Early dementia

 My mother hasn't laughed in over two years. She hasn't smiled in over two years unless she's posing for a photograph, when she manages to fake it for 30 seconds. My mother has depression and anxiety and she is being kept medicated below normal so she doesn't keep peaking and troughing like a yoyo. The peaks and troughs were horrendous but now she just functions. She doesn't have any character. It's like she's been lobotomised somewhat. Able to talk and read and walk and do yoga but void of any personality. Any personality that I recognise as being my mother. I miss her so much. She is not the person that brought me up, full of excitement for life. She is an empty shell. My father is on antidepressants to deal with it. I don't know how he does it. Day after day with my non-mother. He must not recognise his wife in there. The amazing wife who wanted to travel and discover and live life to the full. He must be in so much despair a lot of the time because it's as if 80% of her is dead.
I get angry a lot of the time. Simple things she is incapable of doing. Simple things. I gave her my old iPhone and spent hours teaching her how to use it. Simple things like emailing. Yet she picks it up once a week and refuses to try. I really needed the money from selling it but she begged me to give it to her. She promised she would practise every day. Send emails. Every time I return home I find it covered in dust. She hasn't picked it up for weeks. She therefore forgets what I have shown her. And begs me again to show her. I have no will left. I get impatient then angry then I shout and then I cry. She makes me into a monster. I hate myself. I try to be calm and patient but she pushes and pushes until I explode. Then I cry and hate myself once more.
I hate who I become when I'm with her. I resent her for not wanting to be better. I shout at her because I'm so frustrated. I can't bear to be around her. But I miss her and love her and don't like this person my mother has become. I don't like the stranger. I don't like her. It's as if a hideous stepford alien being has put on my mother's skin. I don't like what's inside. This anxious frail uninterested dull person. Where has my mother gone? Where can I find her? I cannot bear to think of her not being in my life anymore.

Single with Rheumatoid Arthritis

On Friday 11th August 2017, I was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis. I was getting pain and swelling in my wrists and fingers and couldn't figure out what it was. I thought maybe I had torn ligaments in my wrist after doing a fairly strenuous pilates class. I laughed it off thinking I had once again injured myself by doing something a bit silly but after a few days, when I cried out trying to lift the kettle, I began to get more concerned. I took myself off to A&E where they sent me for an x-ray and told me that I hadn't sprained my wrist or torn anything but there was definite swelling and heat in my wrist and I should probably go back and see my GP.

My GP did blood tests and said the results indicated my rheumatoid factor was very high. I didn't know what that meant. She gave me an immediate referral to a Rheumatoid specialist in Winchester and 2 weeks later, I sat in her office and cried and cried as she told me how this illness was now with me for life. There was no cure. It was something that could be managed but I should be prepared for my life to change and I would have to begin making major adjustments.

People say you go through 5 stages of grief when you are told something that is so significant as to change your life forever: Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.

I think I am still in denial. I have only told a handful of people about the diagnosis because I thought I would get better. I thought as soon as I started the drugs, then things would improve and I could carry on as before. But it is becoming very clear that RA is not something that can be fixed. It can take months or years before the RA is controlled. It is so debilitating that my own Doctor has told me that I simply cannot keep going at the same pace and I must stop working. Stop working? I can't stop working. I am a freelance designer and if I don't work I don't get paid so how can I survive without working? Slowing down was not an option I thought. I will be fine. The doctor is just being cautious.

I think they missed out one of the stages of grief... panic. Because 6 weeks in to this illness I am crossing over from denial to panic as the reality sets in. I have only worked one day in over 10 days because I have never in my life felt so dreadful. Utter exhaustion that is so overwhelming I can hardly string a sentence together or stand up for more than 10 minutes. Dizziness and nausea, headaches and earaches, an ache so deep that it feels as if it's in my blood. Pain and swelling in my hands and wrists and fingers, stopping me from holding a pencil or a mouse or anything that I have to use for work. 

I wake up every single morning and hope that today I will feel better, that the drugs are beginning to work, that every single little tweak I have made in my diet and life is improving my health day by day and that today will be the day I can get up and go to work. But every morning I am being beaten by this illness. And now I am beginning to panic. I'm panicking because I am not earning any money and if I don't earn any money, I am in big trouble. I have no back up plan, or secret savings. I have no wealthy parents or husband or friends that can help me out. I have no one and have never felt so alone as I do now. To live with an illness on your own is one of the toughest things I have ever experienced. 

I have told my sister. She simply replied in a text: God, it sucks getting old doesn't it? She has no idea what I am going through and has no intention of finding out. She doesn't care enough to find out. I can't be bothered to educate her and so I don't. It would do no good. She has always been an incredibly selfish person and her way of compensating is by saying she has problems too. I sent her a text saying I had only worked 2 days in 2 weeks and I never heard back. She only lives in the next village and has never once offered to help me or to come and visit. I literally don't understand her. If I found out she was ill I would be there as often as I could. I would be at her side as much as possible to offer comfort and support. Yet she doesn't ring or come by.

I have told my parents but I have not told them how debilitating this illness is or how much time I am taking off work. I can't worry them because my mother suffers from depression and anxiety and it would simply tip them over the edge. I am therefore still in denial aren't I? otherwise I would be telling people. The thing is, the ones I have told just tell me it sucks. They don't really get what this is doing to me. They think I will recover that I will simply get better in a week or two. My doctor is the only one I am honest with, and in return she scares the shit out of me by telling me to stop working, stop driving, stop writing. She tells me to claim insurance but stupidly my insurance policy only pays out if you've been ill for 3 months already. If I took 3 months off work in order to claim insurance then I would be so ill from stress of having no money and not working. 

I've worked out that in order to survive, basic survival, without any money for anything extra, I need to work at least 2 days a week. That sounds crazily minimal but it would just be enough to cover mortgage and bills and petrol and food. I could survive on 2 days, it's wether I can physically manage two days right now. Seems impossible. It's taking me an age to write this because its actually really hard to type with my right hand and also to make sense of words and to actually use my brain power without feeling deflated. I had to cancel 3 days work this week because I just couldn't get out of bed. I don't sleep well, I'm in pain and so I don't wake up feeling in the slightest refreshed. I feel at my worst first thing in the morning. Utterly depressed and useless. I cannot see a light at the end of the tunnel. 

I reach out to anyone to help and advise and support but I get nothing back from my friends or family. This illness is not known about, especially with someone so young, so I don't think they realise how bad it is. The only support I'm getting is from volunteers and charities, from my doctors and nurses who can see how ill I am. No one else. Maybe they think I'm exaggerating or am work shy. I don't know. But this is the toughest thing I have ever had to deal with on my own. Being single. It sucks almost all of the time, but now it sucks more than ever. No one to give me a cuddle when I ache. No one to bring me a cup of tea or go shopping for me. No one to look to for me and say kind things. Someone to believe me. Someone to love me.

Could it be dementia?

