Mr Right is late – I’ll give him another month..

I continue my quest for Mr Right on dating websites Elite Singles Guardian Soulmates and The Inner Circle hoping to either find a boyfriend or a sperm donor

Day 32. Am practically in tears at the gym in the morning as the dating is going so badly. Then receive message from very hot and funny banker who I would definitely like to meet. Thankfully he is white, which means the White Man Apocalyse – not fancying white men – has lifted. Also waiting to hear from Palestinian Doctor though after Brussels attacks question whether I want to date someone of Arab origin. This is totally unfair as he is an atheist but it’s important to be honest about one’s prejudices.

Day 33. Do not hear back from funny banker so that avenue seems to be closed. Am getting messages from writer on Elite Singles although I am not sure I fancy him from his photographs as he’s rather short. Still have not heard from Palestinian doctor who’s obviously too busy to contact me. Go to Slaa meeting that night, primarily for recovery, but the great White Man Fear descends on me again as I realise I don’t actually fancy anyone. May have to look for a Greek as they look practically Arab.

Day 34. Get message from French man who lives near Sloane Square in Chelsea and is currently on a holiday in the Maldives that must cost £10,000. Although prefer people with no children resolve to call him when he is back in London.  Go to Divorced from my Drug Dealer Anonymous in Notting Hill (obviously looking for man). White Man Apocalypse descends again as only people I fancy look foreign. One is particularly hot but has massive tattoo down his arm. Am over that kind of “wearing my criminality on my sleeve” behaviour since break up with ex-armed robber.

Day 35. Very important news at doctor – I am not menopausal. But chances of conception as not having periods due to anti-psychotics are slim. When go into crazy behaviour around OCD doctor advises me not to come off anti-psychotics. But may have to risk craziness if want little girl. Go to my women’s only home group of Divorced from my Drug Dealer Anonymous actually looking for recovery. Share that I suddenly want to get pregnant and that I am looking after a hamster for a week to prepare for a baby.

I look after a hamster for a week to prepare for having a baby but the women at my NA meeting in Notting Hill say I should get a puppy or a virtual baby Think It Over doll

Am advised that hamster is not 100% like a baby and that need to get a puppy instead. As still have phobia of dog shit and barking this option looks unlikely.

Day 36.  No time to meet Mr Right. Spend whole day posting blog and promoting on Facebook and Twitter. Then go out with friends including one I used to fancy but no longer fancy him.

Day 37. Join new dating site, the Inner Circle. But alas age shaving tactics are thwarted as I connect through Facebook and it transfers real age. Receive several likes and messages, some from very young men but not as many as on Guardian Soulmates where I am only 40.

Get many messages from hot twenty something men on elite dating website the Inner Circle

Go on disastrous date with writer from Elite Singles who I do not fancy at all. Hardened after my exposure to the trenches of dating warfare I end the date after an hour. Have arranged to meet sexy voiced Actor again as feel he has so much going for him that want to see if I might actually fancy him. Although he is funny and I start to think I might fancy him a tiny bit date goes very badly and ends in a row. He accepts the revelation that I used to snort cocaine 22 hours a day and was arrested at Heathrow airport and charged with “Impersonating Scarface.” And that I was seduced by a female teenage stripper in Jamaica who’d killed someone the week before and then stole my car. But when I announce I am a Tory, he ends the date immediately.

Day 38. Discover that have received 47 likes on Inner Circle so launch frenzy of like sending back initiating flurry of messages. Am still not sold on online dating experience and think more likely to meet a boyfriend through political involvement. Have now joined two groups campaigning for Britain to stay in the European Union in the upcoming Referendum – Britain Stronger in Europe and Conservatives In ie pro European Tories. Think will ditch Vodka for Breakfast Anonymous on Wednesday and go to Britain Stronger in Europe HQ instead.

Day 39. Very exciting news on the Egg Front. Ring clinic who says will do IVF with my own eggs up to the age of 50. Little girl is back on the agenda. Book in consultation to have scan to determine whether eggs are past their sell by date. If not will immediately get sperm donor (brown eyes brown hair over 5’10” and preferably been to Oxford) to create genius frozen embryos.  Of course ideal sperm donor is man who is not interested in me who I am half in love with. But as he has a serious girlfriend this that this could cause complications.

Day 40. Wild excitement as get ready to do first Britain Stronger In Europe phone bank. Am in great hopes of meeting politically switched on Mr Right. Use miracle exfoliating cream that makes me look 10 years younger then fake tan and spend two hours curling hair.  But due to missing spot cover up crisis and fact that phone is telling me the address of the phone bank (next to Parliament) is actually in Birmingham arrive 40 minutes late. Immediately scope around room. Coordinator is quite attractive but very short. Everyone else looks too white. But in pub after phonebank feel slight sexual frisson as speak to short Coordinator. Maybe I actually fancy him?

Day 41. Go to Divorced from my Drug Dealer Anonymous in Notting Hill obviously Looking For Man. But am pleasantly surprised to see famous writer, whose writing I love, doing chair. Love the chair and totally relate (in my head I’m famous too) so leave thinking have actually had great recovery experience.

Day 42. Recovery party at male friend’s house from SLAA. As there is no one I fancy there spend most of time answering messages from hot 25 year olds on Inner Circle.

Day 43. After spotting many single men at 8pm on Saturday night at my local supermarket dash into loo to put war paint on. Although I am there on my own on Saturday night I am not sure what they are doing there. Are they losers with no life?

Day 44. Attend London Convention of Divorced from my Drug Dealer Anonymous partly in search of recovery but largely looking for man. Have date lined up for after convention but this turns out to be hopeless as prospective suitor is unemployed and has been rejected as an Uber cab driver.

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Day 45. This is the day of the week that I do not leave the house or get out of my dressing gown. So contact with men is restricted to a charity campaigner who rings on my doorbell who I send away saying I haven’t got any clothes on.

Day 46. Date with very interesting sounding writer whose photograph I really like and got on very well with on the phone. Alas when I meet him I do not fancy him at all as his eyes are too small. My therapist has said I am putting up “insurmountable barriers to keep out men.” Maybe it’s because I’m worried I can’t have sex as my thing has dried up.

Day 47. Log onto Inner Circle and see flurry of messages and likes from hot 22 year olds. Respond to some of the messages but decide that 22 is too young and that I will only date someone of 25.

