alone at last... and thank you

So it's Saturday morning, and for the first time in months and months my family are going to have the children all day. I am in bed, with a copy of the Guardian, my laptop, my P.D. James book, and a cup of Roibush tea. I can relax. I can have a long, hot bath. I can call my errant soulmate and catch up with his news and hear his voice. I can watch a film. I can go back to sleep.

They are going to their swimming lessons with my Mum, for which I am very grateful, and then my beautiful little sister and her boyfriend are taking them out this afternoon - they live in London so we don't see them as much as we'd like, the children love their auntie and her fella (who taught my daughter how to 'cook' a crisp packet - don't ask me why but this won her over) and are conseqently very excited about today.

The past couple of hours were really hard work, getting them dressed and doing breakfast and getting all their gear ready while containing excitement levels and fractious behaviour. I sometimes think they're not kids at all, but baby tigers. Shouting, scratching, hugging, jumping up and down... But as my dear Granny used to say, 'we don't want our children to be Potatoes, do we?'. Definitely not. And life seemed more 'normal' this morning, if I can even remember what that was for us before my IC. It does, when I don't feel too bad (that'll be the Tramadol working, and possibly the Acupuncture), and when I don't feel so alone (that'll be the family helping me out today).

I have spent the past week on here battling with some malware/virus which is now clear. It has driven me mad and at times I've thought about giving up on the whole thing. It was due to downloading a random picture; so no more pictures here for now. And I'm not giving up - this is my space - this is my Room of my Own.

I've had some really lovely comments both on the content of my blog and the style and fabric of my writing. As I was saying to one of my best friends, who is an editor so certainly knows bad writing from good, I really didn't know if I could write anymore when I started this thing. I have always identified as a writer, and have always written - essays, articles, stories, poems. But since the birth of Blue Eyed Boy 6 years ago, it's been hard to find the time or energy.

I started this blog in desperation as I just needed to get some of my feelings out. The need was eating me up; and one day someone suggested a blog. I've never liked the idea before, but somehow this was the right time.

It's better than a diary, as it reaches others and helps me feel less alone. As it is anonymous, and not 'for' any formal purpose except my own catharsis and helping others with IC or who are struggling as single mums, I feel no pressure to write in any particular style and consequently no block to the words flowing. People who know me say it sounds like me talking. So there we have it.

Thank you, everyone who is reading consistently and re-posting on your social media. Would love to get my readership up to reach more people out there who say that I maange to verbalise the things they are feeling about chronic illness/ single parenthood / general angst and pain of life. Anything you can do to spread the word is much appreciated. This blog is my heart and soul right now. It's a lifeline. It means a lot to me, as I realised when I thought I was losing it to some stupid computer fuck up. I do not want it to disappear, but to grow.

Just like I do not want to fade away into this world of illness and despair, but want to grow through it and emerge a stronger, wiser woman. Sometimes that feels impossible. Other times, like today, I have glimpses of that happening.