I know my mental health well enough to know what works for me. I guess I will just have to keep surviving somehow in the absence of a financed and functioning MH system. I thank God for amazing friends.

Hugs,

Angel 👼🏼

Things have been going downhill for a while. I wish I had something more positive to offer, but right now, life is a challenge. I’m not well, my Bipolar Disorder is pretty unstable again, mostly I’ve been on a downturn, then the last couple of days those crazy hypo thoughts and feelings have been back. Alongside the low and the anxiety. It’s been a veritable smorgasbord of symptoms. Mind you, a lot has happened.

I did get the chance to have a proper handover with my outgoing and incoming Care Coordinators. This helped; being able to say goodbye to Ian properly and feel like there was a passing on of care felt at the time like I had some sort of closure, as opposed to the shocking way in which I was initially told about the changes. However as time has gone on, I have continued to miss the therapeutic relationship I had with Ian. Especially in light of what has happened since, and the support I need. As nice as my new nurse is, I just feel like I’m explaining all the time, and it’s too hard work. When I was first introduced to Ian, we just just clicked. He just seemed to get me and know what I needed. Now I’m constantly being asked what would help. I can’t bring myself to say, “Someone different, someone I trust”.

And right now I need someone I can trust. My counselling at RASAC finished at the beginning of June. By the end of June I had a new reason for needing their services (not that I have pursued this yet). My friend Matt (name still changed, although heaven knows why I still feel the need to protect him) sexually assaulted me. 

We had remained friends within the group of six who met regularly, and we had occasionally also met up at the pub where he drank. On a couple of occasions he came back to mine again, and it was the third night we spent together that he absolutely mashed me up; physically, sexually, emotionally. I was in total shock. We had agreed it would be the last time we would sleep together, as we were both finding the FWB thing difficult, he constantly was sending out mixed messages, and I was falling for him, even though I knew a relationship with him would never work. But I believed he was my friend. I had no reason to believe that I should be able to trust him any less than previously.

I drove him home Friday morning completely shell-shocked and on autopilot. My son was coming to stay the next day for his birthday weekend, we were off to London for the day, then spending until Monday morning together. As I lay in bed on the Friday, wondering how on earth I would find the physical and mental strength to get through, I felt as limp and as battered as a rag doll that had been hurled down the stairs. 

It was on autopilot that I continued throughout the weekend. As I waved my boy off to his first day of work experience on the Monday morning, all I wanted to do was collapse back into bed and hide under the covers. Later when I finally forced myself to face the world, instead of just covering up the obvious bruises, I began to investigate them. Grip marks on my arms, a bite mark on my rib cage, more bruises on my tummy and thighs. I got dressed and drove to my friend’s flat. I absolutely lost it as I told her what he’d done. I asked her to check the back of me – more bruises in various places, and another bite on my butt. No wonder I had been struggling to sit down all weekend. I was still in a lot of pain, and in agony when I peed. By now it was already early evening, but my friend told me I was to stay with her that night and that I was to contact my GP surgery in the morning.

I have a favourite nurse in the surgery who has helped me with lots of things in past, so I asked to speak with her. As I tried to explain, she calmly said she was making me an urgent appointment with the kind, female duty doctor, later that morning, and that she would be there too. It’s a bit of a blur, but all my injuries were logged, and the doctor made the decision to contact the police. Back home in the afternoon, my friend still by my side, two officers from the sexual violence team came to see me. I told them what had happened, still unsure at that point that what I had endured constituted anything more than just rough sex. After speaking to them, I was left in little doubt that they were treating it as a serious sexual assault. Wheels moved quickly, and the next day I was examined by the police doctor, had my injuries photographed and was referred to Independent Sexual Violence Advocacy. By the end of the week I had given my statement, and apart from having my home kitted out like Fort Knox, all had been reasonably quiet. Until last week. The week I was having a few days at the seaside with my boy. Suddenly a call from the police asking for Matt’s contact details, saying that they will contact me again in about a week as they are hoping to get him in for questioning soon. I feel sick every time I think about it. And trust me – I can’t freaking stop thinking about it.