Day 48. Devastating news at the Egg fertility clinic. Although they scan my ovaries and say they look younger than my chronological age they said that it would take a “miracle” for me to get pregnant with my own eggs. Dreams of little girl die a death. Am so down after session that am practically catatonic in my therapy session and hardly say a word. But after lunch perk up as Recovery is full of miracles and decide to go to an arts networking party in Mayfair that night to continue quest for Mr Right. Alas only person I fancy there is too short.

Day 49. Receive message from man on Elite Singles about date organised 4 weeks ago that I’d totally forgotten about. Get encouraging message from Egg Clinic saying that results of my blood test to check my ovarian reserve are good. Little girl back on the agenda. Go to Britain Stronger in Europe campaign to call round for first political event I am hosting. Alas as I am late someone is already doing this but I do spot a very hot Spaniard volunteer who smiles at me across the room.

Day 50. As I am frantically blogging and preparing for Britain Stronger in Europe political meeting say cannot go on comedy night out with date from Elite Singles. Offer a drink but he postpones as he wants to do comedy.

Day 51. Incredibly fired up and feel like have done four grammes of coke after hosting first political meeting for Britain Stronger in Europe at a bar round the corner from my house. Meeting goes incredibly well (have been preparing all day) but alas I do not fancy anyone.

Day 52. Call from the fertility clinic saying my “ovarian reserve” ie number of eggs I have is that of someone 5 years younger. They still say it is very unlikely I would get pregnant with own eggs but I believe in miracles. Now need to get a letter from my doctor to say I am not too mad to get pregnant and referral to psychiatrist to switch my medication as the anti-psychotics are stopping me having periods. Have multiple messages with attractive half Brazilian man on Elite Singles. Am now considering all men I have contact with half as potential boyfriends half as biological specimins who could be my perfect sperm donor.  But in light of previous bad experiences will wait till have spoken to him and met him before I get too excited.  Go to Britain Stronger in Europe campaign meeting in Kensington. But alas only people who turn up are two pensioners and a married man with his wife.

Day 53. Have very successful conversation with half Brazilian man who is highly intelligent and also has cash. Immediately get obsessed with not only meeting him but thinking he can be parent to frozen embryos. Have serious conversation with therapist and friend from AA about why I want to have ethnic little girl who looks like me. Realise I am partly trying to heal terrible relationship with mother by having little girl and that this is not great reason to have baby. But also seeing my friend Susanna’s devastated reaction to her mother’s death realise I don’t have that strong love for anyone in my life. After the (surprising to me) news that sex selection is illegal in the UK, start investigating gender selection clinics abroad.

Day 54. Very exciting Vodka for Breakfast Anonymous meeting in Notting Hill as secretary of meeting is extremely attractive dark haired man with blue eyes who smiles repeatedly at me. Body fascism notices he has a bit of a belly but after a few months of my cooking (100 calorie diet microwave meals) this should not be a problem.  Do not want man with blue eyes to parent frozen embryo as if child has blue eyes she won’t look like me. But am aware this is narcissistic control freakery and that it may be an “issue” I have to work through with my therapist.

Day 55. Go to Divorced from my Drug Dealer Anonymous in Notting Hill obviously looking for man. Find it difficult to concentrate in the meeting as spend entire time rubbernecking around to see if there is anyone I fancy. I linger after the meeting trying to catch various hot men’s eye. And amazingly they are white. Do talk to very attractive man after the meeting but not sure I fancy him. What have I been doing wasting all my time going to women’s meetings just looking for “recovery” when this cornucopia of talent is available at mixed meetings?

Day 56. Frantically phoning to set up two events for Britain Stronger in Europe but alas do not have time to go into phone bank to spot any hot talent. Decided to go to Hampstead Shagger and Lurve Addicts Anonymous meeting but because of political activities arrive at the end of the meeting. This works out perfectly as I end up sitting next to the best looking man at the meeting over dinner and being invited to a party by another hot guy. Gorgeous guy (alas only 26 but old compared to my admirers on Inner Circle) gets my email address and says he will read the blog. Hope he likes looking in the mirror.

Day 57. Go to a Conservative event in Central London as part of the Zac Goldsmith Campaign for London Mayor.

Zac Goldsmith out campaigning in his bid to become London Mayor with the current mayor and leading Brexit campaigner Boris Johnson

Refuse to appear in any of the photographs of the event as cannot be seen to be explicitly supporting Zac Goldsmith due to his desire for Britain to leave the EU. As the event is hosted by Eurasian Conservatives there are many interesting dark looking Tories there. End up talking to right wing Turkish man who is very attractive but we clash on the Kurdish Question. I voice support for the Kurds, with their female fighting brigades, saying they are more feminist than the Arab nations around them and that I have always supported an independent Kurdish state. He says the Kurdish Separatist PKK organisation are narco-terrorists and that they cannot be feminists as they rape women and abduct children.  I blame the Turkish government for the breakdown in peace talks between themselves and the PKK last year and voice continued support for a Kurdish state. He accuses me of being a Labour supporter. We swap numbers but am not sure I can abide his anti-Kurdish views.

Day 58. More political activity as I organise a Britain Stronger in Europe meeting to cover the north of my borough. Alas apart from the two organisers only two people turn up at the meeting. Only man is a pensioner I must try to find the hot Spaniard from the phone bank. Still we make plans to target train stations, sporting events and concerts and supermarkets with our leafleting. Discuss the President Obama visit to the UK in which he voices strong support of Britain remaining in the EU. Think this will help us as will mayor of London and leading Leave the EU campaigner Boris Johnson’s comments that Obama doesn’t like Britain as he is Kenyan which makes him sound racist and Little Englander.

Day 59. Wild excitement as two very good looking young men turn up to Britain Stronger in Europe meeting in Hampstead in North London. Am there allegedly trying to make contacts in neighbouring borough but really looking for boyfriend. Even more excitingly all the hot guys actually live in my Borough so I get their phone numbers so they can take part in the “campaign” in my local area. Hope that campaign will end up spilling over into my bedroom.. One of the hot men is a Tory whose been to Oxford so immediately pencil him in as potential sperm donor. Not sure how I will approach this in my initial email “Hi Mr X I’d like you to do some leafleting for Britain Stronger in Europe outside Kilburn tube station. And, by the way, would you like to be my sperm donor?”

