I wrote a while back in my blog Unpopular Opinion about how it seems to currently be fashionable to romanticise our childhood years, in particular, though not exclusively, for those of us born in the late 1960s or early 70s. My point was, that many of us grew up with a brand of toxic parenting, which although not unusual at that time, has done us immeasurable harm as adults in the subsequent years. Way too many of us experienced abuse or neglect. More had parents unable to respond to them with suitable emotional responses, leaving us full of shame, anger, and unprocessed grief. Self esteem destroyed, feeling unworthy of love. I would be utterly delighted if my experiences stood alone, but I know for certain that’s not the case.

So today, I want to address how we process and deal with all those negative emotions. Because while we are not to blame for what we were subjected to, we are accountable for how we conduct ourselves, and also, not just for how we parent our own children, but how we model strong, emotionally literate responses to them.

How I wish there was an easy way to do it. Personally, I knew by my late teens that I needed to talk stuff through with a professional. I had a year of counselling. And it helped so much. But with hindsight, I realise now, not everything she said was right or helpful. Even then, attitudes were still quite different to now.

My life since has been punctuated by further periods of counselling. Some general, some addressing the sexual abuse I experienced as a child, much focused on my relationship with my toxic mother. I hold her almost entirely responsible for my lifelong struggles with my self esteem, and never feeling deserving of love. Thankfully a lot less so now, but living with bipolar means every time I feel low, all those negatives flood my mind.

I have experienced two mental breakdowns (before being diagnosed bipolar, which accounts for a lot!) And I have had more counselling and therapists than you can shake a stick at. When my psychiatrist was still deciding if I had bipolar or EUBPD (or both it turns out), I was sent on an emotional coping skills course. It was based on the principles of DBT (dialectical behaviour therapy) and unlike CBT, it made perfect sense to me and felt doable. I remember looking at the principle of radical acceptance and something just clicked in me. There’s a reason why I have the phrase, “It is as it is” tattooed on my arm, and it’s not just any glib positive meme. For me it was the difference between ongoing wrestling with my own head, or putting stuff to bed once and for all.

I brought up the issue of forgiveness with one of my earlier counsellors. I think because I was still a church goer at the time, I felt I should be forgiving my mother and my abusers as God had forgiven me. She looked me full in face and told me, “Some things are unforgivable” which I get, but holding that anger and bitterness was breaking me. I continued to wrestle for years until DBT, with should I or shouldn’t I forgive? Radical acceptance taught me I could accept the facts of what happened without judgement.

I found myself in counselling with RASAC in around 2017. Ironically having pretty much dealt with the rogue emotions of the childhood sexual abuse previously, I was sexually assaulted by a ‘friend’ and was a bit of a mess again, unsurprisingly. My counsellor there was an absolute legend. He was one of their senior counsellors and he didn’t faff about. Despite being abused by numerous men throughout my life, I respond really well to a no nonsense, no bullshit, no faffing approach, and male therapists tend to be better (in my experience). He insisted I confront my darkest demons, and God bless him, together we slayed them, one by one. And in addition he taught me that some men are decent and can be trusted.

I have discovered, over the years, the more I’ve processed my past with a counsellor, the more I have accepted my dysfunctional childhood (and I include the DBT in that although it was a course rather than 1:1 therapy). I still had that choice to forgive or not forgive. Did my mother deserve my forgiveness? Probably not. Although she ongoing was dealing with her own mental health challenges, she still made some appalling choices that affected the lives of both myself and my brother. Incidentally, he doesn’t understand how I can draw a line under things, and I can’t understand how he can live with so much anger and bitterness. The way I see it, there comes a point in life where you have to stop blaming your parents for your problems, take responsibility, deal with stuff yourself, and live your life.

Forgiveness isn’t even for the toxic parent. The abuser. The ex. The assailant. It’s for you. For your mental wellbeing. For your confidence, your self esteem, your happiness, your freedom. Don’t repeat the cycles by being less than the very best version of you, break them. And live.

When I first met Martin, our second date to be exact, he asked me if I’d ever been in love. I replied that I had. Twice. That I loved Andrew, my late husband (despite the relationship being really difficult at times) and that I’d loved Dave, the guy I dated for a couple of years who remained mostly emotionally unavailable to me. It had never really occurred to me that having lost Andrew while still in love with him may prove problematic to the subsequent partner. Because although I still love him, he’s dead. It’s not like that relationship could ever be rekindled. He’s no threat. In fact I believed I had more to fear from surviving ex wives, because frankly, they’re not dead. They’re very much alive and could pop up at any given moment as far as I know.

