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I walk into WhiteLeggings’ office.

“Still not good?” WhiteLeggings says immediately. Throughout this blog entry, I’d like you to remember that while he may be perceptive, he’s still a nob.

“No,” I say, shaking my head and sitting down.

“Tell me what’s going on.”

“Well,” I say, trying to come across as sanely as possible. “I have flu-like symptoms, then they go, and I get steadily better until they come back again. No matter what I do.”

“And you tried the jogging?” He says.

Blink.

Blink, blink.

“I know that graded exercise can benefit some CFS sufferers…” I say slowly, remembering how he showed me the evidence spread out on his desk before I got sick again and I got so hopeful, not only because I thought from that point onwards I would get stronger and stronger, but because I’d found a doctor who understood.

“But I can’t even sit up. Somedays sitting up for my dinner is enough to ensure I can do even less the next day.”

“Right,” he says, typing away. I stare briefly at his leggings. What is he thinking?

“And I know you must encounter people with CFS who are crazy” – I resist saying Crazies – “or who are depressed, or lazy, or anxious… but that’s not me,” I say.

“So no stress from work?”

I tense. This is the second time he’s asked. The first is forgivable. “No,” I say. I spread my arms across the desk and he looks at me. “Listen. I LOVED working and being well. I was so happy.”

I almost name-drop that I have an entire website dedicated to the fact.

“I’m starving and thirsty and my stomach rejects food sometimes and I’m EXHAUSTED,” I say. “I’m a young woman  and I shouldn’t be at home because I’m 24 and this thing – ” I say, with a chilling thought, “is stealing my twenties.”

“Do you think you could be depressed?”

I visualise banging my head against a wall.

I look at him. “I want to be well,” I say simply. “As much as you would be if you felt like this.”

We agree on another blood test, a diabetes test and two more weeks signed off sick.

I leave the room feeling that I’ve fought my case well, but with the distinctly uneasy feeling that I shouldn’t have had to.

It was different this year.

It was different because I attended the ceremony, and didn’t moan when I had to stand up, and MindReader whispered “progress” in my ear when we did so.

It was different because I attended the photographs, the speeches, the meal, and some of the evening, albeit with rest breaks in one of MindReader’s sister’s hotel rooms.

It was different because there’s a pandemic, and mentioning that I had flu a month ago is no longer like mentioning I had flu SEVEN months ago and (most) people nodded understandably, muttering “swine flu.”

(Although I did get a few comments like “don’t slip down into being tired all the time again!”)

It was different because I don’t LOOK shit, and people didn’t know I was ill, and, when you’ve got little evidence something terrible isn’t happening again, that actually counts for quite a lot.

It was different because MindReader re-jigged the second dance so we could dance together and even though the room was spinning [in a non-dancing way] it was worth it.

It was different because we are more solid than ever, and it takes more than a crappy relapsing-remitting illness to disrupt that base.

It was different because all I could see last year was darkness. And even though, when I was watching the first dance I got a lump in my throat, wondering if I will ever be that carefree and happy with my whole life ahead of me, I put the illness in a box and appreciated the candles and babies and even a little bit of champagne.

“Can we get married?” I said to MindReader, right after the toasts (and hence, three sips of champers).

“Of course,” he smiles, adding, “one day.”

“Soon?”

“One day soon.”