It’s a month until our wedding. When Martin bought my little countdown I was chalking in 300+ days. Now I’m down to thirty. To say it’s flown by is an understatement. A time that should have been made up of cherished moments, joyful planning and looking forward with hope and anticipation to our new life together.

Now don’t get me wrong; those moments have been present, just in glimpses, and sadly, mainly overshadowed by the difficult times. I’ve tried so incredibly hard to stay positive, but it hasn’t been easy. I haven’t even felt like writing much, since I have seen the power my writing has to inflict pain on the person I love. Unintentionally, with no malice intended at all, but wounding nonetheless.

Martin no longer works on trains. He’s making tentative steps into working in the event planning/celebrations market, but he’s still struggling with depression, anxiety, PTSD and ongoing financial worries. At least while his merciless insomnia keeps him up at night, he’s grasped the opportunity to undertake our own wedding planning. But it’s not how life should be lived. He’s incredibly vulnerable and life just seems to keep kicking him further down.

I am currently unable to drive. It’s been about five weeks now since I received the letter from the DVLA informing me I couldn’t drive unless a doctor expressly stated I could. Something that just doesn’t happen. Especially when yet another GP has left so no one in the surgery actually knows me. It should be a routine renewal of my three year medical license; neither my condition nor my medication has changed. Yet here I am. Struggling with public transport or feeling hopelessly dependent on others for lifts. I hate the lack of independence with every fibre of my being. Being mental and physically disabled is one thing, feeling disabled is another.

When Martin wrote off his car a while back and the insurance money barely covered the outstanding finance, I made the decision to buy a car for his use. At that time, technically he was still working and needed a vehicle to get to work. I know he struggled with me buying it for him. All I can say now is, thank goodness I did. He wouldn’t have fitted to drive my little car, and potentially we’d have both been stuck without transport. It has been especially beneficial when attending wedding dress fittings, genuinely in the back of beyond, even if it did mean Martin waiting in the car. Those trips would never have been possible on a bus.

It’s the spontaneous trips out I miss the most; to collect a prescription, something from the supermarket, or just to have a cuppa somewhere other than within my four walls. I’m celebrating a Costa with my son today and writing here while he works. It’s lovely. When I’ve drained my second teapot I’ll head down into Tesco and browse a little. Bliss.

I’m not very good at talking through my relationship concerns when they come up. I tend to dwell on them and mull them over for a while until they come blurting out when least expected. I feel sorry for Martin when I brain dump everything on him. It’s my attempt not to bottle things up indefinitely, or brush them under the carpet, but I’m aware they can rather come out of nowhere like an unguided missile launch.

I recently blurted out my concerns about how much time and energy I exert looking out for Martin. Checking in with him. Checking on his mental health. Establishing if he’s eaten. Did he sleep? I wrote a supporting statement for his benefit claim as to how his health conditions affect his everyday life. And please don’t think that I resent any of that, I don’t. I just thought that I’d reached a point in my life where I’d cared for my first husband until his death, brought up my son, cared for elderly parents and even worked in the nursing/care sector for many years. In short I thought my role as a carer was done, I thought it was time to prioritise my own self care. And when I started my relationship with Martin I dreamed of someone else taking care of me too. Something, I should add, he’s really good at, when his mental health is better.

I told him he’s not the man I met. He’s a broken down shell of the former Martin. His reaction was to apologise. I never pointed it out to make him feel bad. I just feel incredibly sad that the world has thrown so much at my kind, funny, generous, loving gentle giant that he now expects the worst in every situation and hides in his bed to avoid the circumstances of his life.

A month before we’re due to get married we shouldn’t be feeling this dejected. I’m ongoing fighting with my own head in an attempt to keep myself from slipping into depression. And trying to be the strong one for Martin, because honestly, we’re both a little afraid of what should happen if we’re both not-strong at the same time.

One month. One more month. Please let December be a better one.