Back from holiday, reality has hit me like a wreaking ball, my bipolar is as messed up as it can be, I have a PIP assessment tomorrow, I have about 50p in the bank until Thursday and I am currently undergoing a change of antidepressant. I have struggled so much the last couple of days, and have tried every conceivable distraction technique I can think of. Even ended up cutting again earlier, as it felt like they only thing I could be in control of. Now I’m just disappointed and cross with myself. But writing has been therapeutic, passed some time and helped me bring some sense out of the chaos that is in my head right now.

If you’ve made it this far, I congratulate you! Thanks for reading. 

Angel hugs 👼🏼

TW FOR SH, SUI & BEREAVEMENT OF PARTNER
I think it’s fair to say, I don’t do things by halves. When I ride the bipolarcoaster, I do it big time. I do it in style. What I have realised without any doubt since my last post is that I was on an almighty high at the time of writing. I was aware of that to some degree at the time, but with hindsight, I can see it oh so clearly, in all its embarrassing glory. I spent a fortune on who-knows-what, and put myself in situations that just make me cringe in the cold light of day. That’s beside the one-nighter with Matt, that I’m still not sure how I feel about that even now. What I do know is I was definitely more taken with him than he was with me, and he hasn’t even had enough respect for me to be honest about that. We’ve had one text conversation in the six weeks since we got together. I’m torn between feeling I deserve better, and just missing him. It feels like a loss in my life, and as I know fully well, I don’t cope with loss.

After around 5 weeks of being hypomanic, I gave my nurse a call to keep him updated. He was concerned how high I had become and low long it had been going on for. Shortly after my psychiatrist phoned and she wanted me to reduce my antidepressant and increase the low dose antipsychotic I take, just a little. I protested about this at the time. The antipsychotic has a hugely sedating effect on me, even in tiny doses, pretty much sending me straight to sleep. My doctor reassured me these effects would definitely lessen with time though, and a few days of rest after an exhausting hypo phase wouldn’t do me any harm. I agreed at that point, but soon found taking them during the day completely unworkable. I could literally do nothing, and certainly wouldn’t have remotely considered driving whilst on the increased dose. I spent an irritable period of being in a mixed mood, and also suffered much increased anxiety, probably due to the reduction in the antidepressant, and even suffered new psychotic symptoms I’d not had before. It was horrible. And then things got worse. After about six weeks of being the highest I’ve experienced since starting on a mood stabiliser, I began the rapid, desperate descent into the abyss of crippling depression. I was unprepared, even though I know how the old adage of ‘what goes up must come down’ applies to my bipolar disorder, and suddenly I felt like my life was unraveling around me. Again. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to that sinking sensation and the chaotic, blind panic that ensues, as inability to function sets in.

My teenage son, who is in foster care, visits me on a Sunday and stays overnight. I considered speaking to social services and cancelling his stay, due to the severity of my depression, but concerned how that may affect our contact in the long term, so I gathered up every bit of strength I could muster and went ahead with things. I endeavoured to make the weekend as simple and stress free as possible to give myself the best chance of coping. It took huge effort, but we went to church on the Sunday morning. I enjoyed the time of worship, however when it came to the preach, I fell apart. Our friend with CF was talking about his experiences of being in the ITU, and his photo came up on the PowerPoint with tubes, lines and monitors everywhere. He said, “I know it’s horrible, but imagine a loved one of yours in that position.” I started to panic. I didn’t need to imagine. I only had to remember; this was exactly how my husband’s life ended. I felt my son’s hand on my right arm. I felt my friend’s hand on my left arm, but that familiar tightness in my chest and inability to take a deep breath sent me racing out of the hall, tears flooding down my face. 

I have spent the best part of the last 2.5 years trying to come to terms with the fact that despite my love for him, my husband was controlling and emotionally abusive to me, and it has actually been the major focus of my time in counselling with RASAC, in the context of how my childhood abuse has caused my vulnerability to being abused in this way as an adult. It has created massively confusing mixed emotions, as I have never stopped loving my husband, and in fact has hindered my progress in counselling as expressing feelings of anger about the abuse is key to beginning to deal with it and move forward.