My mother has suffered from anxiety and depression for the last few years but now I'm almost positive that we have to add early onset dementia to the list.
She has begun to do and say things which don't seem to be symptoms of her anxiety or depression. Here are some of them:
She struggles to find the correct word for something and will use other words to describe it, for example, a toaster might be a bread cooker.
She has begun sneaking around the house, trying to find fault with things that I do. Last night, for example, I asked her to fill the kettle for me and switch it on so I could fill two hot water bottles. She did and then went upstairs. I am staying in the spare room which happens to be on the ground floor, so I went into the kitchen and realised the kettle wasn't full so topped it up with water and switched it on again. My mother rushes in to the kitchen and in the most passive aggressive way ever, looks at the kettle and says, "Oh that's strange, I'm sure I didn't fill it all the way to the top. Hmm how odd that I don't remember that. Unless you filled it up. Did you fill it up?" I tell her I did fill it up and then return to the spare room and wait for it to boil.mI then hear her in a very loud stage whisper, tell my father that I'm going to break the kettle, that it should never be filled up and that she needs to empty it immediately otherwise it will ruin the kitchen. This is a prime example of her completely overreacting but then talking about me behind my back. She then creeps downstairs (although I hear everything because the house is so old and everything creaks) and she goes into the kitchen and pours out some of the water. I catch her doing it and say, "Oh I'm sorry, was it too full mummy?", and instead of saying, "Yes darling," she stands there and lies. She says she was popping in to the kitchen to get a biscuit out of the cupboard. I asked her where the biscuit is and she says that she doesn't need it now.
I am living in a mad house and I don't mean that weirdly. But every single hour of the day is like the above example. She talks in riddles and lies to my face. She creeps around finding fault with everything I do and totally overreacts if something is not how she wants it. She cannot have a normal conversation because she lies about everything.
Just this second I asked to come to her yoga class and she tells me it's full. She can't possibly know it's full but instead of saying, actually I would rather go and do yoga on my own, which she obviously means, she just lies. It's not as if it's the kind of lie to protect my feelings because most of the lies are so nonsensical. They don't make sense.
So now, as well as the depression and the anxiety I have to deal with this strange behaviour. It is totally forgivable as long as she gets it checked out. But of course my parents are both in complete denial and refuse to believe there is anything wrong. I can't take it.

My critical Mother

Most of my feelings of complete lack of control over my life have come from living at home with mum and dad for the last year. I am 48, I had massive surgery on my knee last November, and had to return home for 4 months. I then had set backs, needed to sell my London flat, and here we are, 12 months later and I'm still having to use their house as base. Imagine being at home for a year with your elderly parents and then add fucking depression and cancer to the mix. Mum's depression, Dad's cancer.

I hate mornings, especially I hate early morning when I wake, yet again, in my parent's house. I used to love waking up early. The quiet and calm. The pottering around my flat hours before anyone else had woken up. I like to wake up gently. I don't like to be questioned, asked how I've slept (especially when I only manage 5 hours a night) or constantly nagged or criticised about something.

Mum, with her depression has become anxious about everything I do. She criticises everything from how I cook toast to what plates I use, to what I put in the bin, to using the washing machine, running the bath, what shelf I put my food in the fridge, where I put my bread in the larder, to having my window open by even a crack, in my bedroom. It doesn't stop. But it is never a straight forward request. It is a passive aggressive criticism, a twisted way of saying things I do really annoy and upset her. This morning, she did the typically passive aggressive thing by saying something mean, hidden behind pretend concern.

I woke up at 5am, freezing, so I crept to the kitchen to get hot water bottles and a cup of tea. I crept silently, in the dark, down the 15 metre hallway (the spare room is on the ground floor) until I got to the kitchen and then put the kitchen light on. I was super quiet. I pushed the door closed. The kitchen light is not bright. At 9am, my mother greets me at breakfast by saying ,"Oh darling, you must have got up early. The light woke me up but it's ok, I managed to  eventually find my eye mask and put that on. I didn't get back to sleep but it's ok."

I was incredulous. "Mummy, you're saying the downstairs kitchen light woke you up. The light travelled through the door, down the long hallway, up the stairs, through the crack in your bedroom door and woke you up." "Yes, but it's fine. I don't mind. It was bright that's all. And I don't need much sleep anyway." I began to explain that it was impossible. The light couldn't possibly have woken her, it must have been something else, but my father glared at me and said, "It was the light. Her eyes are really sensitive."  She then gave me a small smile and came to hug me... as if saying, it's ok, I forgive you. But I shrugged her away. It was a reflex reaction because I was pissed off. I'm sick of being made to look bad for doing completely normal things, and yet again here I was being blamed for her waking up, which was a blatant lie. A bloody stupid ridiculous lie. And the way it comes across is with this passive aggressive fuck fuck fucking attitude. I absolutely detest my mother when she does this.

There I've said it. I hate my mother when she has her depression. I hate my father for enabling her and backing what she says, and I hate myself for reacting the way I do.

My Mother's Depression.

I have just woken up, trying to remember the exact words my therapist said to me before she ended our Facetime call. You can't control it and you can't fix it. Remember that.
Yes, my therapist and I are terribly modern. We don't do actual visits any longer. Now that I am so transient and never know which city I will be in from week to week, it's easier to arrange an evening FaceTime call than try and make it up to Covent Garden. My therapist and I have an interesting client/patient relationship. I began seeing her about 6 years ago when I began having debilitating panic attacks. A friend of mine had studied under her at university and said she was truly inspiring, so I looked her up and voila, my therapy sessions began.

Of course, as anyone that has had therapy knows, you think you are going in to sort out one problem but you actually end up talking about a whole stream of other issues. We never really got to the bottom of the panic attacks but we did start talking about some major things that had happened in my life. Things that may be affecting my behaviour now. And it has helped me beyond my imaginings. Six years on, I now only see or talk to her when I'm on the precipice. This is what I call my moment when I am so stressed or unhappy or out of control that I feel as if I'm on the edge of a cliff, about to fall (or throw myself) off. I have these moments every few months and immediately call her and arrange an appointment. 

We have been talking, recently, about my mother's depression. My mother has clinical depression. It used to be called manic depression but now it is labelled bipolar. I think it's too simple a label for what she has. From memory, I can only recall two moments in her life, up until now, where she has shown signs of depression. The first time was when I was 17, and I remember her suddenly going very quiet, losing lots of weight had sleeping all the time. It lasted about 3 months. She wouldn't leave the house much and couldn't make decisions. She looked terribly sad and couldn't explain it or figure out what had suddenly triggered it. The second time was on her 50th birthday. We were living in America and we had arranged a small surprise party for her. I went upstairs to try and hint what she should wear that evening and she clicked that there was going to be a party. Something snapped inside her. What would usually have been a good surprise and joy at her seeing her old friends suddenly overwhelmed her. She sank to the floor and burst out crying. She refused to get dressed or move and sat there the whole evening. That depression also lasted a few months. 

Fast forward 20 years to a few months after her 70th birthday. She began to go down. It didn't manifest the same way as before though... looking sad and sleeping loads, it carried on going down, deeper and deeper. She refused to eat and would sit there with a haunted look in her eyes, shaking and rocking, unable to speak or voice what she was feeling. She didn't sleep, she wouldn't leave the house. She hid. We got an army of help. Her doctor referred her to a specialist who got a therapist and a psychotherapist and she was looked after. The doctor tried different drugs and we tried to keep her eating and doing small amounts of exercise. But it's not a science and you can't give depression a pill and a hug and make it go away. It takes months and months. of trial, error and the most enormous amount of patience. I honestly thought she would never come back from it. She had lost so much weight that she aged 10 years. She would then pull at her skin and cry out at how wrinkly she was, not understanding that the weight loss had caused it. Even her own vanity wouldn't convince her to eat. My beautiful and beautifuly healthy , vivacious, brilliant, chatty, smiley, extrovert mother, disappeared overnight.

There is no rational with depression. You can't explain what the noises are that she is hearing, or try and make her smile. You can't stop the birds flapping, or the neighbour's dog wagging its tail. You can't stop the postman coming to the door or the telephone ringing. We would find her at 4am with a 100 incontinence pads laid out on the floor because she was convinced she was going to wet herself. She never did. It is exhausting and aging, not just for my mother but for the family, my father especially being primary carer. But Dad is another story... a staunch traditionalist who believes mental illness is weakness and shouldn't be talked about. That certainly hinders things. 

