I had two really enjoyable evenings out Friday and Saturday. The first was a lovely meal with female friends old and new. Waited on hand and foot, serenaded by talented singers/musicians, entertained by a fun quiz (that our table won, incidentally). It really was lovely. But by the time they brought out the coffee and tea, I felt absolutely exhausted socially. I passed on the hot drink, deciding that quietly slipping out before anyone else started a conversation with me was the best option. I can drink tea at home, without the need to make any more small talk.

The following night Martin and I went along to the annual Christmas concert of the choir I used to be part of. I actually love this event. I loved it as a performer and I love it as a spectator. It seems to herald the beginning of the festive season in my mind. I still know many of the choir (and the songs) and it’s a lovely time to listen, sing along and catch up with friends. I even won a raffle prize, which is generally unheard of.

Both nights I was home around 10. Hardly the party animal. And the day in between I put up our Christmas decorations, which is an absolute favourite thing of mine to do. Yet by yesterday I was physically wrecked and fighting back the tears at every turn. Today hasn’t been better. I received the Tesco delivery man in my nightshirt (poor man is probably scarred for life!) I was finally sorted out with clothes on and everything about 4 o’clock. I was chasing up my housing association as we have no hot water. Assuming another water heater has scaled up beyond being fit for use. That’s actually how I feel to be honest. Beyond being fit for use. Friday night I told someone my social battery was flat. I didn’t think about that analogy, it just fell out my mouth, but it does kind of encapsulate the drained feelings I was experiencing.

I cried trying to make dinner. And when I say make dinner, I’m specifically referring on this occasion to getting a tray of chicken dippers and a tray of curly fries into the oven. A culinary delight based solely on the minimal effort required. Not technical, not gourmet, but sustenance of a fashion. That’s a proper chronic illness day dish. Had I still lived alone, I probably wouldn’t have bothered, but I take seriously the business of ensuring my husband gets fed. Even if it’s trays of beige food. But still the task felt impossibly hard. And I cried.

I guess I won’t be relaxing in a nice warm bath tonight then.

I’ve already broken my own rules about not doing stuff for Christmas if it stresses you out. Trying to keep our heads above water financially is challenging enough; but then comes Christmas, with the expectations of presents and cards, and shedloads of food.

I literally want to be wrapped in a blanket and be brought cups of tea. Be looked after. And I need touch. I can’t stress how much I need physical reassurance. When I’m struggling with chronic illness, I often miss my parents. My dad was the practical one. He brought comfort through sorting things out. My mum, though difficult to live with in many ways, totally understood my need to be hugged. I think she felt it too, which is why it came naturally to her. Even as an adult I would hold her hand or link arms with her when we were out. It never felt weird. It felt safe. We had our differences but we loved each other.

The dark days don’t help. I don’t know which I dislike most; heading out on cold, grey days, or being cooped up indoors. Motivation is low. I’m tired. To the bone tired. The kind of tired that sleep doesn’t help. Most days I manage my health pretty well. Today I’m falling.