I’ll be candid – I was dumped immediately after my MS diagnosis.
Brutal, huh?
Yep, and then some. Mind you, it made life somewhat easier;
I didn’t have to give two hoots about what a partner thought. What partner? It gave me the space to concentrate on The Teenager and Me.
And for the last five years, it’s worked out superbly. I don’t have to worry about , ‘I’ll do what you want this weekend, dearest!’ (if The Teenager is out, I’m having an epic nap), or ‘what d’you fancy for dinner tonight, my sweets?’ (when your eyeballs are closer to the kitchen worktop than your face).
So, I chunter along, pootling around my plants and talking to The Cat, which, according to The Teenager, is precisely my problem. I’m too used to being on my own.
Perhaps. Or perhaps I’m scared of letting someone in to my space?
Perhaps I’m scared of being rejected?
I’ve mentioned before, but my dating profile is hardly enticing:
’43 year young, multi-lingual, well-travelled, peep. Divorced, single parent (other parent is very absent, like 3,000 miles away), oh, and I have an incurable neurological illness. But I look well!’
Therein lies the nub – I’m suspended between having an illness without looking like I have an illness. It’s mostly invisible, therefore, it’s what I tell you it is. And, like I said before, you only see me when I’m well. When I’m ill, I stay at home, with only Netflix and The Cat for company.
I miss being close to someone. I miss having someone who cares about me on a day-to-day basis, not merely during six month MS check-ups. I care about others, but there is that missing layer, when others will care about me; how I’m feeling, how that old fatigue is going, how my balance is doing.
In the back of my mind, I fear that this is it. Forever. According to some websites, I have more chance of finding love after 40 than I have of being in a plane crash.
Really?
Is that it?