Bipolar Mum Journey

I’m a child of the 80s, and while neon leg warmers and big hair were all the rage, my early years were anything but typical. Abandoned before I could even walk, I was adopted at six months old by the same lady that adopted my mother. My formative years were spent shuttling between church pews and bingo halls, a curious mix of hymns and house odds.

Despite this pious upbringing, my mother’s influence loomed large. Regular visits to her underworld in Manchester exposed me to a grim reality of violence, drug dealing and heavy substance abuse. Yet, amidst the chaos, I managed to surround myself with a solid circle of middle-class friends. Unfortunately, as soon as I moved in with my drug-addicted mother – once she moved back to Buxton, these friendships began to fade.

Growing up with a narcissistic grandparent was a masterclass in psychological survival. My father’s suicide, for which I was unjustly blamed, left a trauma of its own. As my friends drifted away, I found myself mingling with a rougher crowd. A couple of inappropriate relationships followed, older boyfriends who should have known better than to date a 15/16-year-old. 

Witnessing my stepdad’s violent attempt to kill my mother. There’s a few particularly personal, events from this time that I’ll delve into more – in my upcoming podcasts. Later, a severely abusive relationship culminated in my arrest for attempted murder. Yes, you read that right. 

From there, I found myself working for an East London gangster, served a two and a half year prison sentence where I also gave birth. Along the way I had a fleeting romance with a celebrity, life handed me a double diagnosis of bipolar disorder and antisocial personality disorder, and a battle to stay connected with my son, whom I share with my abusive ex.

My journey has been anything but smooth, filled with more plot twists than a crime thriller. However, as I always say……