I was asked recently when I would next be writing on my blog. I didn’t at that point have an answer. I didn’t feel I had anything to say. Or rather, maybe I didn’t have anything worthwhile to say. Anything interesting. Anything positive. Anything encouraging or inspirational. Truth is, I’ve been struggling with significantly low mood for a while now, and it doesn’t want to shift.

It’s as if the changing of the seasons somehow carried my state of mind along with it, robbing me of the light and warmth of my soul. Replacing it with darkness and gloom. Eternal Autumn. Where some see mellow fruitfulness, I’m stuck in cold, decay and death. Opulent golden leaves turn quickly to the mucky brown sludge of pavements and gutters.

I’m not bothered by the rainfall. The patter on the window soothes me. Reassures me. It matches my gloom. It is cleansing. Many times I stare out and the same thought strikes me, “It’s so dark”. And again I’m uncertain if I refer to what is within or what is without. Like the marshmallow strands of a Flump, they are entwined, inseparable, inextricably linked. Can’t beat a confectionary analogy.

It started with a late and disturbed night one day last month followed by a particularly manic (in the busy sense not the bipolar sense) following 24 hours. And it was like I never caught up. I believed some extra rest, interspersed with some enjoyable, light hearted activities would cure me. But my head wouldn’t stop. I remained bombarded with negative thoughts, and of course my EUBPD fired up, causing me to overthink absolutely everything.

I couldn’t have felt more inadequate, more pathetic if I tried. Meanwhile my friends were going through their own horrible, heartbreaking stuff and I’m just looking on, unable to offer them the support they need. The niggling voice in my head telling me what a rubbish friend I am, and how selfish I am for trying to prioritise my own well-being, and how useless I am because I can’t even do that.

I’ll be honest, I miss having a partner at times like these. Not the partner I had, as I realise now how actually he exacerbated my depression, but the person a partner should be. I feel like I’m truly unlovable with my shocking mental health and my physical constraints. Do you have any idea how many men on dating sites want a woman to go on long walks with? That’s me out then. I didn’t expect to still be single 12 years after being widowed. I just didn’t. I’m lonely. And yet in more positive glimpses I believe I’m a decent person who deserves to be loved, who deserves to be happy, it just isn’t happening for me.

Still the closest thing I have to a relationship is the man called Dave. Not to be mistaken for my brother (who has gone remarkably silent since the bungalow sold). Dave my old perv, who makes me exceptionally happy when we’re together, but lives a million miles away and is adamant we will only ever be friends. I love Dave and would do whatever it took to be with him. But he doesn’t want that. Doesn’t want me I read that as. And I know he has his own stuff going on, so I try not to take it personally. But I definitely take it personally.

I started obsessing about buses. The way they come rattling down the main road past my flat at a rate of knots. I dreamt of casually walking out of my road into the path of one of them. It seemed so appealing I didn’t leave home for two days, just in case I actually did it. Thankfully that strong urge has passed, at least for the time being and suicidal ideation has gone back to being a more passive notion again.

I’m waiting for a call from my doctor. Not that I’m pinning my hopes on there being any useful advice offered. One day at a time. It can’t feel this dark forever.