It is now 5 years later and my mother has had 5 bouts of depression (one a year lasting 3-4 months). Each one manifests slightly differently, but each time, the downward spiral is less severe. This is what the doctors hoped for with their cocktail of pills and therapy, that each depression would get milder, that each manic period (her high following the depression) would be shorter too. This last bout, however, has lasted since April. It has been more anxiety and less full blown depression. But she hasn't laughed or smiled since then. 7 months without hearing your mother laugh. 7 months of seeing her shrink (you cannot force someone to eat no matter what anyone tells you). She is only 75 but she looks 90. She is grey in pallor, hunched over and so frail, like a tiny bird who's bones might break if you squeeze them too hard. She refuses to change her clothes and wears the same outfit for a week at a time (thank god she does change her underwear though) she smells slightly stale and her hair is greasy. She has a bath every night but it is so quick I cannot imagine anything really gets washed that well. And the worse thing is that I cannot bear to hug her. It's like hugging a dying child. Spindly arms legs and shoulders. Her head is too big for her body and she shuffles around in her oversized clothes and unwashed dressing gown. If I dare to suggest she changes her clothes or I wash her hair for her, my father tells me to shut up. He won't let me talk to her when he's around. He won't let me talk about her depression or ask her how she is feeling. I am metaphorically gagged. I might as well be in Saudi Arabia because I have never in my life felt so helpless and unheard and terminated. I have only ever been able to express myself with words but when I am no longer allowed to speak then what else can I do? 

My therapist says that I have to concentrate on being there as a support when they need me, offering my help as often as possible, but not trying to fix them. I cannot fix them. I can only fix myself and the way I react to them and the situation. She says I must try and not control their lives. I end up wanting to punish my mother for being ill and I want to punish my father for being so stupid, ignoring the situation. I say mean things because I'm so upset. I see her stand on the scales, see her weight drop by another pound a week and say it's disgusting, that she's like a skeleton, as if shocking her might trigger something! Instead she then sits there looking at her feet like a wounded animal and then I hate myself and feel like shit, feel like a horrible school bully, and lock myself in my room and don't speak to them for the rest of the day because I fear what will come out of my mouth. 

I have to just stop. I know that, given the chance, I would do everything differently - taking mum for therapy everyday, making her change her clothes and wash her hair on a daily basis, make her eat more and try and encourage her to take more care of herself. I've just realised I've used the word 'make' several times. I actually cannot make her do anything because then I would be the control freak and not my father. By ignoring the situation my father is not helping. By refusing to talk about it, does not make my mother's depression go away. Yet I am unable to change it. I cannot control it and I cannot fix it. And the sooner I understand that, the better.

Crying

I can’t remember a day in the last 11 months that I didn’t cry. Crying for a multitude of reasons, not just because I was sad, although that probably makes up about 85% of the tears, but crying because I was angry, frustrated or in pain. No happy tears unfortunately.

I have read that there are different chemical compounds, depending on the type of tears we cry. We have Basic tears, which keep our eyes lubricated and appear as we blink. Reactive tears, which appear as a reflex response, like when we peel onions or get something caught in our eye. And then we have Emotional tears, which can be happy, sad, angry etc. Emotional tears are the interesting ones to scientists, however, because not only do they look different under the microscope but they taste different too. Emotional tears, especially the ones produced when we are grieving or unhappy, are produced when our stress hormones increase, so they are actually denser and contain more sodium. They sting because they contain more salt and the more they sting, the more we rub, hence red swollen eyes. The sweetest tasting tears, of course, are happy or laughing tears where no stress is released so there is not as much salt.

Only humans have Emotional tears. No other mammal has the capacity for this sort of crying, no matter how many photos you’ve seen of elephants or chimps with a slow tear rolling down their faces. I sometimes wish we didn’t cry. I feel so exhausted and dehydrated from crying all the time. I know it’s a stress relief but the after-effects are horrible. My face is almost always puffy, eyes red and sore, I have constant headaches from the stress and tension of pushing out difficult tears of pain. It is not a healthy way to be.

I had extensive survey last November and now have a titanium lower thigh and a high-grade plastic knee. I couldn’t move my leg for 2 months and was out of action for almost 4. I had to leave my flat in London and at the age of 48, move back in to my parent’s house in a tiny village in the middle of Hampshire, so that I could be looked after. The shock to the system of intense pain and complete silence was huge. I had only a few visitors, the ones able to get time off to visit from London, or a smattering of family. People find it difficult to cope with other people’s pain. They either over-comfort or change the subject when I wince or cry out. And the trouble is, 11 months later I am still crying out.

They now say I have chronic pain. Pain that never goes away. My leg, physically, has been mended. The titanium is in the right place and it is all moving correctly. But when you think what has been done inside, the invasiveness of the surgery, I’m not all surprised that my leg doesn’t like it. Naturally your body wants to expel foreign objects and I honestly think that if the metal and plastic weren’t physically bolted and cemented into my bones, then they would force themselves out through my skin, desperate for air. That’s what it feels like. My body just doesn’t like it’s new visitors. And now, almost a year down the line, my good leg, my right leg, is in the same sorry state of disrepair as my left, and also needs the same surgery.

I have named my knees – Lulu for the left one and Ropi for the right – so that I can swear at them and tell them what I think. I can converse with them and ask them to behave. I can’t unfortunately, ask them to leave, like an overdue drunken guest.

I sometimes wake up and find my pillow wet, having cried in the night without realising. I have never screamed or sworn as much in my life, as I do physio every single day and feel no improvement whatsoever. I have had second surgeries and endless MRI’s to see what needs to be done next and yet, when I then see other people suffering, I realise how pathetic I must seem. At least I have my legs, and I have been helped. Others haven’t and can’t. I tell myself to pull myself together and fucking stop crying but then there is so much other shit going on that I sometimes feel justified in my self pity. Self pity is a disgusting selfish emotion. I cry and then hate myself. I then cry for hating myself.

Everyone has an opinion on my crying and most people think I’m depressed. I don’t think I’m depressed, I know it for sure. What I won’t do is go on antidepressants. And the reason I won’t go on antidepressants is because currently my Mother is on them – for her manic depression – and my Father is on them – to cope with my Mother’s depression. And they are the ones I’m sharing a house with. Two depressed parents. As if it couldn’t get any worse....

My arse in an airplane seat.

I’m worried about my arse! I’m not usually worried about it... in fact, when I do think about it, it’s usually when I see it in a dressing room mirror, from behind, at an awkward angle, and I think my God that’s a good chunk of bum, but at the same time I’m annoyed that it doesn’t fit into many jeans or trousers. 

I have a large posterior, always have done, and it does get a lot of attention from a certain type of male. The certain type of male that likes voluptuous round arses funnily enough. But that’s not the problem. The reason I’m worried about it, is that next week I have to squeeze it into a small seat on a small plane, for ten hours on a flight to Cuba. I’m fine in normal airplane seats but I get the feeling that this might be a bit smaller than the normal jumbo jets and that I’ll have to push it down, between the arm rests and hope my neighbours don’t mind an extra bit of bum and top thigh pushing against their own. 

Most people look at me and see a pin head, then they look further down and see ample boobs and a waist. But then my body sort of explodes outwards... I am a very peary pear-shape and it takes people by surprise. I stupidly have changed my seat to a window seat and realise my bottom will have to pass two passengers to reach its destination. My big bum inches from their faces!! I just hope they don’t tut or sigh loudly and don’t roll their eyes or give their other neighbour a knowing look that says.. oh great, we’ve got a fatty next to us! For ten bloody hours!

Or let’s just hope they are one of the people that favour the larger derriere, then I’ll be fine!

How Similar.

When you find a blog that seems to be written by your doppelgänger or at least someone that seems to be in a similar place to you.. it's as refreshing as spring rain. It goes something like these ladies…
http://40shadesofdisappointment.wordpress.com

Rut.

I'm stuck. I'm stuck in a circle of illness and the inability to want to continue my life the way its has been going. I'm not sure if the illness is causing the despair that my life is not how I want it, or the disappointment of my life is causing me to be ill. Chicken and egg.

I can absolutely and truthfully admit that my illness is real. As was the 5 hours spent in A&E yesterday. That sort of thing you cannot fake. You cannot fake chest x-rays and blood tests. You cannot fake asthma or a constant and unforgiving rattle in the lungs that teases me and bullies me every time I breathe. You cannot fake a doctor saying to you that you have a chest infection and sinusitis and labyrinthitis. That you need to go home and go to bed and take all the medication and take it easy and not rush back to work. You can't pretend to be ill when the experts are poking and prodding you because science doesn't lie.