And yet, as Martin and I continued to date, and I continued to post little remembrances on social media for Andrew’s birthday and our wedding anniversary, almost inevitably the comment was made, “Sometimes I feel like there’s three of us in this relationship”. It felt important to me, to my heritage that those days were acknowledged and in fact my love for someone long gone bears absolutely no relevance to my current situation. In fact in a way he’s more like my other dead relatives now, like my parents and grandparents, in that I still have love for them, but they’re no longer with me physically. Not that I don’t think of them, or at times sense them close by, but they live on solely in my heart and my memories. The things they taught me, by design or omission, are the things that have become a part of the person I am today. I am a product of my relationships and experiences. Nothing like perfect, but so much wiser than my 19 year old self.

Of course I defended my need to acknowledge Andrew’s existence. Wrapped up in so much reassurance that it didn’t detract a thing from my relationship with Martin. I have so much capacity for love. I adore my son and would do anything for him, but that doesn’t impinge on my love for Martin. I am told, by those with multiple children, that love for the second or subsequent child in no way lessens your love for the first. I believe the principal is the same. It is possible to love more than one person at a time. In the absence of my parents I have forged stronger, deeper relationships with my close friends now. I cherish the bonds I have with my niece and my goddaughter. So much love, in its many forms.

For Martin, I think there was a point when the penny dropped. I can love him fiercely and intentionally, yet still have a small corner of my heart that loves Andrew too.

I don’t often visit Andrew’s grave these days, but before Christmas I just felt the need. I’d bought a Christmas plant pot arrangement and as we were out and about I asked Martin if he’d consider driving me to the cemetery. I wouldn’t have been upset if he’d have said no, but he agreed. I placed the plant and wished Andrew a happy Christmas. I also noticed how wonky the headstone was, so took some pictures.

I had no idea how much it would cost to get it sorted. But after making a few calls I had an answer. It’s not too much. I was surprised Martin encouraged me to get the work done. Especially given I rarely go there. But it felt like an acceptance. I can’t do much for Andrew these days, but I can get his headstone straightened up. And it won’t affect my love for Martin one little bit. I have an infinite capacity for love.

I was tagged in an article by a friend this week discussing the appropriateness of women dyeing their hair pink in their 50s. For the record, if you’re a woman of said age considering a vivid colour; do it! Assuming it makes you happy that is. But the discussion got me thinking.

I first dyed my hair pink in 2013, and I believe the last time it was pink was 2019. So over a period of about six years I was predominantly pink haired, though not exclusively. I did during that time also explore purple, red, pink/purple/blue combo, blue, blackberry, black and bleach-white blonde and it was the latter I progressed to in the years 2019-2022.

When I first went pink, I was still working in a children’s nursery. I did check with my employer before taking the plunge. The children were amused by it. Many of the girls loved it, and would beg their mummies at pick up times to let them have hair like Julie’s. Oops! The boys thought it was stupid. Obviously. But it wasn’t a problem to anybody. I was pink when I graduated at Fd(A) level. I loved it.

Interestingly, after I had my breakdown in 2013 there was an assumption that having pink hair was a part of being mentally unwell. In reality it had been a part of my life when I was well too, and was just a lifestyle choice. Pink is my favourite colour therefore why not have pink hair? My last psychiatrist was actually obsessed with my pink hair. He would repeatedly ask why I dyed my hair pink. Obviously my answer that I liked it like that didn’t satisfy him. I discovered at some point that patients with vibrant hair colour, piercings and tattoos are more likely to be diagnosed with with EUBPD (emotionally unstable borderline personality disorder) and it was in this timeframe that the diagnosis was tagged onto my existing bipolar one. I have no doubt at all that the psychiatrist’s endless questioning and the new diagnosis were related. Interestingly my first tattoo confounded him! Whilst it was clearly further proof of my EUBPD, I had chosen to have one of the principles of DBT tattooed on me (a therapy specifically used in patients with EUBPD). Oh well. We went our separate ways a few years back now. I’m intrigued to know that now I have natural hair and less piercings whether I’d still be labelled that way.