In fact my anger has been so repressed I have been absolutely terrified to attempt to get in touch with it. I am petrified of conflict. I will literally run from it, or hedgehog-style create my own prickly defences to protect myself. When faced with anger I can not run or hide from, my outlet has primarily been self harm or destruction of inanimate objects. Counselling almost ground to a halt because of my reluctance to face my anger towards my husband. I essentially had my counsellor saying that my nurse and the mental health team should be picking up the pieces of my emotional fall out, and the MH team passing responsibility back to RASAC and me. It seemed like my allotted 6 months of counselling was going to end before I’d achieved what I knew I needed to do to heal. I was devastated. I have only ever been able to safely express anger as a psych inpatient on a 1:1 basis with an experienced, trusted nurse, and there is no way I would qualify for a hospital bed in this day and age. I’m just not ill enough. And the fact I have insight into my illness works against me, it seems.

But there was something about seeing the photos of our friend in ITU that opened up the floodgates of grief, and I have cried for Andrew more recently than any when in those last 2.5 years. It also started a series of flashbacks to the night he died, from resus, then ITU that I have really struggled to cope with. The sense of loss was increasing.

I can’t begin to express the intensity of mental pain I have felt recently. I even cut myself one night, after a year of managing not to. That was gutting in its own right as I felt an utter failure again. I have had to call the out of hours and shared care teams frequently. When I saw my nurse last week he had this look about him of someone who really wanted to help, but didn’t have a clue how to. I have been asked numerous times in the last couple of weeks what help I need. And guess what? I have no idea. I want the pain to end (to the extent I have been researching drugs for overdose). In previous times I would have opted for a short voluntary hospital admission at this point; but as I say, that is not an option in the current NHS.

After more struggling, I tried to make contact with my nurse yesterday. I was told he had the afternoon off, but someone else would phone me back later. I spoke to the nurse who called back, I know her a little. During the course of the conversation I mentioned having seen my nurse (Care Coordinator) the week before, and was rather abruptly told that he wasn’t going to be my CCo any more – she was. At this point I literally howled. The guy I have spent 18 months building up trust with has moved to a different office. To say I am gutted is an understatement. I literally trusted him with everything, and the progress I have made under his care has been massive. The therapeutic relationship I had with him was pretty unique, mainly based around tea and cake, but it worked somehow!

Did I mention I don’t cope with change and loss? To have not been prepared for this change, particularly at a time when I have been so emotionally vulnerable seems like a massive oversight to me. I suddenly feel like I’m back where I was 2 years ago. To expect me to survive this current car-crash of grief, loss and depression without the one person I’d come to trust in times like this feels frankly like a complete impossibility. As much as friends try to remind me I’m not alone, it feels pretty hard to believe right now.

I hope this explains how things are in my world currently. And I am grateful for my friends who love and support me, it’s just sometimes my face doesn’t really relay that! 

Thanks for reading and take care all xxx

👼🏼

Among the community of the young widowed, a phrase has evolved encapsulating the act of being intimate again with a new partner after being bereaved of their soulmate. Losing one’s widginity. For many there is huge emotional turmoil associated with taking this step. They had been in their previous relationships for many years, had not dreamt that whilst still relatively young, they would be thrust back into a world of dating, getting to know someone new with all their quirks, the vulnerability of exposing one’s own little quirks (heaven forbid!) or else face the bleak prospect of many more decades alone. And not just that, but at an age where, potentially stretch marks, flabby bits and maybe a couple of children also come into the equation. Not to mention the emotional baggage that comes with such a massive bereavement. Loving a widow or widower is not an easy option, especially as they are still in love with the partner they have lost.

It is seven and a half years now since my husband died, and more like nine years since we were last intimate due to his very poor health. And whilst I’ve watched widowed friends develop new relationships, I have felt like the fat ugly bird on the shelf that no one noticed. Don’t get me wrong, I’m delighted for those who have found love again, but I’d not had a single date, let alone anything more, despite doing my best to ‘get back out there’ and having a punt with a couple of different dating websites. Life circumstances and my bipolar disorder certainly haven’t helped either. If loving a widow is challenging, try a crazy bipolar widow with massive trust issues and a background of abuse. I admit on paper, I don’t read well. The pink hair in my profile picture seems to be the nail in the coffin. It hasn’t been a huge deal, although the desire to be with someone for a cuddle, for company, for warmth (putting aside sex for the moment) has at times caused me to feel pretty lonely.

