This is quite a tricky one for me as I’m not a natural traveler. Which is strange in a way, because as a child, my mother took me to various different places, and I loved it. But as an adult I find travel exhausting. Sensory overload and anxiety central. I think as a child there were none of the responsibilities when travelling that there are as an adult. It terrifies me that there are so many things that could go wrong.

I can’t think of one place internationally that I am desperate to visit for the first time. At a push, maybe Iceland or the Norwegian Fjords. I would definitely revisit The Netherlands if I had someone with me. And Vancouver BC. I loved the small corner of Canada that I got to see when I was a kid. As lucky as I was to visit the US and Canada aged 10, my memories now are hazy. Other than how much there was to take in.

I am really happy spending my holidays in the UK and have a few places I like to go back to. I always describe Butlin’s at Bognor Regis as my safe place and my home from home. I get it’s absolutely not everyone’s cup of tea, but I know it like the back of my hand. I know what’s going to happen. I’ve been visiting nearly 20 years now. There are a couple of other holiday parks and seaside towns I know well too that I love and have visited over the years.

In this country there are a few places I’d like to visit; York, Whitby, Skegness. I admit I would particularly like to visit Butlins at Skegness, as it was the first of all Billy Butlin’s holiday camps. I am fascinated by the history and would love to see the original 1936 chalet.

A trip to the seaside, pretty much any seaside is always welcome. Especially if I can get my toes in the water. And if that beach should happen to be in Cornwall; even better. There’s something about the pace of life in the West Country that suits me well.

So there we go. I like having my stuff around me, which is why Roger, our motorhome, is ideal. I love the freedom of setting off when we feel like it, and creating our own choice of destinations. It’s travel that works with my limitations.

I’m 53. Picking one memory from so many isn’t easy; good, bad, happy, sad, indifferent. I wanted to choose a happy one if I’m honest, but for whatever reason, the difficult ones seem more present and detailed than the good ones. So I have picked the utterly heart wrenching as it remains in my mind almost as clearly as the night it happened.

When I was 37 my first husband died. He was 40. He had been unwell his whole life and obviously throughout our relationship. We’d had our son ten years into the marriage, totally against all odds. And when our boy was seven, his Daddy’s health took more of a turn for the worse. I’d already had the heartbreaking conversation with him that went along the lines of, “Daddy might not get better again”. He asked me outright, “Is Daddy going to die?” And I answered him to the best of my ability, “We don’t know for certain, but it is possible Daddy could die”. We all cried. I didn’t want to alarm him unnecessarily, but I also didn’t want him unprepared for what was seeming to be more inevitable by the day.

The summer passed. The boy turned eight. My husband, Andrew, steadily deteriorated. I did my best to stay strong; for him, for our son, for myself. I couldn’t bear to face the reality that at some stage I was going to be a widow and a lone parent. It was too devastating.

Andrew died on a Friday evening. It was the day the schools broke up for October half term. He’d had a bad cold all week and that morning the duty doctor came out and prescribed him antibiotics, although was adamant his chest was clear.

He only took one tablet, by teatime he was so weak I couldn’t wake him enough to give him the next. I called the doctor back and she sent an ambulance.

I knew how much Andrew hated going to hospital, but I told him, “I’m sorry, I’ve called an ambulance for you” He looked absolutely exhausted and wearily responded, “But I can’t move”. I reassured him he didn’t have to do anything, that the ambulance crew would sort things. Those were his last words.

Things I recall after that;

The first ambulance refusing to take him to hospital because they didn’t have heart monitoring equipment on board.

My lovely boy being devastated that Daddy couldn’t say goodbye to him or hug him back because he was so poorly.

The second ambulance stopping as soon as it started, which I discovered later was because Andrew had stopped breathing. They got him going again.

Being rushed into resus.

Ridiculous telephone conversations with my brother in law and late mother in law about how ill Andrew was. Obviously ‘he arrested in the ambulance and we’ve gone through red lights to get to resus’ wasn’t explicit enough as they both had more important things to do than be with their dying brother/son.