So why do I feel as if I've willed it to happen. That another day spent freelancing for a studio, doing a job that at most makes me feel lacklustre, has somehow caused my body to rebel and bring on all these sicknesses because I don't want to do it anymore. There is another vicious circle at play here… if I don't work, I don't have the luxury of doing the things that do make me happy – writing and traveling. If I don't work I don't get paid, I am a freelance designer after all. If I don't get paid, I can survive about two weeks before things start to unravel. Two weeks without work and my direct debits are in jeopardy, my bills are on the cusp of not being paid, my mortgage may bounce. I should have savings though, you think, possibly out loud, as you read this. I have a back-up plan surely, for when things are bad. But you see, I never really have had a back-up plan. I always seem to do ok. I always work just enough to cover everything. I don't work more hours when offered because I don't like what I do, enough to want to do it for more hours than is absolutely possible.

So, here I am in week three of being ill, wondering what the hell I'm going to do. You see I did something stupid. I was so miserable before Christmas with the endless rat run of my life, that I spent my tax money on a trip to Cuba. I paid out £2500 on an amazing 2 weeks in Cuba that I am supposed to be going on in 3 weeks from now, and I am left with nothing. I cannot pay my tax, my bills, my mortgage. I have no spending money to take to Cuba. And I have not been able to do a full weeks work in 3 weeks because my body (and mind) refuse to get well. But there is this nagging thought in the back of my mind, that somehow, I have made myself sick. That it is some kind of wake-up call, making me really truly face my fears and get the fuck out. 

I did attempt to go back to work on Monday. I was still on antibiotics and steroids and inhalers but I knew I had to try and make it for a few days at least. I needed to earn some money and so I managed to just scrape through those 8 hideous hours. I wasn't given anything too difficult, my brain coped as my body cried to go home but it was ok. But yesterday, Tuesday, I only made it to midday. I then had a panic attack. I was sitting in front of my computer and was about to work on a design, and the room began to swim. The printers – which quite unfairly have been moved next to the freelancers desks, and emit a loud whine and an intense heat at all times – were screaming as they forced out paper after paper. I held my head and groaned and a couple of freelancers nodded in appreciation of my pain. They felt it too but they weren't ill and so the intensity wasn't quite so great. The printer was the pain in my head, and I gripped the desk as the room swayed. As the room swayed, I blinked and blinked but couldn't focus, on anything. My breathing became shallow and I started to wheeze and as that small whine left my body, I began to panic. I couldn't do it. I stood slowly and unsteadily went to the loo. I put my wrists under the cool water from the tap and I looked at myself in the mirror, willing it to stop. I told myself not to panic and I used my inhaler. My breathing started to slow and I went back to my desk. Then wallop, it was back. I gripped the back of my chair and quickly put things in my bag, vaguely trying to form a plan. I couldn't think straight, I only knew I had to get outside, to leave the building, to go home. I made it to the lift and clung to the walls as I went to the lobby. No one was around except the two receptionists. It was lunchtime thank god, so no one had noticed my strange behaviour, my unsteady steps. But the girls at reception noticed immediately. I must have been white as a sheet. One said… Jules, and put a hand out towards me. Are you ok? she asked. No, I said. And then I just stood there looking at her. I didn't know where to go, or what to do. I just wanted someone to take care of me, to help me, to tell me what to do. And she put her head on one side and told me to calm down, and that everything would be ok, and she guided me to a little room and said she would call a taxi. She took care of me for 30 seconds and I felt such gratitude. I have no one to look after me and miss those little kind words and caring gestures. I sat there and thought how tired I was, of it all, of doing it by myself, all the fucking time, and the panic came at me again, in a giant wave that left me gasping for air and holding onto the coffee table as I tried to keep whole. 

I heard the receptionist tell the taxi driver to take me to emergency, to University College Hospital, and I didn't refuse. I walked slowly to the car and tried to breathe as the car raced through traffic and road works to the busy hospital. They signed me in and heard my rasping breath as I tried to explain what was happening. I saw the concern and genuine worry as they led me to a nurse. But the panic was making me silent… I felt if I tried to explain that my world might end. That voicing anything at that moment would turn on a tap that wouldn't stop, so I let them do their medical things and I waited. I wasn't told I had had a pretty intense panic attack. That, I think they knew was the tail end of the illness. They knew that the asthma and the general feeling of being incredibly unwell had most probably brought on the panic attack. They most probably see that everyday too so know its best just to keep to the facts and remain calm. They genuinely were some of the nicest people I have met. Maybe they saw the fear in my eyes, the loneliness too, or maybe they were just doing their job, but I felt a level of compassion that I haven't felt in a long time. 

And so with that, came an amazing restfulness. My panic subsided as I let myself be looked after. I let them do their chest x-rays and their blood tests. I let them put in drips and needles and I let them bring me sweet tea and biscuits. I let them do it all for 5 hours until the consultant had all he needed. I then let him tell me I should be in bed, that I was really quite ill and I listened to him. He was kind and gentle and explained things to me. He gave me advice and wrote prescriptions and he made sure I was ok to leave on my own. He made me promise to call him if I was worried and gave me a number. He took his time.

I had someone tell me what to do and I stopped panicking. All it took was a reassurance and a few kind words, and the relief of not having to make every single damn decision on my own, every day of my bloody life, was glorious. 

On reflection...

My last post on here was almost a year ago. Why?

It’s hard to tell the truth all the time. 

I write another blog (WhatISaw.WhatIHeard) which regales the reader with tales of my life, but it’s the fun stuff, the witty anecdotes, the amusing observations. On here, I write openly about my hurt, my open wounds. It’s more like a journal and therefore, is more painful to write. I suppose my blogs are the two sides to my personality. The one I want people to see, and the one I don’t. This one I hide from my friends and family. It is anonymous. It is secret.

We are all very good at hiding things in everyday life, I know I am. I am so often told how jolly I am, how confident I am, how unafraid I am. That I make the most out of life and grab each day with gusto. Yes, that’s the Jules I want people to see, and I’ve become very good at it. But that is my external self, the public self, the self-preservation person, the one that doesn’t get hurt, the one that doesn’t need anyone or anything, the one that has no vulnerability. So am I leading a double life? Of course I am. 

No one can spend the day thinking of all the stuff in their life that they don’t like, the things that get them down, what makes us cry. We would all be leaping off tall buildings if that were the case. But we all get moments when we can wallow in the sadness, when we don’t want to get out of bed and would prefer to cry and hide under the covers for a while. And you know what, the older I get, the more readily I can admit to that. I’m not alone either it seems. My friends are more honest about themselves, about their hopes and disappointments. I get long emails from old school and college friends, pouring their hearts out about their sadness and despair. I write back with my own. I share more. I know that by getting things out, it doesn’t seem as lonely a place as I originally thought. 

Even today I have been writing back and forth to a friend who I see at work almost on a daily basis. I happen to be off sick with a heinous chest infection but I know I will see her in a few days. So why write endless emails to each other? Because we really aren’t that brave in person. We can’t seem to get it out in speech and not be embarrassed by our purging. Writing is so much easier isn’t it? We are both in our mid-forties. We are both single. We are both childless. My decision to not have children was taken out of my hands when I was told at 39 that I was going through the menopause. Until that age, I had not met the right man and therefore, hadn’t been in a situation where I wanted to have a child. My time ran out. My friend is in the same situation but without the menopause bit. She has just never met the right person either. She did not want to have children with a man who she didn’t see as part of her future. It’s an incredibly responsible approach really and very unselfish but now she is alone because of that decision. It seems very unfair. We also have bonded over our loneliness or rather our hidden loneliness. I have exposed to her my vulnerable side, I have told her how lonely I feel, with no shame or embarrassment because I know she experiences the same thing. But on the outside, aren’t the two of us the most fun-loving, strong, independent women we know? Of course we are, it’s self preservation. If we let our guard down, we would be two pathetic bawling rags on the floor!!! And we can’t have that can we? Certainly neither of us were brought up to be so ‘open’ about our feelings. Gosh, sometimes our parents make it very hard for us don’t they??

