Hi! I’m Angel. Welcome to the Pink Palace. This is my tentative first attempt at blogging for the general public. Having only just been reunited with my laptop after nine months apart, during which time, my mental health has been somewhat questionable, I can barely even remember what I am doing, putting aside entering the unknown world of web hosting, domain names and so on. I really haven’t worked things out at all, but have discovered writing things down helps me make sense of them. And maybe someone will read something here and realise they are not alone, and it may help them too. Until I get the hang of the site, please be patient with me. I have a teenager who usually organises my technical life for me, but due to my health, we are currently living apart, giving us both a chance to (hopefully) get back on our feet. I have to say, the teenager has succeeded rather speedily in this challenge whilst I am still struggling to even get out of bed on a daily basis. I have only praise for the psychologist and family therapist at CAMHS who have worked with my son, and his excellent foster carer. However being separated, when for five years we were such a close-knit team of two, causes us both great sadness.

My husband, his father died in 2008. My son was 8 at the time. I was 37. Next week I will turn 44. I joked with my dad recently about the necessity of my growing up and becoming responsible at some point in my life. He said he thought I was already responsible. I see it as doing what I have to do to survive in a grown-up world, but I strive to see the world like a young child, full of wonder and possibilities. Until becoming unwell last year, I worked in a day nursery. It helped me maintain my young outlook. Since depression has taken hold of my very being, once again, I am most definitely feeling older. And yet the vulnerable young Angel has been present so much more often than when I was well. Her fair hair and baby blues, so trusting and innocent, seem to haunt my memory endlessly. My heart bleeds for her. As a mother myself I want, more than anything, to hold her tight and reassure her that everything will be alright and her happy ending is not lost, yet my faith in this outcome wavers. Regularly I remind my son that he has the world at his feet, he can achieve whatever he sets his mind to, and I have total confidence in that. Despite being bereaved of his father at a young age, more recently witnessing his mother decline into severe depression and desperate cycles of self harm in an attempt to cope when support was not forthcoming, and his own past struggles with low mood, crippling anxiety and intrusive thoughts, I still have utter faith in him to achieve his goals. Because at his very core is an assurance from growing through his formative years, that his parents loved him, protected him, taught him and set him appropriate boundaries because his happiness and well being were always their first priority. Little Angel never grew up with that assurance.

Little Angel grew up only ever knowing her mother to be depressed, and her father, in his frustration and inability to cope with her mother’s moods became a workaholic, doing the only thing he knew to; keep a steady wage rolling in. Little Angel’s older brother too, was troubled and troubling. It was at his hands Little Angel first experienced sexual abuse. Additionally she spent her entire early years believing her mother’s unhappiness was because of something she had done wrong. She became an appeaser, timidly trying her best to keep out of trouble, keep quiet, be helpful, and ultimately suppress her own needs in favour of the needs of others, her mother’s in particular.

At some point in her later childhood Angel witnessed a difference in her mother’s behaviour. Although happier, she became selfish and attention seeking. She began an affair and Angel was taken along on holidays and outings as the alibi. Angel hated her mother’s boyfriend, he was cruel and controlling. And he kissed Angel and touched her where he shouldn’t. By the time Angel reached her teen years, she too was deeply unhappy and she was ashamed.

Yet, at age 14 Angel found the strength to fight back, refusing any longer to be the excuse for her mother’s adultery. When Angel had repeatedly asked her mother to stop her boyfriend acting inappropriately towards her, her mother proved more concerned with her own needs than Angel’s protection. So Angel decided to make her own way. She found solace in a local church, who accepted her for all her craziness and hang-ups, and it was here she met her husband when she was 17.

I was married at 19. My husband was 3 years older, had been working a number of years by then, had his own car, and an apparently supportive family, who not only welcomed me with open arms, but helped me access my first psychodynamic counselling. Oh, and he was physically disabled with a terminal heart condition.

At age 8 his parents had been warned he would be celebrating his last Christmas that year. Aged 40, after over 18 years of marriage he finally lost his battle to his heart defect. By the time he passed away he had significant lung damage, was in heart and kidney failure and had lost around 7 stone in weight. Despite fighting bravely on against the odds for many more years than his prognosis, it was, in the end, a common cold that went to his chest, and caused his death from pneumonia.

For five years after his death, I looked after my son, changed career and obtained my Foundation Degree in Early Years Education. Until the late summer of 2013. Then my old adversary caught up with me again. But more of that another time.

Thanks for reading