So what made me start with the pink hair? Simple. I’d never really liked my natural hair. Not so much the colour, but the way it never looked nice. My hair is fine and silky, but lacks volume. It looks greasy just a few hours after washing it. It’s neither straight nor curly. One hairdresser described it as kinky. I’m saying nothing. During my marriage to Andrew I risked verbal abuse or being sent to Coventry if I had my hair cut too short or if I coloured it. He believed he had the final say in what I wore and how I presented myself. There were many stalemate moments but usually I gave in for a quiet life. Things improved towards the end, somewhere along the line I found my lady-balls, but I’m talking having shorter, lightened hair, absolutely not pink!

After he died I continued to have my hair cut short, and experimented with shades of red, blonde, highlights etc but I still never found a haircut I loved. And that was the ultimate reason I went pink in time; I couldn’t have a style I loved, so I had a colour I loved instead. And also; I could. I had no one telling me no.

I had a lot of fun being pink, a lot of difficult times too, but in my period of trying other vibrant colours, I discovered I loved being white-blonde. Additionally I found a hairdresser who cut my hair in a style I loved! Being pink is pretty high maintenance and it was getting expensive too. Even if I could do my own colour at home, I wouldn’t. Been there, done that, scrubbed dye off every conceivable bathroom surface, and anyway, I can’t bend over the basin/bath these days.

So having found a style I liked, I ditched the pink in favour of white-blonde for around three years. Until the wedding. In the last year I’ve evolved again, grew out the bleach and am discovering my natural colour again. Add to that, I have currently stopped having my hair cut every six weeks, and am seeing, as it grows, what I want to do with it. I may go back to regular chops at some point, but right now I’m just letting it be. Who knew grey hairs could be so pretty? Like shining silver silken threads. I am so embracing those. I earned those. I also believe my poor locks deserve a break after so many years of bleach and harsh chemicals.

So currently my hair is 100% natural and slightly longer than I usually wear it. I wish it didn’t get greasy quite so quickly, but one thing I’ve learned as a depressive is dry shampoo is my friend.

The closest I’ve been to pink more recently was some spray-in colour for my hen party. Which was fun. And I believe there’s still some in the can. Or my pink wig when I’m cosplaying. Would I actually go pink again? I have no plans to. But never say never.

Just before Christmas I caught a cold. People who know me well, and care most, politely let me know if we’re due to meet or visit one another if they’re unwell, so I can make a choice whether to keep the engagement. Truth is, with the combination of physical and mental health problems I have, my immunity is truly rubbish. I catch things easily and I struggle to fight them off. And even a common cold can affect my mental health to the point of it being pretty vulnerable. So yeah. A week before Christmas I’m down with a cold. As is Martin.

Incredibly, by Christmas Day, we’re both much improved. I’m feeling like I might be recovered by our anniversary on the 30th. Part of our wedding package last year included an overnight stay on our first anniversary at the hotel where we tied the knot. Except when we contacted them no one had a clue what we were on about. The staff turnover totally dismayed us in the run up to the wedding and it seemed little had improved a year on. After numerous emails and calls I finally went in person, which seemed to be the kick they needed, but when we still didn’t hear back until the 29th, Martin had already made a contingency plan.

We went out for a meal on our anniversary and the hotel agreed to rearrange our stay for my birthday in January.

Unfortunately prior to our anniversary meal, a tooth that I’d had filled back in October started to really trouble me. I managed to get an urgent appointment at the dentist and another temporary filling was put in. The dentist I saw (not my usual one) said I needed another appointment the following week. The receptionist said that wasn’t possible and gave me an appointment for the third week in February. So I ate out on our anniversary avoiding anything too crunchy or chewy, because my tooth was still tender and I didn’t want to lose another filling.

The following week, not only did I lose the temporary filling again, but what appeared to be one side of my tooth as well. I was, thankfully at that point not in any pain, and was able to get another emergency appointment quickly with my own dentist. I have to say, since he did the original filling in October, I not only have no confidence in him anymore, I’ve actually become increasingly anxious, nay terrified of seeing him. So third filling in, he says there’s nothing more he can do for said tooth. He then took an X-ray as he said I would need to be referred to the hospital to remove it. Back at the reception desk I was trying to clarify why the tooth couldn’t be extracted in the practice, when the dentist reappears and calls me back in. At that point he announced that the tooth next to the problematic one is also infected, so should he make the referral for the hospital to remove both?