I met Matt (name changed for privacy reasons) about a year and a half ago on a course at our local community mental health team. He was totally genuine, a cheeky chappy with a big heart. What you saw was what you got. We got along as part of the group, and I admit I didn’t think much more about it. When we finished the group, a number of us migrated to the pub nearby for a drink, and in conversation it came up about one week how I’d got upset in the group. Matt chipped in, “I just felt like giving you a big hug and a kiss.” I was on a wave of hypomania at the time, and with unusual quick thinking I replied, “You still can if you want!” So in a rather unexpected sweeping movement, he stood up, grabbing me by the elbow and pulling me up with him, threw his arms around me and snogged me full on the lips! I was somewhat surprised, but found the experience rather pleasing. For the rest of the evening in the pub, still as part of the larger group, we hopelessly flirted with each until we all set off our separate ways home.

In a bit of a head spin I sent him a text a day or two later. I told him I had rather enjoyed his company, and did he fancy getting together? Then I waited. And waited. I sent another message apologising if I had made an arse of myself and misread the signs. Eventually he replied, saying how flattered he was, and how brave he thought I was for asking, but he just didn’t feel the same. It was the sweetest refusal I’d ever seen, but I just felt a bit bewildered.

A few weeks later at a subsequent meet up at the pub (these were becoming habit now) a friend and I were playfully shaming Matt for coming on to me previously. This time it was his turn to look bewildered. He claims, and knowing him somewhat better now, I tend to believe him, that he was so drunk he has no memory of events of the evening. I said I was honoured to have been so memorable. Not!

We’ve met up as a group every couple of weeks for the last year now, and it had become habit for me target poor Matt every time I’ve been hypomanic. In the end he kindly but firmly told me he was not in the right place to be in a relationship, something I can utterly relate to, currently being in abuse therapy. He even at one point said he could never sleep with me because, ‘I was too lovely’. I know he’s been through some really painful relationship experiences, as well as periods of very poor mental health, so I backed off.

Funnily enough, when I backed off, he was the one who would seek out a cuddle or a kiss from me. I think essentially we’d become really good friends, we trusted each other, and felt safe together.

Yesterday five of us met at the pub at lunchtime, but by just after 3 o’clock everyone else had left. I expected Matt to make his excuses to be honest, because I’m riding another wave of hypomania, and had been playfully flirting with him. But we sat and chatted, getting physically closer to each other as the evening drew on, we had some food, drank more, enjoyed each other’s company, had numerous rounds of sambuca shots and the flirting became mutual and intensified. I asked him if he was sure he didn’t want to come to play at my house, and he completely blew my mind and replied, “Maybe…” 

He told me again he wasn’t looking for a relationship. I told him I wasn’t either. I asked if it would ruin our friendship. He thinks not. I’m hesitant. But we went back to mine like a couple of hormonal teenagers! And I trusted him with my damned widginity that had hung like an albatross around my neck for the last seven and a half years, seemingly becoming more of a burden as time went on. And it was ok. In fact it was better than ok, and Matt was amazing, just holding me tight as my emotions took over, reassuring me that if I changed my mind at any point he would just hug me all night long.

The plan is we will have a friends with benefits arrangement. The meeting of physical needs within the framework of friendship. I have no idea right now if I can cope with that, if it will work and how it will affect our relationships within our larger friendship group. My emotions seem to have shut down in the cold light of day, so I have no idea at all how I feel about the events of last night. But I can’t deny it felt wonderful to be desired and to pop that wretched widginity cherry 🍒

Firstly, I can only apologise to those who follow for the lack of new content appearing here in months. There are a couple of reasons for that; firstly, I have been working hard on my own recovery and coping strategies as I come to terms with the business of living with Bipolar, and secondly, I have been struggling to tap into my creativity since mood stabilisers. It has become an illusive ally, visiting fleetingly, before abandoning me to a barren place again. And in real terms, the illness, the medication and the effort required just to exist and manage my moods, even to some extent, is absolutely exhausting in its own right. 

Not that this existence is all gloom and doom. I don’t want to give that impression. I have taken some huge steps forward on this ongoing journey, and not only that, but have begun to recognise the progress I am making, and realising that I am the only one who can take the credit for that. I have moments of pride in myself. Usually followed by floods of tears as this is such an alien emotion!

