This has been a difficult week. 

Here in my lovely warm home. 

I look out over the soggy lawn and the limp nasturtium killed by last night's frost, turning my face towards the briefest glimpse of sunlight. On Tuesday I packed it in, stopped pretending and everything has become hard work. When asked how I feel, I change the subject. That's the easy part. I want to do it right this time, or at least better, more dignified than four years ago. 

Because it's big, this one. Oh yes. 

A veritable eruption. 

This time, however, I want to be grown up about it. Not so insulted, so angry, so childish. 

None of this drama queen stuff. 

The worst case scenario is as ever: unbearable pain, loneliness, death. And of course, nothing could be further from the truth. I am comfortable. This being winter makes it harder, I think. But maybe not so. The early hours are still dark and silent when my mind begins to roam and speculate, when symptoms spin out of control and my breathing becomes shallow - until I catch myself and slowly begin to pull myself up from the deep hole of everything and nothing.

In my dream last night I was being poisoned. And while I was carefully examining all the food in my larder, suspiciously discarding one thing after another, I realised that the poison was me.