I agreed to that, not fully taking on board that he’d just basically said both teeth were currently infected. I still had no pain at this point. I was in an acute anxiety state and was completely overwhelmed by the experience. But I had a dental abscess on two of the nerves of my teeth, and was not offered any antibiotics. Instead I trundled home and carried on. It was only a couple of days later, in increasing pain, did I realise the truth of what I’d been told.

After two nights of no sleep at all and periodically crying with the pain, I got Martin to drive me to Southampton to an NHS walk-in dental practice. I was in such a state I couldn’t get beyond my anxiety to ring my own dentist. I’d called 111 the night before who recommended this place, and despite having to sit in the waiting room for two and a half hours, the dentist was kind and gentle with me, and agreed after taking an X-ray that I needed antibiotics. He asked me if it bothered me if he prescribed ones that require avoiding alcohol. I just laughed and replied, “I didn’t want a drink on my birthday tomorrow anyway!” Sod’s Law. Frankly at this point I just wanted the pain to stop. I should add, the only pain relief I can take is paracetamol. Which I already take regularly for chronic pain. No, I can’t take aspirin, I can’t take Ibuprofen, and I can’t take codeine/opiate based analgesia. I can however suck on a clove for toothache. I didn’t though. Silly me.

So I understand if you’re wondering what my issues are with my current dentist. My dental practice is the only one in the city accepting new NHS patients. So if I were to leave, I would not be accepted at any other local dentists unless I pay privately. I am unable. I am in the category of poor people who don’t even pay for NHS treatment because I’m on such a low income. Several friends have kindly suggested dentists they go to, but I’ve checked each one and none are currently accepting new NHS patients. They don’t even have open waiting lists. Trust me, I’ve tried. I’m stuffed. Mine is the practice that people tell me they ‘used to go to’ but they left because it’s so bad. The staff turnover is crazy. There is no provision for my anxiety or neurodivergent traits so I’m now at the point I really don’t want to go back at all. But given the state of my poor decaying teeth, that’s not really an option.

We had our night at the hotel on my birthday. Avoiding alcohol and still avoiding anything chewy or too crunchy. I was in a bit less pain and did manage some sleep, but the infection from my teeth had migrated to my sinuses and I was now struggling with congestion, face pain, headache and stinging sensation at the back of my nose in addition to the tooth and jaw pain. My hopes for some birthday romance and intimacy were right off the menu.

At the end of the antibiotics, the tooth seemed absolutely fine. Well as absolutely fine as a crumbling tooth with a necrotic nerve and a crap temporary filling can be. I’m in the process of trying to work out if I can get the two teeth extracted elsewhere (even if I end up paying) so I don’t have to tread on eggshells hoping they don’t get infected again, or anymore chunks fall off, while waiting for the hospital referral.

The sinus infection still seemed to be lingering after the last of the antibiotics, and began to get worse again. I am now on another course of different antibiotics thanks to the nurse practitioner at my doctor’s surgery. It feels like it’s improving gradually.

It’s just been one thing after another, and I’m still not recovered. I think I’ve managed one trip to the gym this month when I wasn’t feeling totally crap. And I need that for my mental health. Being cooped up is never good for me. Dark, damp days are rubbish for my wellbeing. Both our anniversary and my birthday have been overshadowed by pain and illness. We didn’t dare try to rearrange the hotel stay again after their rather unhelpful outlook. It’s just all left me feeling somewhat deflated. I’m bolstered by Martin’s efforts at working on his mentals and engaging in a new hobby, but I can’t seem to find the energy currently. Hopefully these tablets will help because I hate feeling so pathetic. I don’t need pity. Just understanding of how everyday bugs can wipe out someone with chronic illness or hidden disability. For me it’s the difference between coping, or not. And that’s hard.

 

As soon as the new Moregasm + Boost Wand was released, I was so excited to get one. Its predecessor has been my to-go toy for a number of years now, in fact since before Ann Summers first released them and I was selected for product testing.

As soon as I physically could I was off to my nearest AS store with my Christmas vouchers to treat myself. The new wand with its improved rippled silicone surface was presented in smart top-end packaging. It certainly looked the part.