Day 60.  Very interesting conversation with man from (different) fertility clinic who says they will treat me at my age and that if I want to do sex selection to have little girl I can go to do it in Crete. Apparently I need to do all preparation for IVF in UK then go to Crete for 10 days to get the eggs harvested. Sex selection is totally illegal in the UK. When I ask about sperm donors he says if you get sperm from California sperm bank you can get film star lookalikes with all details of their education. Do not want film star lookalike but want Hispanic donor who has been to good university. Alas unlike online dating you cannot get pictures of the sperm donor. What happens if he is shockingly ugly and the poor little girl ends up like me with Body Dysmorphia? Am slightly squeamish about paying large amount of money to go to Crete and do something so controversial. Decide will go for free consultation but think carefully about it while using dating to look for sperm donor. Therapist says she “is not sure I am having child for right reasons” and that fixing my hole in the soul caused by absent/abusive mother will probably backfire.

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Next week: After trying to make it as a comic writer since 1999, I’ve now had more than 20,000 hits on my blog..

My recovery from Borderline Personality Disorder and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

I recover from a life time of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Borderline Personality Disorder which either began when I was born and almost died or when I was 8 and saw a terrifying scene of a murder in Friday the 13th

My life started off as badly as a penguin in a desert. I almost died as I was born due to lack of oxygen and was born epileptic because of it. I had a massive epileptic fit at the age of 2 and the only reason I didn’t die was that it happened on the door step of a hospital. I believe these near death experiences were either the origin of my PTSD or made me much more prone to develop the disorder when I was exposed to later traumatic experiences.  At the age of 7 I was sexually abused and developed anorexia. At the age of 8 I had my first symptoms of PTSD. After watching a particularly frightening scene in the movie Friday  the 13th where a woman has her throat cut by the serial killer, I developed a fear of serial killers thinking a nest of them was living under my bed. I also developed a phobia of having my throat cut.

After my father left my mother, she became threatening towards me telling me she would put a contract out on my father and that I was “just like him” and that I wasn’t even her daughter. She told me I was a “selfish bitch” when I was 13 and that I should go and live with my father.  But my father did not want me to live with him either.  My mother kept trying to throw me out of the house. Although I dissociated from what was happening and would make jokes about it to my friends I had no idea that the government would house homeless children so underneath was terrified of starving to death on the streets.  The fear of serial killers escalated to an obsession where I would check under the bed, in the wardrobe, the shower room the bathroom and even the deep freeze for serial killers, plan hiding places from the serial killers and practise my escape routes by climbing along the roof.  It is only in the past few years that I realised that I had no fear of serial killers at my boarding school it was all centred on my mother’s house. My mother was very angry with my father for leaving her and hated him. She was very angry and hated me too as I was more like him as he had been my main carer.

As soon as I started developing breasts at the age of 11, I began to bind my chest with belts so tightly I could hardly breathe to stop my breasts growing. When this didn’t work I tried to cut them off with a carving knife at the age of 15.  I had no idea that I was self-harming but kept it all very secret not telling a psychiatrist my parents took me to see when I was 16.  Then I became obsessed with having multiple operations on my face and body, which would have been another form of self-harm as there was nothing wrong with my appearance.

Debate is raging in academic and psychiatric circles as to whether Borderline Personality Disorder and Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder are in fact the same thing. Both disorders are strongly linked to childhood sexual abuse. Trauma experts argue that C-PTSD (which is caused by chronic and repeated trauma rather than single events) is the same as BPD. But some studies have shown there are differences between the two disorders. The main difference seems to be that C-PTSD is always linked to trauma whereas BPD is not necessarily so.

I have been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder by psychiatrists three times since I got clean at the beginning of 2005. In the past I have had most of the diagnostic criteria for BPD – suicidal planning, ideation and self-harm, extreme paranoia, dissociative states, substance abuse and bulimia, uncontrolled spending, a total lack of self-care in terms of taking massive personal risks both when I was sober and using cocaine and an unstable sense of self. I also have reduced empathy although this may be because I am a Tory..  I believe I do not have excessive anger but I have fantasised about killing several people who are close to me so maybe I am in De Nile..

It is when I am clean that the symptoms of my BPD and PTSD are most apparent. It was before I started drinking as a child that I was checking for serial killers and had to go to school with scarves wrapped tightly around my neck to prevent my throat being cut. After I started drinking this all calmed down. Although, when I was performing Lady Macbeth at the Edinburgh Festival when I was at Oxford, I did have to do all the rehearsals with scarves wrapped suffocatingly tightly around my neck because of the constant references to knives in the play. At the age of 22 I ended up with a carving knife at my throat about to cut my throat. This was mainly because I wanted to commit suicide but also to prevent the serial killers from getting in there first.

As my drinking and drug taking progressed so the symptoms of the BPD and PTSD lessened. But then when I got clean in 2005 they sprung back up again. As soon as I left rehab at the end of 2005 I started self-harming, cutting my arms, especially when I wanted a drink.  I took the 12 Step Slogan “going to any lengths for your recovery” to a BPD extreme. At the beginning of 2008 I came off all psychiatric medication encouraged by my sponsor in Divorced from my Drug Dealer Anonymous. I was alright for a few months but when I was faced with what I thought was a financial catastrophe, which would have meant I wouldn’t have any income for a long period, I fell apart feeling such anxiety that I would wake up at 4am planning to kill myself. This subsided after I went back on medication and the catastrophe turned out to be less severe than expected.

When I thought I had made mistakes on a building project in 2009, after the traumatic break up with my boyfriend, I attacked my arms with a carving knife on two separate occasions more savagely than before. This led to a psychiatric relapse where I thought a demon was possessing my brain and forcing me to kill myself. This demon was unemployed and kept hassling me 24/7. It said the self-harm wasn’t punishment enough for the mistake. Every time I left the house in my car I thought I was going to deliberately crash my car and die. I felt totally out of control and was going to go back to the psychiatric hospital where I’d detoxed, St Chillin’s. But my friend Sarah from Divorced from my Drug Dealer Anonymous and her mother looked after me in their gorgeous old house in North London. I have a psychiatric relapse thinking a demon is possessing my brain and forcing me to kill myself after I self-harm twice due to my BPD. This psychiatric relapse frightens me so much that I never self-harm again helping my recovery from BPD

I was so frightened by my reaction to this self-harm that, although I have wanted to self-harm many times since then, I have never done it. This psychiatric relapse was an important part of my recovery from BPD.

I had had low level paranoia throughout my recovery. I thought that terrorist groups on the news were going to kill me because of a couple of harmless jokes I’d written in my unpublished novel and that random people on the street were going to kill me. Also whenever I travelled on the tube at rush hour I would often have to change carriage as I would get “Signs from God” that someone was going to blow up the tube. These signs – someone muttering under their breath or giving a peculiar sneeze – never actually resulted in a bomb but this in no way made me doubt their reliability.