Having a panic attack at Andrew’s bedside and being told by a nurse, “There’s no need to panic. Look at us, we’re not panicking.”

Having to watch my 6’4 husband recoil into the foetal position and howl like an animal while they attempted to take arterial blood from him. It was a procedure he’d always despised and if I’d known then he wasn’t going to survive the night, I’d have told them where to stick their needle.

Being asked if Andrew and I had ever discussed how he wanted to end his life. I replied that I knew he didn’t want to be kept on life support, but that for someone who’d been terminally ill all the time I’d known him, we probably should have discussed it more.

Speaking on the telephone to Andrew’s consultant cardiologist. He was so lovely. But he broke to me that there was nothing else they could do. He seemed as heartbroken as me.

Being taken to the relatives room with my church minister while they moved Andrew to ITU. Paul made me tea. Before I could drink it a nurse rushed in and told us to come now. Quickly.

I couldn’t do quickly. My mobility was poor as I was pre spinal surgery then. As we approached Andrew’s bed all the machines were beeping furiously. The sister asked the junior nurse to turn them off. She asked, “The alarms?” The sister said, “No, the machines.”

I said, “He’s gone, hasn’t he?” I know a flatline beep when I hear one. “Yes” she said gently.

I remember being asked if I wanted his wedding ring removed. My mind went utterly blank. I asked Paul the minister as I didn’t know what the right answer was.

At some point the in-laws had arrived (after the event). Father in law drove me home.

My lovely friend Babs from church stayed with me. And my plan of not telling my son until the morning went straight out the window, as a sleepy figure appeared at the lounge door asking, “How’s Daddy?”

The three of us sat on the sofa, and in my best gentle-but-factual-and-age-appropriate way I explained to my sweet boy that his Daddy had died. Not sure who cried the most. I cuddled him for what seemed an age, but he was exhausted and I put him back to bed. Thankfully he was soon asleep again. I told Babs to get Vic to collect her.

Around 3am I got into a deep, warm bath. I stared at the ceiling forever until I realised I was getting cold. I headed to bed and I don’t remember if I got any sleep or not. I was in shock and running on autopilot for some time.

Losing a partner, especially at a young age is an experience I wouldn’t wish on anyone. It is devastating and traumatic. I still have a tendency to freeze when I see blue lights or hear sirens. Less so now, but it never seems to completely leave me. The events of the evening are indelibly imprinted in my mind.

I think when I wrote yesterday about my personality, I included a fair bit about what makes me happy. And when I think about it, there’s lots!

First, being loved makes me happy. Not just romantic love, but the love of family and friends. Sometimes my feline friend looks up at me with an expression of pure love and trust; that makes me happy. Seeing my husband happy. Seeing my son happy, and achieving so much. Knowing my closest friends are happy.

Having good health makes me happy. Which is why I workout, and try to keep a handle on my diet (could do much better). But the feeling of being told I’d reversed prediabetes was amazing. Having stabilised my bipolar is a great feeling, though one I never take for granted. The days when I can function reasonably well despite chronic illness I feel particularly blessed.

I’ve recently revisited Gary Chapman’s theory of love languages. Since reading it previously I’ve always felt I was very evenly split between physical touch and receiving gifts as my love languages. Although I’m not materially minded, I do love to receive tokens and mementos that come to mean a lot to me. I also love to give gifts and see how that makes others happy.

With regards to physical touch, I’ve always needed lots of physical reassurance. I’m a hugger. And in a romantic relationship I do struggle if there’s resistance to holding hands, cuddling or kissing.

And that brings me back sex and my hypersexuality. Sex makes me very happy. Lots of sex!

Other things I love; Christmas, the colour pink, sparkly things (definitely a magpie in a previous life), being by the sea, paddling in the sea, tea and cake dates, crafting, penguins, making cakes, our motorhome Roger, music, singing and lingerie. These all make me happy.

I also have started to notice how I quite like routine and order. I like to know where stuff is. I like to know in advance what’s going to happen. I cope less well with spontaneity than I used to. I like the familiar.