I finally bit the bullet and had an assessment for counselling with RASAC. I was told then to expect a wait of 5-6 months before actually commencing counselling. Within around 6 weeks the call came informing me a counsellor was available to see me. I was a bit in shock, and very hesitant to go ahead at that time because my mood had taken a severe down turn, and I was concerned if I could maintain my safety if I started trawling up the pain of past experiences. But I chatted with the receptionist, explained my concerns with her, and ultimately decided I would meet the counsellor, talk through my worries and make a decision with her help if I wanted to proceed, or go back on the waiting list for a while. I knew I needed the counselling, I just wasn’t 100% sure of the timing. I was even offered the opportunity to give it a few weeks trial and see what I thought then. At first I was still pretty uncertain, and although the counsellor was kind, I didn’t know if we were going to click, but in a short space of time I decided I was in it for the long haul. 

It hasn’t been easy, but I don’t regret my decision. It has just taken a while for me to build rapport with the counsellor, and to test out if they are trustworthy. Only 3 months in am I beginning to discuss my experiences more freely. My counsellor described me as ‘a woman who is beginning to take back control of her life’recently. And I can see it, in glimpses starting to emerge.

After a time of considerable reflection, I told my psychiatrist that I was unhappy with the very limited effect the mood stabilisers were having, so about 6 weeks ago she agreed to increase the dose. Within days I felt much better mood wise, and despite the odd mild dips and peaks, I have mostly continued to feel ok, except for the chronic physical exhaustion. I just want to sleep. All the time. Or at the very least conduct life from my bed. But I do try to do as much as I can manage. It’s a balancing act. I even started going to the gym, hoping for the illusive promised increased energy that comes with exercise. I thought it might come with time. But then my lovely, understanding, motivational instructor upped and left suddenly, and I now feel less inspired to return than ever. The same with eating more healthily. I managed to cook from scratch, increase fruit and veg intake, cut out unhealthy snacks and so on, but for a short while, before the energy and motivation dissipated completely. Am trying not to beat myself up, but it does seem I can only manage so much, and not much at all in reality, before the exhaustion starts to affect my mood again.

On a different note, my son, who is now half way through year 11, so approaching GCSEs, moved to a new foster home last November. He is so settled there, and it has been a joy to watch him interacting with a family of 2 parents, and their grown up children. For a young man who lost his Dad when aged 8, and who has always been desperate for a sibling, it’s like a dream come true. Coinciding with his move, he was also assigned a new social worker, who is so laid back compared to the previous ones, it has had a knock on affect on our relationship. Suddenly I can telephone the foster carer directly, rather than through Children’s Services and make small changes to our contact visits without their intervention. We were able to go away together for Christmas, and to a funeral of a friend recently which involved a couple of nights away from home. Then it was suggested that in addition to having him overnight to stay here once a month, we could add in every Sunday night as well. Have only done the one so far, and will have to see how it goes, but it’s all good. He constantly inspires me, but I’m biased. But even his head of year at school described him as,’the most resilient young man I have ever met’. 

One final point to mention is in the form of an anniversary. It was a year recently since I last self harmed. I am still astounded I’ve been clean that long! Really proud of myself, because it’s not like the urge seems to go away, but I’m resisting, and it is lessening.

I feel almost uncomfortable posting a piece that seems so heavy on me blowing my own trumpet. Awkward. It’s not what I do. But I do believe the work I have been doing at RASAC and with my CPN is beginning to help me make positive changes. At last.

Thank you for bearing with me as I share a little more of the progress I have made and situations I have faced in the past couple of weeks in such close succession to my previous blog. I am hoping the fact that I am so excited about what’s going on will be enough to keep readers interested despite the slight overkill of two posts in twenty-four hours! Having dealt with the frivolous earlier, now for the nitty gritty.

As I mentioned previously, I had been invited to attend an assessment at the Rape and Sexual Abuse Counselling services at the beginning of September. Having taken the massive step of finally admitting I needed the help of a specialist counsellor, and that now was the right time, actually facing the prospect of going for assessment was terrifying me. I didn’t relish the thought of going through the gory details with a stranger. Again. Because having been for counselling before, and been grilled by various professionals in the world of psychiatry and psychology more times than I can shake a stick at, it all felt very wearying. If I can keep those memories and feelings suppressed for the majority of the time, I can sort of cope. Of a fashion. And going through it all again means facing up to the reality of the pain, the shame, the self-hatred, and frankly, I feel like I have the T-shirt.