But I had a major relapse into paranoia in 2012 when I suddenly decided my mild mannered lodger was going to kill me. This was because I had threatened to give his address to bailiffs who were hounding me about his parking tickets after he left my house. I asked for a referral to my local psychiatric unit who confirmed the diagnosis of borderline personality disorder but said I could also have PTSD. My personal therapist had long said I had PTSD. I was put on paroxetine but this made the paranoia 100 times worse. I had 9 panic attacks in one day, thought I was having a heart attack and almost called an ambulance, and ended the day vowing that I was going to kill myself. I also decided that the fact that there were tiny cuts in the packaging of all the blueberries at my local supermarket meant they had been poisoned by a blueberry-hating terrorist group.  This calmed down when I came off the paroxetine but I was still unable to watch the news for over 2 years because of fears of the terrorist groups. I tried EMDR, the leading treatment for PTSD, but the therapist was critical and unsupportive and it did little to shift the trauma.

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Then I had a genuine financial and personal crisis.  The dilapidated building next to my rental property, my only real source of income, was purchased by a property developer who demolished and started rebuilding a much larger house. It was a massive building project, incredibly noisy,  and my tenants soon decided they were going to leave. I had no prospect of renting my house out so decided to do some improvement works to my house. But when the tenants moved out it became clear that my house needed massive damp proofing and that I would have to undertake a large building project of my own. Soon my rental property, which had been a beautiful house, was reduced to a chaotic building site.

Because of my mother’s threats to throw me out onto the street as a child I had had a long standing fear of annihilation that was triggered by threats to my financial security.  This extended period where I could not rent out my house made me intensely anxious and triggered an upsurge in OCD, which I have always believed was a symptom of the PTSD. When I found out on Facebook that my ex-boyfriend, the only boyfriend I have had for my 11 year recovery, was having a baby with someone else this triggered a nervous breakdown and the OCD  accelerated sharply.

By  April 2014 the OCD had gone up to 10 hours a day. I would check door locks, windows, thousands of times  for fear that an intruder would get into my house and rape and murder me. After I have a nervous breakdown due to my PTSD I start doing crazy OCD checking rituals 10 hours a day where I check locks on doors and windows, sockets, the boiler, the stove and all the plug in items in the house

I would also check sockets, lights, the stove, the boiler and all the machines and plug in items in the house repetitively, often taking photographs for fear of fire. I would spend an hour checking my car fearful that if I parked it in the wrong place I would be sued and that the car would be broken into because I had left something inside it or not locked the doors or closed the windows. Paranoia was totally controlling my life.  The OCD was taking so long that I had had to abandon the building project on my rental property locking it and leaving me with no income. It was a self-defeating spiral because I had no income the OCD was out of control but the OCD was preventing me from re-establishing my income.

This OCD made me want to cut my throat.  It wasn’t until my anti-anxiety medication, fluoxetine, went up to the maximum dose 60mg per day that the checking started to go down. I also increased my dose of anti-psychotics. I then did CBT for the OCD which helped bring it down. I would also set myself goals for reducing the OCD, updated every couple of days, and use my circle of friends to support me when I was trying to achieve a breakthrough. After a lot of support from my therapist Mei Fung Chung, who has multiple properties herself, I was eventually able to complete the building project on my rental property and rent it out. Because of my fear that my house would be burgled or burn down I had not been able to leave my home overnight for 5 years. I decided to challenge this fear by making a two week trip to my rental property. Although it took me  weeks to prepare for the trip I did go.

After being unable to leave my home for 5 years overnight because of my PTSD and OCD I finally have a breakthrough visiting my rental property in Notting Hill for almost two weeks

Once the tenant was settled in my rental property I decided I would renew my search for an EMDR therapist, convinced that the OCD was a symptom of PTSD.  I found a Portuguese clinical psychologist on the EMDR UK website and began to see her. EMDR, Eye Movement Desensitisation and Reprocessing,  works by stimulating the clients eye movements from side to side while focusing on an image which represents the trauma. The bilateral eye movement is similar to that which happens in Rem sleep or dreams in which we naturally process trauma. So the EMDR forces processing of the trauma which has become “stuck” in the client’s brain causing the PTSD. The image I focused on in the therapy was my mother’s angry face which was linked to my fear of fire and annihilation.

After repeated focus on this image and doing practical exercises every week (such as leaving a light on overnight in my house) my fear of fire decreased sharply as did my fear of annihilation. The OCD went down massively and the car which had taken an hour went down to 5 minutes. I was also able to start watching the news again and reading newspapers. I had a massive breakthrough at Christmas, 3 months after I started the EMDR, where I went round to my rental property just as my tenant was going on holiday. Although I had been checking the property for half an hour every time I went there was able to do no checking at all, either of the lights or the locks, not even checking that my tenant had turned the lights off before he went on holiday.

I then had further breakthroughs in the OCD leaving London overnight for the first time in 6 years and leaving the UK for the first time in over 6 years.

The BPD and PTSD are now almost completely in recovery due to the medication, EMDR and my work with my personal therapist Mei Fung Chung. She is an attachment therapist who believe that many addictions and mental health problems are caused by a disrupted attachment between mother and child.  As I did not even meet my mother until I was 4 months old as she was ill and then had a very difficult relationship with her this theory fits my situation. Although the non-verbal image based therapy of EMDR was what actually got the PTSD into recovery, the experience I have had with my therapist has re-wired my brain and brought me into adulthood. When I started the therapy I would sit on my ex-armed robber boyfriend’s lap clinging to him and calling him mummy. I would phone him 9 times an hour like a toddler whose been given a phone. My emotional age was less than 2.


Now, after 6 years of therapy, I am a teenager ready to go to University. I even, like many teenagers, want a baby.  I am now so recovered from the paranoia that I am a news junkie watching it all day and listening to BBC Radio. I never change carriage on the Tube. The “Signs from God” have disappeared.

But I still have to be very careful that I don’t allow the situation where I had no income to recur as financial anxieties trigger my fear of annihilation. I also need to be very careful of building projects which interrupt my income which trigger the OCD. I won’t be seen on an episode of Grand Designs any time soon.

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Next week: Mr Right is late…I’ll give him another month..