I’ve also learned that happiness is temporary. Happiness is a state of mind. Joy is a state of the heart, and therefore less dependent on circumstances. I choose joy daily.

I think a lot of people who don’t know me well might assume I’m quite boring. And in some ways, I think I probably am. I do like a quiet life. I’m not loud, or dynamic or entrepreneurial. I often say of myself I have no life. I’m not incredibly sociable. I’m an introvert. I struggle with anxiety. And I feel people underestimate me, assume because I’m quiet and don’t say much, that perhaps I don’t have a lot to say. Because I don’t watch the news or follow politics some may think I’m ignorant or I don’t have an opinion. When in reality I’m protecting myself from the overwhelming catastrophe that is world events, because my poor empathetic neurosparkly brain can’t process or cope with the deluge of disaster. It’s not that I don’t care, it’s that I care too much, to the detriment of my own wellbeing.

Much of my working life involved looking after others. My personal life too. First time around I married a man with a terminal diagnosis. I was 19. That isn’t a choice for the faint hearted. Sometimes I describe myself as strong. And fierce. My strength isn’t in lifting weights. My fierceness isn’t in a roar, but in a persistent, raspy whisper that proclaims, “I’m not giving up!”

Other times I feel weak. Exhausted. I sometimes forget that in those times I’m actually fighting my hardest. That’s when my strength is truly put to the test. Strength isn’t required on easy days when everything’s rosy, but on the dark days when it feels like there’s no way ahead.

I like to think I’m kind, loving and a bit quirky. I always had a very dry sense of humour, but now also quite dark. That comes from a life changing bereavement, and I share that sense of humour with my son and some of my widow friends. I have a habit of saying the thing that others were afraid or too polite to say. I overshare. I’m pretty straight talking. But never aim to offend. It’s just how my brain to mouth connection goes. I have some cracking autistic traits, even without a diagnosis.

I think I’m creative. I enjoy writing (obviously), singing, baking, crafting, photography and my current neurosparkly obsession is collecting and upcycling Christmas decorations.

I like getting away for short breaks, drinking tea and eating cake, paddling in the sea and spending time with my husband, son, cat, and friends. I go to the gym fairly regularly in an attempt to keep type 2 diabetes at bay and to up my endorphins.

I have way too much insight into my own mental health, which makes convincing people when I’m very ill a bit of a challenge. I’m always faced with, “If you were that poorly you wouldn’t be able to tell me so clearly what you’re experiencing right now.” Er yes. Yes I can. I’m intelligent and articulate even when mental, please don’t make assumptions about me.

The other thing a lot of people either know nothing of, or know lots about is my sexuality. I have a huge collection of sexy lingerie and mild fetishwear. I was involved in the BDSM and swinging scene for about 2.5 years before meeting Martin and I identify as bisexual. I would love to model plus size fetishwear. I’m part of the Fann Summers community and sometimes road test sex toys or products. Although hypersexuality is a symptom of bipolar hypomania, for me it is something that is always present. It’s both a blessing and a curse.

I think my varied and often difficult life experiences have given me a bit of wisdom and lot of compassion for others. I’m incredibly accepting and nonjudgmental. But in more recent times I’ve come to realise that my wellbeing has to be my priority. I have been guilty in the past of putting everyone else’s needs above my own and I refuse to do that now if it’s going to be to my detriment. Much as I love my friends and family, I realise now that I have nothing to give if I’m already running on empty. I’m much more useful to those around me if my self care tank is topped up.

I will let you draw your own conclusions about me. I think people see the different facets of my personality but only those closest get the whole diverse, colourful package. Like a mosaic, or a disco ball, I’m a collection of broken pieces, creatively assembled to make a beautiful complete masterpiece.

I have an inkling this is a blog I’ve done before, but at risk of repeating myself, this was originally intended to be a mental health blog. And although I ongoing touch on my mental health, it isn’t my sole focus any longer. But I do tend to get thinking on World Bipolar Day. I also noticed on my Facebook memories this week that it’s nine years since I was diagnosed. And I was so scared.