However, despite my significant anxiety, I got myself to the appointment, unsure whether my CPN who had said he would be my moral support buddy if he could possibly make it, would be able to attend or not. When he didn’t appear, and hadn’t been in contact, I went on in alone. The assessment was much as I had anticipated, emotionally gruelling but I managed to detach myself enough from my responses to cope. When my phone started frantically vibrating from inside my bag I tried hard to ignore it, but in the end I was asked would I like to answer it. When I did, I discovered RASAC’s website still listed their previous location and that’s where my CPN was, waiting for me to appear. I calmly told him I would speak to him later and not to worry, so a short while later when I heard him arrive and be refused entry because of the highly sensitive and confidential nature of the services provided, I just ended up laughing out loud, at which point, finally I persuaded the highly cautious staff to let him in. It did relieve the tension somewhat and is something I don’t intend to let him live down for a good while!

One thing I had to do was complete a questionnaire to judge my current mental state and level of stability. I had done a similar one when I finished the Emotional Coping Skills course run by the CMHT in March and I was astounded that although I didn’t physically have that one to compare with, I remember my responses were very much different back then. Despite being able to identify that I am still significantly unwell at present, I am in such a better place. My CPN particularly was pleased that I had recorded that ‘in the last week I had not thought at all that I would be better off dead’. I did point out in my darkly humorous fashion that it did only specify during the last week, but credit where it’s due, this is huge progress for me.

So, I have been added to an approximately five month waiting list for counselling at RASAC, but in the meantime qualify to attend a monthly support group for survivors of childhood abuse, and was recommended a book to read. And guess what? I went to the group on Monday and am working my way through the book. I have to take it steadily, some of the book has been extremely triggering, but I’m not giving up on it. The group, considering what it is, left me feeling incredibly optimistic and with a real sense of hope. I honestly never foresaw a day when I would go and share such horribly humiliating experiences with total strangers in a group setting, but I guess I am changing. I am at a point where I am prepared to give anything a go if there’s a chance it will aid my journey to increased stability. I hesitate to say recovery, but that is what I am ultimately aiming for. If I was ok for fourteen years previously, surely it could be possible again? 

I have also recently had an assessment at the Mind Wellbeing Centre, and have been put on the waiting lists for their self-esteem, self-confidence and creative writing groups. In the meantime I am able to attend their women’s group and bipolar support group. I confess just getting myself there felt like some sort of death-defying, high-adrenaline challenge, which having overcome was followed immediately by an imagined walk of shame into the building and the humiliation of discovering that the mother of my son’s best friend from primary school is one of the wellbeing coordinators there. It was bad enough being the social housing family at the school gates, but this? Oh, the shame! 

However, this is me trying desperately to gain back some control over my life and my future, so I’m putting aside those uncomfortable feelings and keeping my eye on the prize. At the women’s group this week I made a Chinese fan. Was I any better off for making a fan in a room full of ladies at varying stages of mental illness / wellness as opposed to staying at home and watching repeats of (the lovely) Sean Kelly on the telly? I’m not sure, but I guess at least it got me out and chatting with new people. 

On the whole recovery theme, I’ve obtained a copy of this year’s Recovery College prospectus. I have to say, I really benefited from the short courses I did last year, and am feeling up to maybe looking at something a bit meatier to possibly sink my teeth into. I do really enjoy the learning environment and being stretched and challenged in my thinking. It enables me to feel less like a patient and more like a person.

My other exciting news is with regards to the impending launch of Tempo in the Community in November. Maybe you remember I undertook a weekend training course back in March with Tempo Wellbeing to facilitate singing workshops? Things had been a bit quiet on that front until recently, but since meeting with Dan from Tempo in August when I was asked to become part of a team of four of the new trainees to head up a community project to take wellbeing through singing to mental health service users in the community who perhaps wouldn’t have the confidence to join a choir, things have been increasingly gathering speed! What particularly encouraged me was the way in which I was seemingly hand picked for the project, it was a significant boost to my self-esteem. It appears the lovely lady heading up the project suggested my involvement without hesitation, which was then equally speedily agreed by Dan. 