After unboxing it, and familiarising myself with the new controls, and having a little scroll through the five speed and five pattern settings, and the boost function; I set about the important business of road testing the wand.

The first thing I noticed is how much noisier it is than the old one. And although the vibrations are powerful, it has lost the deep, low frequency, rumbling sensation that I loved about the old one. It feels like another buzzy toy like so many other buzzy toys. The other ‘improvements’ on the new model also left me with mixed feelings. I couldn’t feel any difference as a result of the rippled silicone surface. Having two buttons instead of one to incorporate the boost function was more difficult to navigate while ‘in the moment’. Having said that, having correctly located the boost function it didn’t disappoint. The result was both intense and earth-moving.

Maybe it is unfair to make very direct comparisons between the original and the new Moregasm wand, but any new release of a product should surely compare more favourably than its predecessor. And I’m not 100% sure Ann Summers have achieved that on this occasion. The change in the vibrations make the new wand less appealing as a massager, which in couple play gave the original another string to its bow. It seems fairly clear that the Moregasm + Boost wand is more exclusively about the female orgasm than the versatility of use expected in a wand.

I’m very aware we are all built differently and respond differently, but I don’t think I will be retiring my old Moregasm wand just yet. And without it for comparison I would probably be writing quite a more favourable review. I can’t deny the Moregasm + Boost wand is a quality product which absolutely got the job done. I had just dared to hope for more.

Today is nine years since I started pinkpalaceangel.com

I’d created a blog post in the autumn prior to that for a one off project and decided it was something I’d like to explore further. I was totally mental health focused back in those early days; that was pretty much my life. I wasn’t diagnosed with bipolar until later that year, and it took me very much longer to become as stabilised as I currently am. At the time of launching the blog I was still very unwell, but given writing has generally proved to be therapeutic, it seemed like a good idea. I think if I’m honest I fancied myself as a bit of a voice for the mentally ill. An awareness raiser. In reality it didn’t happen. My readership remains fairly small, and all I really achieve is communicating the ins and outs of my life (past and present) with my friends. Still they seem to appreciate it.

My life has changed beyond recognition in the last nine years, Although I am unable to work still due to ill health, and, don’t foresee that changing, I’ve learned to be content in where I am and what I have.

My success as a body positive lingerie enthusiast and sex toy tester will probably be about as well received as my mental health influencing, but hey ho. I enjoy it. And if you’d have asked me nine years ago if I’d be posing in underwear and giving frank reviews of vibrators, I would probably have even been too embarrassed to even laugh. Exploring my sexuality since 2015 has definitely been a bonus. As has finding a lovely husband.

I will continue blogging in the same vein for the foreseeable future I imagine. If at some point in time it ceases to be enjoyable, I’ll revisit things then. You never know one day I might write something interesting 😂

I had two really enjoyable evenings out Friday and Saturday. The first was a lovely meal with female friends old and new. Waited on hand and foot, serenaded by talented singers/musicians, entertained by a fun quiz (that our table won, incidentally). It really was lovely. But by the time they brought out the coffee and tea, I felt absolutely exhausted socially. I passed on the hot drink, deciding that quietly slipping out before anyone else started a conversation with me was the best option. I can drink tea at home, without the need to make any more small talk.

The following night Martin and I went along to the annual Christmas concert of the choir I used to be part of. I actually love this event. I loved it as a performer and I love it as a spectator. It seems to herald the beginning of the festive season in my mind. I still know many of the choir (and the songs) and it’s a lovely time to listen, sing along and catch up with friends. I even won a raffle prize, which is generally unheard of.

Both nights I was home around 10. Hardly the party animal. And the day in between I put up our Christmas decorations, which is an absolute favourite thing of mine to do. Yet by yesterday I was physically wrecked and fighting back the tears at every turn. Today hasn’t been better. I received the Tesco delivery man in my nightshirt (poor man is probably scarred for life!) I was finally sorted out with clothes on and everything about 4 o’clock. I was chasing up my housing association as we have no hot water. Assuming another water heater has scaled up beyond being fit for use. That’s actually how I feel to be honest. Beyond being fit for use. Friday night I told someone my social battery was flat. I didn’t think about that analogy, it just fell out my mouth, but it does kind of encapsulate the drained feelings I was experiencing.