When I worked in mental health care, my experience of people with bipolar was oftentimes alarming. I found people with mania quite frightening, I won’t lie. I thought their behaviours were disturbing at times. I was young.

When I suffered severe depression in my twenties, I came across numerous psychiatrists and one very frustrated GP who would repeatedly ask me about symptoms of mania (not in so many words). If I ever believed they were suggesting I might experience elevated moods in addition to depression, I would become quite agitated, demanding, “You calling me manic? Don’t call me manic! I don’t go manic! Dr P says I don’t go manic!” Dr P was my consultant psychiatrist at the time. I think the frustrated GP absolutely knew the truth, but it was not his call to challenge the shrink.

But when I wasn’t acutely unwell with depressive mood, I didn’t ever realise my up moods were actually hypomania. I knew amongst my depression I would have these kind of crazy, confident, bouncy times, and I didn’t know that was hypomania either. I wasn’t in denial as such, I just didn’t realise. But I was very adverse to being diagnosed bipolar, because frankly, I was scared.

After more severe depression in my forties, being sectioned under the mental health act, and another hospital stay, I found myself revisiting the idea of whether I could possibly have bipolar. I remember one evening on the ward, sitting on the floor of the patients’ computer room, with two other ladies, both bipolar, both manic, and we were messing around, giggling and being stupid and entering into some friendly, silly banter with a young guy who was using the computer. The laughing got so raucous at times, a nurse would pop in periodically and ask what was going on. I remember replying, “It’s not us, it’s Paul!” (the guy at the computer) each time. Thankfully he saw the funny side. We found it hilarious.

I also struggled to sleep during that hospital stay. I would sit on my bed until around 3am each morning. My thoughts refused to slow down and eventually I would crash in a heap exhausted were I sat. Typical hypomania.

When I came home, I had the most amazing psych nurse in the community. If you’ve ever met or seen pictures of my plushie penguin Ian, he was named after my CPN Ian. He was a straight talking Yorkshireman who pulled no punches. I told him about the sleepless nights, the evening in the computer room, and how I would find myself talking really fast in conversation, but even then it felt like my speech still couldn’t keep up with my brain. He also realised the antidepressant my then GP had prescribed can cause mania in people with bipolar. I think at this point he and I both realised that’s what I had. He arranged an urgent psychiatrist appointment and meds review. I was inevitably diagnosed with bipolar type 2 and prescribed a mood stabiliser.

A lot of the talk this World Bipolar Day is the fact that on average it takes 9.5 years to be diagnosed with bipolar. I was 44 when diagnosed. When I thought things through I realised I actually had had my first hypomanic episode when I was 14 or 15, making my diagnosis time thirty years!

Receiving my diagnosis was both scary and a relief. Sadly the first mood stabiliser didn’t work well for me at all and had horrible side effects. The hypersexuality I experienced at that time caused me to take unbelievable risks, and I have no doubt was a massive factor in my being assaulted in 2016. The most frightening symptom of hypomania is the poor judgement. The feeling that nothing can harm you. It can, and for me, it did.

Starting lithium was probably the best thing I could have done for my health. It’s not a nice drug, toxicity can be extremely serious, and you need regular blood tests. It can affect liver, kidney and thyroid function, but thankfully so far I’ve had no problems. It certainly keeps my mood pretty much stabilised. The lows I sometimes experience now are nothing like the depths of hell I’ve visited previously. And I don’t go high. Sometimes if I’m stressed or overtired I notice like a micro-high, more like a busyness and some racing thoughts, but nothing scary.

My concerns for the future always remain the same; that either lithium will stop working for me, or I will have to cease taking it for some reason. I understand bipolar is harder to manage as you get older, and potentially not being stabilised again at some point frightens me. I’m scared that I may not be well enough to advocate for myself. And I’m concerned that the other physical health problems linked to bipolar such as diabetes and heart disease will catch up with me.