So, as I lay here in bed for the third consecutive day, on both steroids and antibiotics for my crappy chest and asthma, I began feeling even more sorry for myself. Illness is a great time to feel well and truly miserable. Your body hurts, your brain hurts and every single thing in your life seems shit. And for me, living alone, with no boyfriend, husband or kids, there is also no one to bring you a mug of soup, or some paracetamol. You are alone with your illness and there is nothing crappier than that. I think that’s where it started this morning, the emails with my friend. I kept thinking – as well as dying and no one finding me for days – that if I was ill in 10 years or 20 years, would I still be alone in my flat with no one to worry about me, no one to take care of me. And I cried. I cried for my older self for a good 5 minutes, until it sent me into a wheezing and coughing frenzy and then I stopped. Self pity is rather revolting but a good cry every now and then is wonderful because you can then shout at yourself afterwards for being so stupid. 

I had an email from the friend at work, just as I had finished crying. All she wrote was, “I feel gloomy today. Sick of flogging it alone”. And it went from there. As a detail, she had just started dating a man with children, going through a divorce. After 3 weeks, he said he wasn’t ready for a relationship and that she didn’t seem to need anyone in her life anyway. He was mean to her, his words hurt her but they also made her realise that she comes across that way, to men. She is afraid to get hurt by seeming to need or want anything. So she makes out her life is perfect. It’s a lie of course.

I wrote back… (and I know she won’t mind me putting it on here because if it makes one single person feel a little better and not so alone, then that’s a good thing)

Darling, 
Oh me too... That's what has upset me so much this week. Just that vicious circle of going round and round with nothing changing. I feel like a hamster on a wheel, just round and round with nothing to show for it. Always doing it on my own, no support, no one to help, no one to look after me. Then I fast forward 20 years and wonder what will life be like then? I don't want to be alone anymore either. I know how you feel darling. It's just shit.
I think that's the hardest part of not having children. We see no change in our lives. With children your life changes daily as they grow. Your life constantly looks different whereas I feel my life hasn't looked different for years. Yes I fill it with friends and fun things and traveling but from the outside there is nothing different.
God I don't mean to depress you any more darling. Sorry.
I think we both need to find men that already have children. XX wasn't the right one for you but I think we are both incredibly nurturing and need someone to look after. With someone that has children we may get the chance to experience that, or at least grandchildren in 20 years, at least.
I'm not in a good place to start dating again but I think I'm now realistic with what I want. And that is family. My own family and I are soooo close and so it's incredibly important to me. I have known since I was 39 I couldn't have children and so it was always a case of... Well how else can you have a family then?
I know we are so similar in how we think. We are cheerful and upbeat on the outside, but inside we are crying for someone. And yes, we get down and blue. I know I am very prone to illness... I knew that from the moment my thyroid was removed, one of the side effects unfortunately. Low immune system. So I get ill a lot. And when I get ill I get very blue. I overthink everything and my life feels so empty. But then I get emails from friends and I realise I have such am incredible support network and that you guys keep me going.
I know we are fairly new friends but I really value your friendship honey. I'm always here for you too. Huge hug.
X x x

J, Every single thing you've mentioned describes exactly how I feel. On the outside I stand strong and prob come across as a little tough & hard to the opposite sex.
I'm defo tough but I have an enormous heart with so much love to give - this feeling can be suffocating.
Although cock features isn't for me I found myself saying "I love my life, I feel blessed for what I have ( I do) but I won't tolerate or compromise unless it feels right", which is true - I painted my life to appear fantastic as I was protecting myself.  I do this a lot.
x

K, I do think we do sometimes shoot ourselves in the foot for not being vulnerable though. My ex said to me.. sometimes you appear as if you need no one. You are so independent and self assured, it sometimes feels as if there isn't room in your life for someone else. And your confidence is a little intimidating, as if I will never be good enough.
Eek.. so our strength is actually sometimes quite off-putting!
Men do like a bit of vulnerability. They like to be wanted and needed. The damsel if you like… And I know I have to change that about me sometimes. The big brave Jules is my exterior protection shell. No one can hurt me if I don't trust or open my heart to anyone. I know that. I was ready when I met my ex, to open myself to him, to show what I really wanted. I trusted him with my honesty and vulnerable side… and then it went wrong. He chose his dead wife over me… he was being honest with himself. And of course I was devastated. But I don't regret opening up to him. I don't regret having my heart broken. I felt a sense of euphoria and freedom for not pretending all was ok and I could combat everything.
It's taken me a while to think I can do it again though. But I do learn from my mistakes. I need to knock down my armour a little and not appear too bloody Boudicea or Boodica, or however you are supposed to pronounce her name these days.
Yes we are strong women, but are lives are far from perfect and its not a sign of weakness to admit that. Even if its just between us.. haha.
Love you sweetie.

J, I think we both have to choose more wisely, sometimes it's not always that straight forward as men play games. Better to have loved than not so I'll try and open myself up more. I will  learn from this.
Great we can chat like this x

The exchange went on for the next hour (not sure what work she is doing!) but it was pretty much along the same vein. The email exchange won’t solve anything, it won’t change either of our circumstances but it is so wonderful being able to tell someone, and in my friends’ words, and how she signed off her last email…

“… it is just comforting to know you feel the same.”

So it is. So it is.

Life, later.

It is interesting reading old blogs… like reading old diaries and letters, you see yourself how you were, and sometimes that person is a stranger. Many of the emotions, I felt two and three years ago, I see as so selfish and self indulgent now. I want to shake my slightly younger self and say, "Do you realise how amazing your life could have been, how much time you wasted?" I have read a dozen or so posts this morning and have been sobbing, reliving it all over again… the sadness, the struggle. I have swallowed many of those memories. You never really want to live though the sad stuff again but seeing what I went though and where I am now, I'm proud that I made it ok. I could have sunk deeper but I chose to swim.

I'm not saying the last few years has been easy… I have probably had my heart broken in more ways than in my previous years put together but I think with experience and knowledge you deal with things differently. I have already talked about my Mothers terrible illness and the repercussions that it has had on the family. But other members of my family have been ill and some have died. Death, when it happens more regularly, makes you take a really good look at your own life. Have you lived your life to the full? Are you proud of what you've achieved?

I went through years of panic attacks and endless dark days, struggling to come to terms with being childless. When I finally accepted I wouldn't be able to have children of my own, and there was no sperm donor or IVF treatment in the world that could help me, it finally set me free. That was January 2012. But then, of course, came the philosophical questions. If women are put on this earth to procreate, what is her role if she cannot have children? Why am I even here... what's the point? I began thinking of gloriously dangerous jobs I could volunteer for, because it actually didn't really matter if I died. Ok, sorry, that probably came as a shock to read. What I mean is… I just felt that there was nothing stopping me, I had no one in my life that relied on me for anything, so why not do charity work in a war zone. I thought about this for months and months assuming that now my life was worthless, I could devote myself to helping others instead. I rang up the Red Cross and Médecins Sans Frontières, offering my help. I was rejected again and again. Having a BA in Graphic Design is not really the qualification they are looking for… doctors and nurses, yes, a girl with an eye for a good typeface, no.

I finally rejected all the extreme ideas and focussed on what I could do... be a good friend, a supportive and loving daughter, a wonderful sister. I seemed to be able to make people laugh and cry when I wrote, so why not leave that as my legacy instead? So I started a new, more positive blog called “What I Saw. What I Heard.” I began a creative writing class, writing story after story, until finally one of them won a prize. After years of feeling worthless, that one silly little literature prize made me feel that life wasn't shit and that I could do something worthwhile. I started traveling more, visiting friends and family around the world, really embracing the freedom I had, that not having children had given me. Instead of being made to feel selfish (my own doing), I took my childlessness by the horns and ran with it.