My battle with Body Dysmorphic Disorder


I suffer from severe Body Dysmorphic disorder as a teenager thinking I am the ugliest person in the world and want to have extensive plastic surgery to change my face and body

At the worst point of my Body Dysmorphic Disorder, my first year at Oxford University, I thought that I was the ugliest person in the world, in fact the ugliest person who had ever existed. I thought the Elephant Man was Helen of Troy compared to me. No ships would be setting sail because of my face. They’d stay in port until they rusted away and were scrapped. I also decided the sun was my “enemy” as if I went out in daylight it would show everyone how ugly I was. Consequently I was rarely seen before 6pm. I was very active at 4am in the morning, when no one was around, and would sprint up and down the empty library practising for the Olympics 100m hurdle.

The BDD had started in my early teens because my father started to say I was ugly. The first time I remember him saying I was ugly was when I was 7 or 8. My mother said, of my cousin Miranda my father’s niece, “Miranda is very plain.”  He looked straight at me and said: “well at least she’s only plain.” When I confronted my father about this in family therapy in 2015 he said he had been saying my mother was ugly. But I looked much more like my mother than him, if she was ugly so was I.

Then a disaster happened with my self-esteem when my father left my short black Jamaican mother,  when I was 12, to live with a tall blonde blue eyed Swedish woman who looked like a movie star.  I had been much closer to my father, who had been my main carer, than my mother who had been out of the house 6 days a week and who I had a very difficult relationship with. I had always prayed that I would never be left alone with my mother. But that was exactly what happened and it was worse than I could possibly have imagined.

After his departure my father started to rubbish my academic achievements saying it was “boring” that I had come top of the class at secondary school. He would also sit around with his white girlfriend taking the piss out of Jamaicans and saying it was important to realise that black people were different as they had a “different pelvis shape.” He began to say that I was out of proportion, that my head was too big and my legs too short. I felt totally rejected. When I got into Oxford University at the age of 16 he said “that’s all very well but why don’t you just grow.”   This precipitated a crisis where I became obsessed with having an operation to extend my legs, suitable only for dwarfs, which would have meant I would have been unable to walk for a year and could have had my legs amputated.  This was after my father had carted me round various doctors who could make me grow who all I said I was too old to be prescribed growth hormones. This was lucky as many people who were prescribed growth hormones in the 1980s, which had been taken from the pituitary glands of corpses, went on to develop the horrendous and fatal Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, the human form of Mad Cow Disease.

My mother was incredibly abusive to me after my father left home, telling me quite calmly that she was going to put a contract out on him and that I was “just like him” and wasn’t even her daughter. She called me a “selfish bitch” when I was 13 and asked why I didn’t go and live with my father. I asked him if I could go and live with him but he said no.  She kept trying to throw me out of the house, because I was untidy, taking me to a solicitors office to evict me at the age of 15. The solicitor said that I could not be evicted at that age but the threat of being thrown out on the street was ever present.  All this influenced the Body Dysmorphic Disorder as, with such a terrible relationship with her, I probably didn’t want to look anything like her.  I became obsessed with having multiple operations to change my face as well as my body.   Every time I saw my face in the mirror I wanted to scream. I started fantasising about being a different, less ugly person, who could do my dream job working as a television presenter. I began getting lost in a negative fantasy world.

My parents took me to see a psychiatrist at the age of 16 who said it was their fault that I was in that state. Consequently they rarely took me to see him again.

The society I grew up in in the 1980’s also had a profound effect on the Body Dysmorphic Disorder.  The ideal of beauty in the UK in the 1980’s was blonde, 5 foot 10 inch Princess Diana, who looked like my step mother but nothing like me.  The only “black” mainstream beauty icon that I can remember from the 1980’s was Jennifer Beals who starred in Flashdance and looked practically white. If Rihanna had been around in the 1980’s I don’t think I would have felt so ugly.

American actress Jennifer Beals star of hit 1980s film Flashdance
Image by Ingrid Richter


Also I grew up in a very Sloaney upper class/upper middle class society in which all the men had fixed tastes in women. They either liked women who were blonde or women who were tall and brunette. I was neither so none of them fancied me.  My best friend Susanna was blonde, perfect, with waist length hair. All the Sloane men in Chelsea we were hanging out with fancied her, none of them fancied me. My father didn’t help telling me I “would never be as pretty as Susanna.”  When I went inter-railing with Susanna when I was 17 there were hordes of men pursuing her and their only interest in me, with my fluent French, was to work as a free interpreter.

When I was 18 I went abroad to Spain and Bolivia and had a remarkable recovery from the BDD. I travelled around Spain and, unlike in England, a lot of men fancied me and would give me compliments on the street. I felt attractive for the first time. When I asked the psychiatrist whether he thought I would be OK in Bolivia, where I was volunteering to work for Save the Children he said “you’ll be 6,000 miles away from your parents I’m sure you’ll be absolutely fine.”  In Bolivia I was ecstatic, as apart from the fact that I was in beautiful natural surroundings, I was also, for the first time in my life, relatively tall.  I was so happy in Bolivia and didn’t want to come back to the UK at all.

The BDD got worse in my first year at Oxford as I was back in Sloanedom where you were only attractive if you were blonde or tall. There were an alarming number of very tall blonde girls at my college in Oxford and my best friend was a 6 foot 1 Dutch Baroness, cousin of the Queen of Holland, whose father had a castle in the Netherlands.  Her life was like a movie, her 18th birthday party in Paris, attended by various Royals and celebrities had been heavily featured in French Vogue. I realised I would have to do something very drastic to compete. So became, in my fantasy, an incredibly talented and beautiful member of the British Royal Family, blonde and very tall, who was married to the King of Spain.  I was locked in this fantasy world not wanting to speak to people for days on end and obviously this made my dissatisfaction with my real appearance even worse.

In my second year at Oxford the Body Dysmorphic Disorder calmed down. I was no longer mixing exclusively with a crowd of Etonians and Upper class people. I had started to do a lot of acting so was with a more creative crowd. They didn’t have the same prejudices and I felt more attractive.  But my confidence was knocked again when I realised I was in love with my old Etonian best friend who said he could not go out with me as my legs were too short. I renewed my efforts to have the operation to extend my legs. But I abandoned the idea after my mother refused to look after me for the year I would have to spend in bed and the doctor said if the operation didn’t work I would have to have my legs amputated.

My mother left the UK for Jamaica when I was  19, leaving me homeless, after writing me curious  letter.  “You have always been selfish,” she said.  “When you were 3 I asked you to bring me a cup of tea and it was cold. You were selfish then and you’ve been selfish ever since, that’s why we don’t get on.” The fact that she’d been out of the house 6 days a week, working or at the hairdresser, didn’t register on her consciousness at all.

