I’ve got a grump on. I don’t often grump – or if I do, it’s usually very brief and passes in a couple of hours, because I filter my own thoughts like a crab filters beach sand. I throw out anything unpalatable. But I’ve now had the grump for a few days – since that first lovely frost, a few days ago. And that’s basically the reason. This always happens at this time of year. The first cold we get: the first truly dark evenings, and I get this burning need to be outside in it. I want to get the allotment done. I want to have the lovely cold air in me, and be able to run again, and be able to go romping across fields and through woods with a gun, the smell of it on my cold hands and my coat, and to see friends, and go to a pub and … dear god, I want my life back. Or a quarter of it. An eighth.
No, all of it, all of it.
Mostly I disconnect from this. I don’t notice myself clambering over the elephant in the room in the same way that, in my childhood home, I never noticed that I habitually stepped over the spot where the cat always curled up. Until the cat died, and I caught myself still doing it a year later and realised that I had done it the whole intervening time without realising. That’s how automatically I avoid it. But sometimes I tread on the elephant-in-the-room. When that happens I spend a few days trying to ignore it. Then I spend some time not exactly ignoring it, but furious and sad and unbelievably lonely and hopeless, and flatly refusing to cry about it.
And that is where I am right now and that is why I have a grump on.
I don’t want to be fucking rescued or helped or looked after. I’d gnaw my own foot off before I let that happen – I can’t help it, I’m a feral. But I do want to run and to walk in solitudinous places, and look up at a white sky through black branches, and to meet people who have bodies, and wrestle with a friendly dog, and go swimming, and get muddy, and read a book without it taking me a fucking year. And finish editing the one I have written.
I do not want the rest of my life to be like this. I’m not depressed, I’m furious and stuck. Even feeling that will make me more ill. So I had better find a way to pretend everything is fine again, and soon.
 I have ME/CFS. I have no life.
 It’s a word now.