Eighteen months steady, Nottingham, and I want to write the post that nobody clicks on.
Here is my week. Wednesday evening, after the news, I do the injection at the kitchen table while the kettle boils. It takes under a minute. I put the pen back in the fridge behind the milk. I write a W in the little square on the calendar because once, in a bad month, I lost track and had a very stupid week.
That is it. That is the whole of it. There is no arc. Nothing has changed in either direction since roughly last February. My clothes are the same clothes. My bloods were fine in March and will presumably be fine in September. I go swimming on Sundays because I like it, not because it is a programme.
And I want to say clearly, because I do not think anybody said it to me when I needed it: this is the good bit. Not the anticlimax after the good bit. The actual thing. Twelve years of my adult life were spent in a cycle of starting something, doing it intensely, and then abandoning it in a heap in about the third week of March, and the constant feature of all of it was that something was always happening. Everything was a project. Everything had a beginning and a crisis.
Nothing is happening now. It took me about six months to stop being uneasy about that, because a life where nothing is happening felt, at first, like a life where I had stopped trying. It is not. It is what trying looks like when it has worked and gone quiet.
If you are in the loud part and reading this: the boring bit is available and it is much better than it sounds.
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