A lot of my problems with Body Dysmorphic disorder were because of my mixed ethnicity. I didn’t want to look black, like my mother and was always trying to look more white which I also felt was more acceptable to society. I had dyed my hair red in my late teenage years. My father had had red hair, my mother had black Afro hair this was probably another effort to distance myself from her. I also started saying at Oxford that I was partly Cuban again to distance myself from my black Jamaican roots. I was extremely happy when people would say I “did not look Jamaican” and that I looked Hispanic or Arabic instead.


After my old Etonian best friend said I was too fat in my early 20s I started doing high impact cardio Step Aerobic workouts at the gym. I had another disappointment with a man I fancied who only liked tall girls but was just getting used to my height.  The aerobics made me feel better about my body and I had my first proper boyfriend, one I actually had sex with, when I was almost 24.

As I was then presented with a series of men who fancied me, the body dysmorphic disorder went into some kind of recovery. I was incredibly pleased when I went to New York at the age of 26 and everyone thought I was Hispanic. But a side effect of not looking black was that white people would make racist comments about black people in front of me, unaware of my heritage.

When I started working in television news at the BBC the Body Dysmorphic Disorder flared up again. I was back in an environment where it was important to be tall and a lot of presenters were blonde. All the news presenters were much taller than me but I started doing showbiz reporting instead. My flat mate, an unemployed actress, suddenly got a leading part in top TV soap Eastenders and her face was plastered on the cover of every TV magazine. I thought I had fallen in love with her as she kept mirroring what I did and said and was devastated when she said she couldn’t date me as I was too short.  I started wanting to have all sorts of operations to change my face again. But I settled on a solution I had found at Oxford, I started wearing green contact lenses again and got waist length red hair extensions. This worked. I met now disgraced PR guru Max Clifford and he said “when are we going to see you on TV?”

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I continued throughout my late 20s and early thirties with the red hair extensions and green contact lenses, obviously trying to look more white. My step mother helpfully said I looked “like Michael Jackson.” I even had an entire relationship with a Latin American man where I never took out my green contact lenses pretending I had green eyes.

After my cocaine addiction, alcoholism and bulimia spiralled out of control I ended up in residential rehab for a year in 2005. In my second rehab, a hard core outfit on a council estate in South London bristling with ex cons, I developed a very close relationship with the head of the rehab Ama, who was my counsellor. I told her about my battles with BDD and she said I needed to try an experiment to improve it. This was to take out the green contact lenses, ditch my high heels and designer clothes and wear a Ruritanian potato farmer’s shirt and some baggy tracksuit bottoms that belonged to a lesbian. Amazingly, every one who had fancied me when I was dolled up to the nines still fancied me now I looked like a lesbian potato farmer.  The BDD was much improved and I started walking around with a positive skip in my step. Also, when I moved back to another rehab near my house in Notting Hill, I found all the addict men, even the very posh ones, thought I was very attractive. I was even eyed up by Russel Brand at a meeting!  I started to feel much better about myself and after returning to the green contact lenses in Notting Hill ditched them in favour of my real black eyes. But I still had the hair extensions.

I start to recover from my addiction to drugs alcohol and bulimia and my mental health problems after returning to the UK from Jamaica and attending the Priory rehab and St Luke's treatment centre but still need to change my appearance because of the Body Dysmorphia

The fact that I was considered to be very attractive by all the men in Divorced from my Drug Dealer Anonymous considerably helped my Body Dysmorphic disorder. I was also in a serious relationship with a blonde blue eyed cockney who thought my black eyes were perfect. My hair extensions were now reddish brown instead of red but I still didn’t want to look black.

This changed when I had a nervous breakdown at the end of 2013 because of a financial crisis and the fact that my ex-boyfriend, who I was still very close to, was having a baby with someone else. I developed severe OCD checking 10 hours a day so bad it made me want to cut my throat. I abandoned the hairdresser and the gym letting my hair go natural instead and not bothering to do my nails. I just didn’t give a shit about what I looked like. I didn’t have to exercise as I got very thin during the nervous breakdown, down to just over a hundred pounds. This changed when I recovered from the nervous breakdown and I returned to the gym.

My high impact cardio workouts at the gym have been absolutely key to my recovery from body dysmorphic disorder. After I came off the pill in 2012 I lost quite a lot of weight and became very slim. When I see my slim athletic body in the mirror at the gym I love what I see and do not feel that I look either too short or out of proportion. My head does not look big at all it is perfectly in keeping with the rest of my body, although my father still thinks it is too big. Although I would have loved to have been taller as then I think I could have pursued my passion of acting, I do not really want to change my body anymore.

After I started writing my blog in May 2015 and had to post multiple pictures of myself online to promote the blog I started to have a wobble with the Body Dysmorphic Disorder. I had had hair extensions but they had been the same length as my hair, really just there for volume. I suddenly decided I needed longer hair extensions for the photographs and that I wanted to go back to the green contact lenses. I didn’t want to look as white as I had before as I started using fake tan to darken my skin, but I still wasn’t letting my hair go back to its natural state. In fact I don’t wear the green contact lenses in the photographs for the blog as my profile pictures for all my social media sites have me with black eyes. But I do wear the green contact lenses and now waist length extensions all the rest of the time.  Now my appearance is such an important marketing point for my blog I feel like I am back in television and need to enhance my appearance. I have even had twinges of compulsion to change my face. And in fact I do intend to set up a You Tube channel about addiction and mental health later in the year.

I start to recover from the Body Dysmorphic Disorder but still feel I need to enhance my appearance because of the Body Dysmorphia

I have recovered from the extremes of the Body Dysmorphic Disorder but I still don’t think I look OK exactly as I am and think that I need enhancement. This is not ideal but then a lot of women dye their hair which makes them look dramatically different.  I feel OK with my height, skin colour, age and that is a big improvement. Maybe I’m just a little bit vain now, rather than suffering from Body Dysmorphic Disorder.

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Next week: My life changing recovery from decades of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Borderline Personality Disorder where I thought serial killers who could shrink to the size of a packet of Bird’s Eye peas were going to kill me.



I launch the ultimate dating challenge – 30 days to meet Mr Right


Day 1. After a 3 hour online personality profile test, join “Elite Singles” expecting Tarzan with a PhD and a penthouse in Mayfair. Get one message from a dwarf living in a bedsit in Slough.