2012 was my year of writing and finding my new independent self but 2013 was my year of love, passion and heartbreak. I had woken up in January, happy and confident, realising that my life was pretty wonderful but that I really wanted to fall in love again. Friends and family can fill your life with love and laughter but being in love, having a partner to hold your hand and grow old with, that can not be replaced with writing and traveling. So, I bit the bullet and joined a dating website. I had 9 disastrous dates and then I met Mr Blue (a pseudonym of course).

Mr Blue was the most romantic, handsome, loving, tender man I have ever met. He was a widower, having his lost his wife to cancer 15 months earlier. He had been married to her for 21 years... they met when he was 18. She was his only love. He was still grieving terribly but felt ready to meet someone and try and love another. In fact, in one of the very first letters he wrote to me (yes, he really was old school romantic), he said, “I just want you to take this big broken heart heart of mine and hold it in the palm of your hands”. His letters were beautifully written and made me weep with the tenderness he expressed. I have never ever experienced anything like the love I felt for him. It came quickly and explosively and I was so unprepared for having this man turn my life upside down, that I really did go through all the ridiculous symptoms... not eating or sleeping, crying all the time. But I realised a lot of my tears were for him and his wife and not for our happiness. The more I heard him talk about his late wife, the more I knew he wasn't ready. His grief was palpable and raw and he cried openly about how much he missed her. Every day I spent with him was emotional... his pain and sorrow transferred from tears to incredible passion in bed. It was the one time we were together that he could forget her and so it became all consuming. He did love me, I don't doubt that for a second, but he also knew he wasn't ready to leave her love behind. He began feeling that he was being unfaithful, that he was betraying her by being with me. I honestly thought we could get through it, that our relationship was strong enough. I offered him time... time to grieve on his own. We talked, we cried, we wrote letters to each other and after a week away with a friend, I came back, thinking things would be ok. We sat on Wimbledon Common and he told me he couldn't do it anymore... that his guilt was eating him up, that he was betraying her and that he would rather hurt me now, than a year from now. That he would rather be alone with the warm comfort of his grief than be with someone he couldn't give himself fully to. I was devastated. I cried for weeks. I wrote him letters saying I would wait, and then didn't send them. I wrote him letters saying how much I missed him and, they too, are still sealed in my kitchen drawer. I stupidly deleted all traces of him from my phone, I threw away the letters, the books he had given me. My heart was in so many pieces that I couldn't risk seeing a glimpse of him.

It has been 6 months. I have only just been able to wake up without thinking about him. When friends ask about him, I still cry. I miss him so much but my recent tears are not only for the breakup but for him, his grief. I am so sad for him... I can see past the relationship and my love for him now and recognise the grief and pain he must have felt. And I want to reach out and comfort him and make it better, but I know he will never reply if I wrote. I know his guilt is too much. He knows he broke my heart and will never ever contact me again. The heart hurts more when there is no tangible reason to break up... no one was unfaithful, no one shouted or screamed, no one moved away. It's sad.

I went to Alaska for a month in September, which helped me think about other things. I then had a stupid fling just before Christmas... the cliché rebound. A Canadian, with so little in common it was quite perfect. And so here we are in 2014. No boyfriend and certainly no internet dating... I may have found the love of my life on there but I just can't go through that again, any time soon. I have a very full social life though, great friends, I try and challenge myself all the time by doing different things, and have booked 4 holidays already. And, of course, I'm still writing...

Two Years and Three Months.

It has been two years and three months since I last wrote on Single Supplement. I began to find it harder and harder to put things into words, because all my inadequacies were there for everyone to see and I started to feel quite vulnerable. I was also embarrassed at the ridiculous state of my love life, or lack of it, and have been cringing as I re-read some of the posts! With my other blog, I write about the funny things in my life, what I do, who I see, where I've gone. I try to be witty and upbeat and I don't talk about the pain or the suffering I often feel. Maybe I thought that by not writing or thinking about it, it would go away. My parents are like that… stoic, traditional, the 'stiff upper lip' generation that are embarrassed by confessions and emotions. They seem to brush things aside, rise above the shit and get through life with a deep breath and a pat on the back. That was until my mother was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, two years and three months ago. Oh my God. I have, literally, only just realised that's when I stopped writing this blog… how extraordinary. So, unknowingly, I stopped writing about my true feelings the moment my mother got ill. In fact, not only did I stop writing, but I stopped talking. Hmm… what would a therapist think of that?

Well, I can actually answer that question because I saw mine very soon after my mum became ill. I sat in my therapists office, crying, but not uttering a single word. When I managed to eek out a sentence, around the 56th minute of the hour, and explain my wracked sobs, my therapist knew exactly what was going on. Suddenly, I had to think about someone else other than myself. I became meaningless the moment I saw my strong vibrant mother turn into a small frail bird. She physically and mentally disappeared in just under a fortnight - the metamorphosis was staggering. I have gone through illnesses with friends and family over the years but nothing quite so terrifying as this. My Father has survived his cancer for almost 12 years, my sister has had surgery, other relatives and friends have been terribly sick, but their personalities haven't changed. In the depths of my mothers depression, I don't recognise her. I now understand why mental illness scares people so much… because it's totally unpredictable. And you, as the loved ones, know that it can't be cured with a pill or potion, with kind words or a hug, you just have to wait and hope and pray the darkness will fade. My mother does have an incredible team of doctors and therapist and they prescribe and they talk and they suggest… but it really does all come down to time. Just waiting for her to get better.

Each depressive episode seems to last about 3-4 months, and each of those times seems to be triggered by winter. She gets depressed around the beginning of December and starts to get better in Spring… we don't know why. The not knowing is the hardest things to grasp. No one really knows the cause of bipolar disorder, experts included… all they agree on is that it's a chemical change in the brain. Some experts believe that it can be brought on by trauma, or by a latent memory of an unhappy childhood for instance, but this usually happens to people in their 20's, 30's or 40's. My mother was 71 when she was diagnosed, and for all the Doctors I have spoken to in the last two years and three month, that is very very unusual. Why now? Has she really stored up all tough times she's experienced through her life until this moment in time, when she and my father lead a comfortable happy life, living in a lovely Hampshire village, surrounded by friends and family? It doesn't make sense. 

My mother has experienced trauma though… her own father suffered from bipolar disorder, although in the 1960's it was called manic depression. My grandfather owned a farm in Lincolnshire. He was a proud man and kept the profound darkness he felt to himself. He had to keep the farm going, struggling every day with his demons but unable to tell a single soul… and when it finally got too much, when he was enveloped by the black cloud, he hung himself. My mother was in her early 20's, newly married and had just had her first baby, my sister. She was suffering from baby blues (the gentle mid century term for post natal depression) and suddenly, as the oldest and most responsible daughter, had to not only take care of her distraught mother, but also her 3 younger siblings. From that day, my mother was always the one who took care of everything. She helped her sister and brother through cruel addictions with drugs and alcohol; she also watched my grandmother's slow decline into alcoholism and dementia; she was helpless to prevent the loss of all the family savings through some unfortunate investments, and therefore have their lives change overnight and forever; she has seen my sister go through a devastating divorce and struggle to get her life back on track; and she has watched me, her younger daughter, go through life threatening surgery, numerous heart wrenching break-ups, and witnessed my constant feelings of inferiority and disappointment of being both unmarried and childless. So yes, my mother has had upset in her life. She has had cause to be depressed but she has never allowed herself to feel it. To push the pain down, to change the subject, to not dwell on upsetting things… this is the way my mother was brought up and how she has always dealt with pain, with disappointment, with anger, with sadness. Until now, it seems.
      