I cried trying to make dinner. And when I say make dinner, I’m specifically referring on this occasion to getting a tray of chicken dippers and a tray of curly fries into the oven. A culinary delight based solely on the minimal effort required. Not technical, not gourmet, but sustenance of a fashion. That’s a proper chronic illness day dish. Had I still lived alone, I probably wouldn’t have bothered, but I take seriously the business of ensuring my husband gets fed. Even if it’s trays of beige food. But still the task felt impossibly hard. And I cried.

I guess I won’t be relaxing in a nice warm bath tonight then.

I’ve already broken my own rules about not doing stuff for Christmas if it stresses you out. Trying to keep our heads above water financially is challenging enough; but then comes Christmas, with the expectations of presents and cards, and shedloads of food.

I literally want to be wrapped in a blanket and be brought cups of tea. Be looked after. And I need touch. I can’t stress how much I need physical reassurance. When I’m struggling with chronic illness, I often miss my parents. My dad was the practical one. He brought comfort through sorting things out. My mum, though difficult to live with in many ways, totally understood my need to be hugged. I think she felt it too, which is why it came naturally to her. Even as an adult I would hold her hand or link arms with her when we were out. It never felt weird. It felt safe. We had our differences but we loved each other.

The dark days don’t help. I don’t know which I dislike most; heading out on cold, grey days, or being cooped up indoors. Motivation is low. I’m tired. To the bone tired. The kind of tired that sleep doesn’t help. Most days I manage my health pretty well. Today I’m falling.

So I’ve lifted that title from last night’s posting. And that actually is an exaggeration, I put my hands up. But it’s my irrational fear, and I own it. Am I scared that something bad will happen to my husband, my son, even my best friend? Yes I am. I fret constantly for my husband, because both his mental and physical health are vulnerable.

My young, fit and healthy son really shouldn’t give me any cause for concern. But I remember his struggles growing up after his dad died. When he’s here, working at the gym, living locally and being an all round star, my anxieties are reigned in. But if he goes away, on holiday, or even just to see his girlfriend in London, I begin to get a bit edgy.

My lovely best friend now spends much of her time in beautiful Devon. I don’t begrudge her that one bit. And in fact I feel reassured that she is part of a lovely local community there. But the days I know she’s travelling to or fro on the train; I worry.

Having older parents as a kid was never cool, much as I loved them. Having lost them both by the time I was 48 was truly rubbish. Ten years ago today my mum died, after a five year decline into Alzheimer’s disease. My lovely dad cared for her at home right up until around three months before she died, when her confusion, distress and aggression caused me to get social services involved for the welfare of them both. When she fell in the hospital and subsequently died, my dad was beyond heartbroken. I actually didn’t know if he’d get through it. But he was a practical and resourceful man and he carved out a life for himself, by himself, that he was content with. He and I became closer than ever, and spent more time together than ever. And I really enjoyed his company. We had widowhood in common now. Not always spoken of, but never far from the surface.

When my first husband died I was 37, and our son 8. I felt plunged into a cruel world where people I’d always assumed were allies turned their backs on me, and help (occasionally) came from the least expected places. But loneliness prevailed. Bringing up a bereaved child, alone, with extremely limited support or respite was relentless. I was constantly exhausted and running on empty. It was in those difficult times that I discovered the WAY (Widowed and Young) charity and it’s local and national peer support. That where I met my best friend. My best lady. Agent Barlow. Throughout the tricky early times, my mental health crisis in 2014, and everything since, she has been a absolute rock and my unfailing voice of reason.

In the time after Andrew died, then my mum five years later, good friends became so precious. And it saddens me that five of mine have died already too. While one was elderly, the other four were my age or younger. Friends who died in their 30s or 40s. My heart breaks for them and their families. It feels so wrong.

I think if you add into my life story that I was my parents rainbow baby after our middle brother passed away hours old, and I am estranged from my older brother for my own sanity due to his abusive and narcissistic traits; my life does kind of feel overshadowed by loss. Then there was the separation from my boy when he was at the mercy of the care system and there’s definitely an explanation for my irrational fears around losing the ones I love.