Day 2. Wonder how effective the personality profile test is, when I said I wanted someone who can enjoy themselves without alcohol but everyone I’ve been matched with has an interest in “fine wine.” I obviously do not drink being an alcoholic. Also none of my matches seem to have a creative job, all working in IT, so I question whether we will gel. I am notified of numerous visits to my profile but receive no message or smile. Perhaps I am too wacky for the site.

Day 3.  Receive messages (which I can’t read as I haven’t paid a subscription fee) but no one seems to have that slightly creative edge I am looking for.  See numerous people viewing my profile but not leaving me a smile. Perhaps the fact that I put that I was dropping acid with Buddhist monks in California is putting them off. Why?

Day 4. Join Guardian Soulmates which I’ve previously had a lot of success on. Am instantly inundated with “likes” and messages.

guardianmorecropped.jpgSome of them are really quite attractive – having slept with one person in the last 11 years I have absolutely no clue how to get to know a man. What on earth do I do? By 7pm when I’m attending my women’s “Vodka for Breakfast Anonymous” group I feel so high from the attention it’s as if I’ve snorted four grammes of coke, without any alcohol to take off the edge.

Day 5. Receive 67 “likes” and 50 messages from Guardian Soulmates in less than 24 hours. But unfortunately I discover my favourite of the messages is living in Dublin which is not exactly at the end of a Tube line. Have meeting with cousin Miranda to discuss situation voicing fears that, having not had sex for so long, I have “dried up” and will be as unable to accept a willy as I was when my thing shut up like a vice from doing cocaine 24/7. She said I had to practise on my own ie masturbate and buy a vibrator ASAP. Due to Catholic indoctrination from my mother I believe a bolt from Heaven will strike me down if I touch myself. She says I need to discuss this with my therapist.

Day 6. Trawling through all the likes on Guardian Soulmates. As there are so many, I can’t read all their profiles but opt for the shallow option and just send a like to those whose pictures I like (after checking they are not psychopaths from their profiles).  Have 1st conversation with dreamboat in Dublin but, as he only comes to London every four weeks, think this will not do. Have successful conversation with doctor from Oxford which actually leads to a date!  Feel skip in my step as he sends me a text with an x on it.

Day 7. No time to meet Mr Right. Barely manage half an hour on Guardian Soulmates. Meanwhile, although thinking that my Shagger and Lurve Addict Anonymous issues are entirely absent from this process, start to fantasise about marrying a man from Guardian Soulmates who’s half my age and who I not only haven’t met yet but haven’t even spoken to on the phone. I can tell he is Mr Right from his photograph.

Day 8. Speak to the youthful lothario for over an hour and find out he is living with his mum in Harrow in North London which is not exactly Kensington. Undeterred I arrange to meet him the next day which, luckily, coincides with my hairdressing appointment. Bump into someone from “Divorced from my Drug Dealer Anonymous” in my local supermarket who is with an unfeasibly hot very young man I decide to befriend on Facebook. My obsession with my previous “husband” bites the dust.

Day 9. Meet youthful lothario in Baker Street and, alas, do not fancy him. I must stop getting so excited by photographs. 3D meetings are essential.

Day 10. Receive multiple messages from Elite Singles including one from a banker who lives round the corner from me so take the plunge and pay to join dating site. Only now can I see the photographs of all the people who’ve messaged me some of which are shockingly unattractive. I take a shine to the banker who passes the post code test and also does not drink. I wonder if he is a member of “Vodka for Breakfast Anonymous” as well. Have long conversation with Latin American man and arrange to meet on Saturday night, although I think he may be too serious for me. OD on English Breakfast tea – this finding Mr Right is jolly hard work!

Day 11. Receive message at 6am from banker who does live in Notting Hill two seconds away from my rental property. Immediately start fantasising about marriage and kids as, obviously, he has cash. Remembering experience with youthful lothario, who I didn’t fancy, reign myself back reminding myself that I may not fancy him. He is a ginger and very pale which I do not like. Am devastated when he says he is in “Vodka for Breakfast Anonymous” and therefore cannot date me as he will not date girls in the fellowship. Was thinking it would only take me one week to meet Mr Right…

Day 12. I am obviously getting better as my heartbreak over the banker only lasted a day and I did not obsessively pore over his photograph or profile or try to contact him. Unlike my previous dating, I didn’t have to burn his photograph on the gas stove, which was lucky as I only have a gas stove in my rental property and my tenant might have thought this was odd.

Day 13. Cancel a date with a rather promising doctor as there is a boiler crisis at my rental property with no heating for 10 days.  I am there till 8.30pm getting boiler quotes. He says he will not be back down in London for several weeks which does make me question how the relationship would work.

Day 14. Nonchalantly communicate with various people on Guardian Soulmates and Elite Singles when very excitingly get a “like” from a 6’2” doctor who clearly has the same hair problems as me. I can’t work out where he’s from but his hair looks like mine on a very bad day when my hairdresser has stopped talking to me. Part of me is very keen to get it together with someone ethnic who will understand my experience of being a minority in the UK. Part of me wants an extremely posh public school boy like my father. His affluence level is “higher than average” which is always a good start.  Meet hot prospect – therapist with house in Camden and several buy to let properties but alas again do not fancy him. Still feel rejected when he ends the date after an hour.

Day 15. After two disappointments head to meeting with Latin American lawyer with no expectations at all. Which is lucky as when I get there he is not actually there. When I eventually meet him (hate it when men are late) it is not out of the question that I could fancy him. Although he does have a cold sore which, as far as the OCD is concerned, is practically as bad as HIV. After inviting me to a Salsa club and me actually accepting he doesn’t get back to me with the address until after he has left. Resolve he is unreliable and that will not meet him again. My barrister friend Patricia says if I want rich and posh I should join the Conservative Party. This makes me slightly queasy as all writers are left wing, but since I grew scales and a tail before the last election and was diagnosed as a Tory the Labour party will not let me in.

Day 16. Have very promising conversation with actor who does a lot of theatre and voiceover work and sounds absolutely great. Unfortunately cannot meet him this week due to the boiler replacement at my rental property. Meet Greek civil engineer who sounded great on the phone but is shorter than I was expecting and has a belly as well. The number of people I’ve fancied who I’ve met through the online dating is zero. Which has led me to feel extremely disillusioned about the online experience.

Day 17. Have promised to phone various men this afternoon but am so despondent am not sure I can be bothered to phone any of them. Also, as I am potentially looking for the father of my daughter (or in the short term the donor sperm for my frozen embryos), none of them seem to have enough cash to pay for my 24/7 child care requirements.  Start pining over the Notting Hill banker – there is always one who’s “got away.”