Currently, my mother is in her third bout of depression, but, on seeing the cherry blossom on the trees and the daffodils springing up from the earth, I'm hoping the longer days and brighter light might signify it is nearly at an end. Her illness has aged my father, yet it has also brought out a tenderness that my sister and I have never seen before. For my sister and I it has meant worry and stress like never before. But I, possibly because I have no husband or child to distract me, have maybe immersed myself a little too much. I read every article and science magazine to try and understand this horrible illness and discover a better treatment. I send dozens of emails to my father, suggesting sleep treatments and light therapy, I phone constantly and visit every few weeks… but the more I have tried to fix my mother, the more I have become ill myself.

I cannot remember the last time I slept well. I am plagued with migraine type headaches and seem to come down with every cold and infection going. I know I'm run down but I can't stop worrying and trying to help. A month ago, I was told by my Doctor and sister, to take a step back, to not get quite so involved because it was consuming me. I was going to bed thinking about my mother, and waking up a few hours later in tears, angry and despairing at this cruel change of fate. Because my mother should not be spending the last few decades of her life with this illness, it's not fair. She has lived her whole life as one of the most energetic, wonderful, generous and slightly eccentric people I have ever known. She is an incredible and inspiring mother, sharing her passions for the arts, literature and her joie de vive with me, and making me the person I am. So why now, is that being taken from her?

Reschedule

Just heard from Mac. He wants to re-schedule our spontaneous night of passion until the end of January when his diary is less hectic. Talk about taking the whimsy and excitement out of things! Thanks but no thanks!

Spontaneity is dead!

So... after the last email from Mac, where he basically suggested a quick shag in the local holiday Inn, he came to his senses, realised what he'd written was pretty insulting and after a couple of days sulking, suggested we meet in a gorgeous luxury hotel in East London. The Hoxton Hotel, chic, cool and a favourite of models and rock stars. That’s better I thought.

Then at the end of last week he wrote that it was really hard to book anywhere because we were meeting on a Friday, close to Christmas and everywhere was full. Rather than email back I looked at The Hoxton and a few other hotel websites for availability on that date, and they all had rooms. Weird. So either he has cold feet again and has made something up so we wouldn't meet OR he's just a lazy bastard and can't be arsed! I don't know.

So I wrote back a very nice email saying that I would book if he wanted, that I'm sure I could find somewhere... calling his bluff, you see. Then nothing! I have not heard a word from him since last Friday and today is this Friday. I really can't be arsed with it all anymore. It was all supposed to be sexy and spontaneous and now it's a pain in the bum and has lost all that was exciting! Might have to try toyboy.com!

Old Flame

Old flames are aptly named because they are the smoke with no fire!

Having recently returned from a trip to Morocco, and having witnessed all the loved up couples on my travels, I realised I had been single for 2 years, therefore, I've had no sex for 2 years! It's tragic!

So to resolve this dilemma, quickly and efficiently, I decided to offer my booty to an old flame. The old flame is one I have written about on here before and swore I would never see again. I actually told him I never wanted to see him again because of his constant lying and bullshit about separating from his wife, which is transpired, he hadn't.

The reason I picked him though is that I know where he's been and I know he's discreet, rich and desperate! The last time I saw him he told me that although he hadn't left his wife quite yet, he spent every weekend away with friends, and when he was at home, they slept in separate bedrooms. And, he added, they hadn't had sex in over 8 years. I'm not completely stupid and took it all with a pinch of salt, but judging on his performance, I would say it had been a very very long time since he'd had sex. You can sort of tell these things! So a perfect match for some harmless, one off sex, I thought.

I tested the waters with a short and sweet email. When I got an excited reply about how he thought he would never hear from me again and how he'd missed me and how he'd like to take me out for the day, to the coast or a long lunch, I dropped the bomb. "Actually," I wrote, "I'm going to be very honest with you but as we have never had a normal relationship and our romantic day and weekends away have always been a disaster, I was thinking that maybe we could just meet at a lovely hotel for the night and have some hot, dirty sex?". There it was.

Nanoseconds later he replied, "Oh my god, I wasn't expecting that and I've just fallen off my chair. But yes, oh yes please, I would love to meet and have dirty sex with you." Well, what red blooded man would turn down free uncomplicated sex?

We then agreed on a date and it was all going to plan... UNTIL I suggested a few places in town that are beautiful and quite luxurious for our little tryst. Whenever we have been anywhere in the past, he has chosen lovely, tasteful places so I thought that would still be the case, especially for what we had in mind. He came back with a reply that was a bit... well, yuck!.

He wrote:

“Fuck me, for a girl who doesn't want romance, St. Pancras is described as londons most romantic hotel, plus a fab breakfast, which we won't have, obviously!!! I'm slightly, errr, impecunious at the moment. So let's get down at the nearby Euston Ibis - you book it and check in (and out) and I'll pay you. Drinks on me as well!! I'll come up to the room and meet you there. I'll send you the link for the hotel. I've stayed there a couple of times after dinners and it's very comfortable if functional. I'm getting very excited by this cos I never thought I'd hear from you again.”

Yuck, yuck!! There are so many awful things to pick out in this email, I was gobsmacked.

1. Implying it will be a quick fuck so no need for breakfast.

2. Typing the words "let's get down.." Eughhh!

3. The Euston Ibis the worst kind of salesman's motel. Ten steps down from a Holiday Inn. Characterless, cheap and ugly. Him saying "comfortable and functional" is so clinical. Yuck!

4. "You book, check in and I'll pay you". Um, I think you're confusing me with a prostitute?

5. "Drinks on me as well!!" Oh, how generous! I wouldn't be seen dead in the Ibis bar!

5. "I'll come up to the room and meet you there". Ok, really starting to make me feel like a cheap whore.

In fact, even typing it out has got me sooooo angry again. I know emails can be misread and the tone of voice lost, but really. It's all too sleazy!!

I wrote back a terse paragraph: "I think we have our wires crossed. The Ibis is dreadful and the opposite of what I had in mind Mac. When I suggested a sexy evening with you, I didn't mean it had to be some tarts hotel for a quickie, and then "pay me" afterwards!! If you want that sort of thing, be my guest… go to the Ibis. You will be able to find an amenable girl outside Kings Cross station and be able to pay by the hour!!"

Unsurprisingly, I haven't heard back, so it just might be a little longer until I have sex again!!!

Lots of friends, no one to talk to

I read an article about Eddie Izzard, the comedian, the other day and he said that he was often incredibly lonely because "he knew lots of people but didn't have any friends". I felt like writing to him and saying "I know what you mean, I feel the same way sometimes."

It didn't always used to be like this. Ten years ago, before all my friends began having children, there would be endless dinner parties, girls nights out, girls nights in. My social life was wonderful. I honestly never thought it would change quite so much. I guess I was lucky growing up because my parent's friends never seemed to change when they had children. Their social lives got busier and the children would be taken everywhere... dinner party, ooh yes please, I'll just shove the baby on the spare bed. BBQ, fantastic, can the kids watch TV?

There is one huge difference though. I'm the one without the kids. That's why my social life has gone wrong. I feel sometimes like I'm being punished, not by God .. although he has a lot to answer for, but by my friends for not having children. I'm constantly told "You don't understand, I have no life. I'm exhausted and have no time for myself. EVER! You are so lucky Jules, you can lie in bed and read the papers, you can read a book, you are able to travel and have dinner dates and so on and so on". Some of my friends seem to hate me for it. They have no idea that I still wonder why I should be on this planet if I can't have children. That I am a waste, totally inadequate as a human and as a woman. That no man will ever want me because I am barren. That I feel totally excluded from their lives because I don't have children. It makes me feel unwanted and useless. But then I can't tell them that because then it sounds so selfish.

And, its bollocks about not having a social life. My friends tell me about their BBQ's and their street parties and their childrens parties. It's just I'm not invited. If I had children I'd be invited. Also because I'm single I get left out of couples dinner parties and there never is a spare man is there? So it's not always greener is it?