I try hard not to let loss define me. I still have the darkest sense of humour that only a person who has lost someone very close tends to possess. I share it with my son! He gets it, many others don’t. When I was dating, pre-Martin, I regularly told guys I’d buried my husband under the patio. When they’d look at me a bit wary, I’d laugh and say, “No not really! I don’t have a patio!” 😂

Thanks REM for that awesome sentiment. An exaggeration? I’ll let you decide dear reader on the basis of what I have to say.

What do I remember of the 31st October 2021? I was at Martin’s flat in Anna Valley. I believe we’d been out (probably for cake) because I remember returning and scolding him for pinching a candy bar that his lovely neighbour downstairs had left out in a Halloween bucket for trick or treaters. She wouldn’t have minded. Martin had then gone off to work a late shift. I can’t exactly remember why I didn’t go back to mine, but I remember sorting laundry, and tidying up the kitchen so maybe I decided Martin’s place needed a dose of the undomesticated goddess. He wasn’t due home until long after my bedtime but I’d decided I would be there whatever hour he came to bed.

I remember it was a horrible wet and windy evening. At one point I got totally spooked by huge group of families trick or treating in the close. I was intimidated by the rabble of loud voices and shrieks. As harmless as I now realise they were, at the time I was feeling vulnerable and alone and not in my home environment. But most of all I remember the seven second telephone call from Martin, telling me there’d been a train crash, but he was ok, and little else. He was clearly in shock and I think I was a little too. All I wanted was him home with me, but the agony went on. Part of me believed he could still die of internal injuries. Especially when I found out he’d never been checked out by the ambulance crew. Because the people I love die. A couple more brief calls as the evening went on, then finally he was home, but running on adrenaline and agitated.

In the subsequent two years I have seen the man I love become a shadow of his former self. When I look at photos of us taken in the three months from meeting in July until the train crash in October we look so happy and relaxed. Life was good. I saw a picture recently flash up on our smart device and the thought that came to mind was, “The times when we used to have fun”. And I immediately felt bad, because it’s not that we never have fun times anymore, but something has shifted.

I’ve been unable to work due to poor health since 2013. It took me a long time to get over the feelings of uselessness and worthlessness associated with not having a job. I had worked out a robust self care package to keep myself well, but those self care things cost. Recently I’ve had to prioritise which things are still affordable and which aren’t. It feels like playing Russian roulette with my mentals. We just haven’t had the income we would’ve had if Martin weren’t suffering from ongoing depression, anxiety and PTSD from the accident and was still able to work.

He tried applying for jobs. Jobs he could easily have done pre train crash. Not that he’d have needed a job but for the train crash. But interviewers kept asking him why he’d left the railway after eighteen years of service. And there opened the floodgates. And suddenly he’s unemployable, or so it seems. Finally the DWP agree he’s not fit for work but we’re barely any better off than when I was claiming as a single person. Each month I juggle the money the best I can, and hope I can still do a couple of self care bits. Because believe me, I need them like never before. And as Martin has frequently told me he’s useless because he has no job, I remind him that’s essentially suggesting I’m useless too, whether he feels it not. And that too has been hard to revisit a demon I thought I’d put to bed once and for all.

I feel like so much in the last two years has been overshadowed by the train crash, and Martin’s subsequent mental and physical health difficulties. Even our wedding. Aside from my considering calling it all off the night before when he lost it with me in the hotel restaurant, and then many of the guests quietly slipping away after Martin yelled at his unofficial best man during the reception, we have photos and video the groom can’t even bring himself to look at, because he’s unhappy with his physical appearance. It absolutely breaks me.

This was not how life was supposed to be. I never anticipated having as much of a caring role again as I do currently. I want my funny, spontaneous, sexy husband back. Please don’t think for a moment that I want to be anywhere other than with Martin. I don’t. I just feel cruelly cheated out of the man I met.

Last week the RAIB published the final report into the Salisbury Tunnel Rail Crash. Some of it we already knew. Some we suspected. Some was shocking (CCTV photo from inside the carriage, aerial pictures prior to the incident). Who knew? And despite those initial emotions, Martin reports it has given him an element of closure. The crippling panic attacks, the vomiting, the nightmares, the sweats, they’re only occasional now. And hopefully in the near future there’ll be some rehabilitation in the pipeline, this time, minus the agenda of the company just wanting to rush him back to work.

There’s always hope. I just keep holding on to that.