I did take encouragement from seeing bipolar disorder being discussed frankly on mainstream TV today. So much more awareness is still needed. And resources. Until our government make mental health care more of a priority I fear little will change, but today at least, has highlighted the great work that mental health charities are doing to represent people with bipolar. People like me.

Six months ago today we collected our gorgeous kitty cat from a small local rescue. I admit I worried that having been accommodated in a wooden pen in a shed for the last seven months of her life, and badly neglected previous to that, she may be timid and wary of humans. I needn’t have worried.

She doesn’t care to be picked up, but that’s not to say we can’t handle her if we need to. She is however the biggest, softest, love bug of a cat you can imagine. The first day she came home she climbed up on each of us and made herself cosy. Our gorgeous moggy is happiest when near her humans. If one is unavailable, the other will equally suffice.

She can be a little needy at times. She will follow us round ‘moaning at us’ especially if we’re busy doing stuff and not paying her any attention. All she desires is for us to stop being busy, and give her some fuss. She likes to be near, sometimes very near, like laying on my chest with her tail on my face! Or she’ll put her face next to mine and purr loudly in my ear.

If we go out, we very often return to her hiding in the drawer of one of my storage units, or occasionally behind the bed. She seems to like an enclosed space to reassure herself.

It still beggars belief how anyone could neglect a cat like her or give her up. She’s an absolute dream and no trouble at all. Seriously, our gain.

She has a wonderful relationship with Chris, my adult son. He is smitten with her and pays her regular visits. She in turn allows him to wrap her in a blanket or play with her with her toys, way longer than her heart is really in it. I always say she humours him.

She is 100% the perfect cat for us. She seems to be as happy with us as we are with her. She appears when we eat dinner to see which of us will cave first and offer her a tasty morsel and then sits looking at us until we make a space on the sofa for her to sit between us. I make no apologies for saying I love her to bits.

She is totally in tune with our mental health. Days when we have both struggled she has been known to share her snuggles between us. I’m so thankful for the times she’s come to me and administered her healing purrs. She’s very astute.

She still remains incognito on social media because of having been rescued locally. But here’s a tiny taster.

I’m not doing well. I’m weary, run down, burned out and depressed. I’m trying hard to keep afloat, but I fear it’s the culmination of weeks of trying to stay afloat that has led to this current blip. My mentals are decidedly squiddly and as always I’m at a loss what else to do.

I’ve done my usual thing of buying a load of unnecessary stuff in an attempt to cheer myself up. But cheer has been fleeting while my bank balance is depleting. Which presents its own problems. I claim state benefits. I don’t deserve treats. In fact I’m no longer sure I deserve power or groceries either, but I try not to dwell on it. You know, being prone to depression and all.

I’ve tried to do things I enjoy, although those things also cost money I don’t really have. I’ve been ensuring I eat, medicate, shower, go to bed on time, stay hydrated and so on. I admit I’ve been struggling to get to the gym, even though I know it will probably help. To be honest, having to go anywhere where there are people is a challenge currently. My anxiety is high. Higher.

My memory is appalling. I have a little household routine I follow each night; dead locking the door and putting the chain on, loading any last bits in the dishwasher and starting it, loading the washing machine and setting its timer so it runs overnight and so on. Recently I’ve been forgetting things and I may or may not realise before I fall asleep. Thankfully Martin has been taking up the slack for me. But I feel useless.

My brain feels like cotton wool. I walk into a room and forget why. I can’t think of simple things. I’ve also noticed I’ve had more hot sweats and I can’t help wondering if my current symptoms are due to menopause rather than depression related to my bipolar disorder. How would I know? And I can no more take HRT than I can antidepressants so I guess this is me for the foreseeable future.

I just keep crying. Every time I read something sad online. Every time I think of my parents. Even thinking about my son and how much I love him and how proud I am of him sets me off. The thought of going to Tesco to visit the photo booth so I can complete some essential admin had me blubbing earlier. It’s hopeless.