Day 18. No time to find Mr Right. B day at my rental property. Not not Birthday, Boiler Installation Day after the old boiler gave out leaving my lovely tenant with no heating for 2 weeks. Desperate to keep tenant as entire writing career depends on it, am throwing money at the house, doing all sorts of things tenant is supposed to do. Only Mr Right related activity is sending message to man on Elite singles saying I won’t be able to call him for a couple of days.

Day 19. No time to find Mr Right.  No sleep again as worried about boiler. Receive text message from interesting sounding actor but when I send what I think is reasonable and prompt reply I get no response. Do eventually hear from maltese (partly Arabic) doctor with hair issues as complex and intractable as mine, which I have described in my profile as “akin to servicing a high performance car.” Become wildly over excited as he has put his affluence level is higher than average so I think he can pay for our child. The fact that I’ve not even spoken to him does nothing to dent these fantasies.

Day 20. Phone up mixed race guy from Guardian soulmates and arrange to meet the following week. But think affluence level will not be sufficient to pay for private school for our child.

Day 21. Wild fantasies about the maltese doctor going beyond us getting married and having child but right through entire education of the child. I have already decided the child (has to be female) will go to St Paul’s Girls school, one of the top private schools in this country, and to Oxford University. No overloading the child with parental expectations then. I definitely now want a child, and am actually thinking I might be able to look after her myself. Decide I will urgently look into egg freezing in case Mr Right is late.

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Day 22.  Apart from my battle with OCD in my local supermarket, (such as having to open all the ready meals to check the number of legs on the prawns and the cans of dog food to get the most meaty one for my imaginary dog) a new danger awaits.

sainsburysreadymealsNow I am looking for a boyfriend, every male under a certain age in every aisle is potentially Mr Right, leading to frenzied primping sessions in the loo before I launch myself into the supermarket with my trolley.  After bitter experience, I have learned that all the men I’ve picked up in the aisle labelled “Eye Makeup Remover” are a tad unsuitable. Of course, my first boyfriend was unfaithful to me with a bottle of Clinique foundation.

Day 23.  All has gone quiet on Guardian Soulmates and Elite Singles. I guess I will have to do some hunting myself, checking out my matches and sending them a like or a smile. I go onto the website of upmarket introduction agency Drawing Down the Moon but balk at the £6,000 price tag. However this might be a good investment if it secures a wealthy man who can pay for the private school fees. Resolve to listen to barrister friend Patricia and go to some Tory events backing Zac Goldsmith bid for London mayor. Although I might vote for him I balk at the fact that he supports Britain’s exit from the European Union.  Exchanges with hair-challenged doctor progress to an actual phone call. Am so wild with excitement before he calls that I feel like I’m having a breakdown. But then when he calls he has very strong Arabic accent which I am not sure will do at all. Still arrange to meet on Edgware Road later in the week.

Day 24.  Loads of activity on Elite singles after my smile sending session the day before. Respond to some of the messages. Hair issues doctor cancels our date on Thursday as he says he is working late, which opens up the slot as I have received another proposal for that night from sexy voiced Actor instead. But when I text the actor about meeting up 4 hours later he has not texted me back. Think he must be avoidant or unavailable so am not entirely excited about meeting up. I want someone who responds to me immediately!

Day 25. Devastating news about the egg freezing – I am apparently too old. Also too old for IVF. Dreams of having little girl of my own bite the dust.  But book in fertility test with doctor just in case. Send almost a 100 likes on Guardian Soulmates to gee things up a bit and get quite a few back. Unfortunately a lot of people who message me are people I’ve liked by mistake. Meet mixed race property developer who is very attractive. But think, like the Palestinian doctor, that his accent is wrong. Also he thinks I’m a “bunny boiler” because I’m in therapy. Shocked by news from Brussels of 31 people dead in airport and metro bombings reminiscent of tube bombings in London on 7/7. Wonder what it would be like going out with the Palestinian doctor who probably gets stopped at every airport he goes to.

Day 26. Go to “Vodka for Breakfast Anonymous” in Notting Hill not stalking Notting Hill banker (well only a tiny bit) but looking for a man. Everyone there is married.

Day 27. Due to meet hot prospect of sexy voiced actor but he cancels that morning as he is ill.  Go to Notting Hill “Divorced from my Drug Dealer Anonymous” meeting (obviously in search of man). But the guy I’ve had my eye on for ages, a rugged American, shares that he is getting married the next week. Get very exciting message from ex publisher of London Metro newspaper asking me out to dinner. I message him straight back saying let’s talk on the phone.

Day 28. No dates lined up so go to Hampstead Shagger and Lurve Addicts Anonymous meeting in search of “fellowship” aka rich love addict. But the one person I fancy actively seems to dislike me.

Day 29. Have great conversation about politics and current affairs with 6’3” very attractive lawyer from South London who I’ve been exchanging messages with on Guardian Soulmates. Arrange to meet the following week. Am slightly concerned that he definitely wants to have children and his upper age limit for women is 36 as IVF unit has said my eggs are past their sell by date.

Day 30. Lawyer cancels date as he says I am too interested in politics and current affairs. Am briefly devastated but think he would not have been interested because of eggs being off.  Have recovery party to look forward to.  This turns out to be a disaster as my friend from Slaa the host is babbling about men and sex in a way that makes me feel really uncomfortable. I launch into first bulimic binge for 7 years and want to make myself sick, which I haven’t done since July 2009. But, after emergency conversation with Sarah from Divorced from my Drug Dealer Anonymous and my neighbour Diane, a therapist, thankfully do not.  Ex publisher of metro newspaper who said he would phone me at 5 texts at 5 to say he is at an event which has overrun and will call me at 9. He does not call at 9. Think he is rude and has control issues and will not have anything to do with him. This online dating is not going very well. Am seriously thinking of pulling off both my profiles.

Day 30 + 1. (this month has 31 days!) meet sexy voiced actor at restaurant in Notting Hill. Although we have loads in common do not fancy him. Am facing apocalyptic dating scenario where living in a country that is 90% white I have stopped fancying white men.  Go to bed feeling as down as an elevator whose mechanism has broken and has plummeted  through 54 floors. Of course I still fantasise about Dangerous Liasons with the evil Vicomte de Valmont from Divorced from My Drug Dealer Anonymous. He is one of only two single men in recovery I’ve fancied who actually fancy me back. But he has hepatitis C and is fundamentally untrustworthy so I cannot date him. What am I going to do?

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Next week: my life changing recovery from 30 years of bulimia and anorexia that almost killed me.