When we all got together for a planning meeting last week I stayed on after the others had gone, chatting with Karen who admitted she’d picked me as her right hand woman because of my empathy with other service users (and my desire to make the tea!) We chatted until late, my first face to face opportunity to chat with someone with the same diagnosis as me, but who had had a lot longer to get used to it than I. We exchanged stories of overwhelmingly similar experiences and behaviours to the point it was laughable – tears rolling down my cheeks laughable. There is something so incredibly valuable in shared experience.

In conclusion, I just want to point out one thing. Although I currently feel optimistic, and essentially so much better than I have done in a while, I can’t help but fear that actually this is a touch (or maybe more) of hypomania. Those familiar feelings of invincibility, unusual over-confidence, oodles of creativity and increased energy are bubbling away under the surface, hence the choice of title for this post. Not only do I feel I am shunning the comfortable I feel almost unstoppable! Enjoy the positivity or brace myself for the crash? 

Thanks for reading 👼🏼

I am not sure as yet if this will turn out to become one blog or two; so much exciting stuff has happened in the last month. Am just aware I don’t want to bore anybody senseless with an excessively long rambling post, no matter how exciting my small steps of progress seem to me!

I was about to go on holiday when I last wrote. That was a wonderful experience, having my son join us for the last three nights. It is our longest contact so far and the first time I have been allowed to take him away since he went into foster care. We had such fun together. It was the first time he had been old enough to join me in the spa, so we had a leisurely morning enjoying the hot tub, spa pool, sauna, ice cave etc. We also had a go at an archery lesson, which was fairly hilarious, although neither of us were too bad, and despite approaching archery for the first time in my mid forties was way beyond my comfort zone, I really enjoyed it. Not the easiest of sports to negotiate with ridiculously large breasts, but hey, neither was it impossible and it’s one more thing I can say I’ve had a try at.

I have been thinking a lot about my Bucket List recently. Not that I actually have a physical list, and few fixed ideas either of what I wish to achieve before I kick it, so to speak, but amongst other things, I had expressed an urge to have a night out and do shots. As I’m someone who rarely drinks alcohol when out, my friend found this rather amusing, and decreed for her birthday a few of us must go out and introduce Angel to the world of doing shots! Well three Raspberry Roxannes, two Jaeger Bombs and a Bakewell Bomb later (not to mention the quantity of lager, cider, rose wine and Malibu I consumed) I think I can safely cross that off! It was also during that evening that the Bucket List became affectionately known as the Fuck-it List, the reason being; most of the things I would like to achieve in the future, my controlling late-husband wouldn’t have wanted me to do. Now, finally finding the confidence to make my own decisions without his voice in my head constantly holding me back, I can say ‘Fuck it!’ to always having to do what I was told was acceptable.

Which brings me nicely onto tattoos! My husband hated them, even more so on women than men. I have to say, I like to see well done tats, especially on attractive gentlemen, but I have equally seen some beautiful tattoos on girls. It was just something I had never considered having done myself, until I read about people getting a semi-colon tattoo representing (in short) recovery from, or living with depression, suicidal thoughts or other mental health difficulties. I knew immediately I wanted a semi-colon on my right wrist. So yesterday I had it done. Almost as much to my own surprise as anyone else’s! Another tick off the invisible list. And interestingly, in conversation with the tattoo artist I found myself saying, “I used to self harm”. I didn’t realise until much later in the day how significant a mind shift this is for me. It is seven months now since I self injured and I feel like it is a closed chapter in my life, albeit for the meantime. Huge progress in my journey to recovery. 

I think I am going to leave this episode here. Whilst these pursuits have been generally trivial, the other pioneering steps I have been taking recently are of a more serious ‘recovery focused’ nature, and I believe warrant their own blog, so critical are they to my wellbeing.

In ten days time I am off for another short break by myself. I am discovering increasingly the benefits of self care and undertaking enjoyable activity. It may be a tiny step in the direction of a more stable future, but anything that helps me become a happier, more relaxed and stronger person has to be positive.

Thanks for reading and watch this space for Part 2 (The Serious Edition) in due course.

Angel 👼🏼