Trying to accomplish anything at the moment feels impossible. And pointless. It seems like no matter how hard I try, life just deals me more shit. Which incidentally is one of the reasons I parted company with the church. Accepting life, or the universe, or whatever randomly throws me crap upon crap is one thing. Believing that a loving god could be responsible for that is just cruelty. I feel rubbish enough about myself as it is thanks.

I could contact my GP, but all he’d do is book me a phone call with the mental health worker. And all she does is metaphorically pat me on the back and tell me I’m doing all the right things. I’m not unwell enough to be referred back to CMHT, which I’m relieved about, but it just leaves me a bit in limbo.

I’m trying hard to communicate to Martin what is going on for me, and what I need. I know it’s hard for him to see me struggling. And while he himself is still struggling with low mood.

The cat is a treasure. She snuggles up and puts healing purrs on me. She’s such a sweet, affectionate girl I can’t imagine life without her now. Sometimes of an evening when I’m sat, cat on lap, I think to myself how much I’ve become like my mum, with Tiffy, our cat when I was young. All I need is Coronation Street on the TV. As if!

I’ll get through this. I will keep trying to be kind to myself. I’ll try to take it easier. Ask for help if just existing becomes unmanageable. Surely things have to get brighter at some point.

I was really excited to be chosen to test the Womanizer Liberty 2 clitoral stimulator and I wasn’t disappointed! Thank you Ann Summers.

I loved how nicely it was packaged, with a little ribbon tag to open the box, in the same stylish teal colour as the toy itself. Inside, the box was in two sections with the Liberty on one side and a smaller box on the other containing the instructions and the charging cable.

A full charge takes 60 minutes and the charger has a magnetic connection.

The Womanizer Liberty 2 is wonderfully compact and comes with a case which attaches to one side of the toy covering the controls. It is also designed with a lock feature which makes it perfect for travelling.

It is made of smooth teal silicone and has two buttons which are easy to navigate, even in the moment. It boasts 8 intensity settings. It is also fully waterproof. When switched on it seems a little noisy, but once in position it isn’t actually loud at all.

Honestly, Liberty 2 is a bit of a pocket rocket! Compact but insanely effective. After applying some water-based lube, it did take a little jiggling to find exactly the right spot. But once in place; wow! I knew straight away it was going to be incredible, and quick. Gradually increasing the intensity worked best for me, and in no time at all I was over the edge, mind blown. I’m not sure I’ve experienced a toy like it. Definitely recommend.

I’ve been feeling a bit weird about receiving comments on photos on my socials regarding my weight loss recently. I know they are well intentioned but I feel uncomfortable about it, and here’s why. Since I lost 13kg in the run up to the wedding, I have subsequently put about 8kg back on. That in itself is my issue; I revelled in the loss, I take responsibility for the gain. But to be ongoing praised for weight loss I haven’t sustained is just wrong in my mind.

I originally undertook my healthier eating project in an attempt to reverse pre-diabetes, which I succeeded in doing. Any weight or inches lost were a bonus. Incredibly despite being incapable of maintaining said loss, my blood sugars remain lowered, which is wonderful.

Having in the past experienced issues with food, I am always very aware that any attempts on my part to lose weight must be done when I am in a reasonably stable mental state. Too high or too low I’m likely struggling to eat anyway. I need an element of strength and positivity to start a healthy eating plan.

So here I am. After a rather catastrophic start to the year health wise, I’m finally back in the gym, and I’ve made the bold decision to start logging my dietary intake again. I’m so thankful for a handy app that takes the effort out of calorie counting and food diarising. I will be doing a weekly weigh in for my own benefit to track my progress, and hopefully, given time I’ll feel like my weight loss is back on track. And that I deserve any praise I receive.

I’m also aware that if the rogue tooth kicks off again I may not be able to train for a while and what I eat will be determined by its consistency and not by its calories. But I’ll face that as and when. Fitter, healthier and stronger remain my goals. Posting gym pics are for accountability reasons. Motivational memes are aimed primarily at myself. Because as lovely as a bit of encouragement is, this is me, doing it for me.