I have a best friend. Someone I used to tell everything to. She is still my best friend.. if you're reading this. She means the world to me but I never hear from her. I leave it weeks and I still don't hear from her so I ring or text or email. Then I get upset because I think, if I never ever rang her again would she think to ring me? I could be dead in my flat and she wouldn't know for months. This morning, I read about the unhappy time she is having... on her blog. I try and reach out and ask her what's wrong but she puts up her wall and says nothing. I feel I lost her a few years ago and when a particularly traumatic event happened last year, I felt I'd lost her again because she wasn't there. The thing is, I know her so well. I know that when she is lost or miserable the first thing she does is recede into her shell and says nothing. She can't share. She's not like that. Her lovely Mum was very stoic and stiff upper lip and my darling friend is the same. I miss her like mad. I feel a bit of her has disappeared with her sadness and I wish I could make it better. But how do you force someone to talk to you without becoming over dramatic or a pain in the arse??

I started writing another blog a few months ago and she had links to that and this blog on her own page. When I read her blog this morning I noticed the links had gone. I'm not sure what that means. I'm not even sure if she reads either of them. I want some sort of sign if I've done something wrong. I want her to tell me to stop being paranoid. I want to be told to stop worrying and believe her. I want to not have to write a very personal blog in order that it might reach her.

To you, my darling friend... I love you.

What is... normal?

I haven't written in months which is very naughty, sorry. I actually only have about 5 people that read this so probably could apologise individually.

Anyway, the road to being normal is still in guinea pig mode. When I say normal, I mean relative to me. Other people’s normal is not mine. I am now seeing a rather good specialist who is an HRT and menopause consultant. She has me currently on a recipe for feeling good:

2 squirts of a french oestrogen gel - rub on upper arms every morning
1 pea size squeeze of testosterone gel - rub into inner thigh (this, I was afraid would give me full beard and make me drink Stella but for now it is prescribed by the doctor to regulate my testosterone levels to normal (again, my normal) which will help my energy levels, my libido and might help with my weight loss. The libido thing is a worry... my sex drive is perfectly fine for someone that hasn't has sex in about 2 years. Ha, ha, ok so that's not a great statement. If (and always hopeful) and when I get a boyfriend I will probably not let him out of bed for the first week!

1 progesterone capsule - shoved up my vag every night for days 1-10 of the month. Jesus Christ, this is the one thats killing me. Its horrible and so so unladylike putting something up there and no, its not like a tampon. My doctor did make me laugh though... she said if I was being intimate with a man, then the benefit of having this was that I could still have sex. When I frowned at her she just said I could put it up my arse instead (I hoped she meant the capsule not the penis!) Except she didn't say arse, she just did 2 short whistles and pointed to her bottom. Brilliant, so the choice of 2 places of rest for this butt plug should make me feel better!!! It makes me feel hideous too, imagine 10 days of the worst PMS you have ever had, times 10.

Then I have my period and then, ooh, arent I lucky, the remaining 2 weeks of the month I feel ok. So, a work in progress I am.

What else? Um, soya and flaxseed supplements and of course, I'm still on weight watchers and watching the tedious progress of losing only about half a pound a week. Have been on this particular strict diet for over 10 weeks and have lost about 6lbs. Slow but moving in the right direction.

So I will try and update again sooner. I am about to join an internet dating site called Muddy Matches so wish me luck!!!

Week 2 of HRT and the GI Diet

Its all very disappointing really. I haven't noticed that much of a change.

I was expecting total extremes of behaviour... facial hair, weight gain, mood swings, instead I'm plodding along as usual. I say as usual but interestingly I haven't had as many dizzy spells or sleepless nights, my headaches are not as intense, I've even lost some weight. For all I know, I may have been given a placebo and my mind is incredibly reversing all my menopausal syptoms. The real test is when I change my patch next week to the progesterone pacth... thats where people report all sorts of side effects. I remain positive that it won't affect me or rather I won't let my mind think it'll affect me.

I do think the weight loss is down to the fact I am eating a low GI diet which is pretty much what I do normally except I am eating more protein and less starchy carbs, eating smaller portions and snacking more on seeds and nuts.

Imagine being a caveman and you're pretty much there. Hunting and gathering. Mrs Caveman didn't have biscuits, crisps or any processed food. If Mr Caveman didn't come home with a deer slung over his shoulder, Mrs Caveman would feed the family with fruit, nuts, fish and so on. It makes sense really but blimey, my food shopping bill has shot up by about £20 a week. Everything is fresh and cooked from scratch, no sneaky cans of soup with a bit of bread and cheese. I seem to be eating more though and feeling fuller so its working. I was craving salt and vinegar crisps like you wouldn't believe and on Sunday, with a slight hangover, and by the evening all I could think about was pizza but apart from a couple of wobbles, I remain in control.

My half patch of Henrietta will be with me for another 6 weeks until I see the specialist again. Then we'll find out whats really been happening with more blood test etc. Friends have been keeping an eye out for strange behaviour so I have my HRT spies too. Work is busy, social life is great and apart from a few people who have really let me down recently, I can't complain about a thing!

Day 1 of HRT

Today, I slapped on my first patch of HRT or HenRieTta, as I will refer to it (or her) from now on.

I was prescribed Henrietta when I was told I was going through early menopause at the age of 42. Bit of a bombshell to be honest but not totally unexpected as my mother and sister both went through the same thing in their early 40's. They, however, both had 2 children by the time they went through it and I haven't had any so again, slightly more of an unhappy diagnosis. My mother, always one to look on the bright side said "Oh darling, I AM sorry, its my ruddy genes..." she paused for a second and then brightened "but there's always adoption". She does this sort of thing quite often. When I split up with a boyfriend last year and sat crying in my mothers kitchen saying "oh there just aren't any men left, I'll just get older and be alone" my Mother, quick as a flash said "Oh darling, there are always widowers!" Bless.

So, I have had Henrietta sitting on my kitchen counter for over 6 weeks but was told by my specialist that I couldn't start it until the first day of my period. And because my periods are so erratic these days, it hasn't simply been 28 days to wait until I can take them. Until about 8 months ago, I could predict my period to the minute. It always arrived at full moon around lunchtime. Now I haven't got a clue... I have period pains and PMT almost constantly and yet nothing happens.

When a friend asked me on Friday if I had started Henrietta yet, I sighed deeply and said "Noo, I should have taken Henrietta the last full moon but nothing happened so I suppose I have to wait for the next full moon". My friend said completely straight faced "what a strange way to prescribe a medication, by the lunar cycle". I laughed, imagining if that really was how doctors prescribed things.... when the cloud passes over the half crescent of the moon on the third day, take 2 pills with water. Brilliant!

But hallelujah, its not full moon and I got my period today. I read the instructions for about the millionth time, about the minor side effects: the possible risk of acne, facial hair (hello bearded lady), breast tenderness, nausea, headaches, dizzy spells, weight gain and so on, to the risk of quite major side effects: breast cancer! Great! You have to put the patch between your knee and thigh on the outside of your right leg, away from the heart and breasts. Thats weird to start with isn't it? I was worried about water and things getting under the patch but its a clever little thing and just like its evil sister, the tampon, you can run, swim and bathe with it!!! So on with the patch, or rather half a patch in my case. My specialist is starting me off gently... half a patch and if nothing happens I can go full strength, no questions asked. You must change the patch every 3 days and put it in a different place. I can just see me in a months time at the local swimming pool, little sticky residue patches all over my legs.. people will think I'm giving up a 60 a day fag habit!!

I'm going to keep a little log book of whats happening weight wise, side effects etc and show it to my specialist in a months time. I feel slightly excited about how I might just might start feeling a little better. I've been told by much older ladies (the normal ones that take HRT in their fifties) that I will get a heightened sex drive. One friend said her mum began buying sexy underwear and slapping her dads bottom in public... Jeez!

So that leaves me at the age of 42 horny and single... not good. Might just try internet dating again purely to get a database set up of possible late night sex partners.