I didn’t want to get out of bed this morning, not in the ‘it’s too cosy here, I don’t want to get up’ sort of way but in the more desperate, ‘I don’t think I can, or I can’t bear to get up’ way. I haven’t had such a feeling before. Yes, I’ve dreaded something I’ve had to do and wanted to stay put but never this, never this pull, this impossible resistance. Though not quite impossible because I did resist it. If I was alone I don’t know that I would’ve. We are made of stern stuff. I have it from her, she was too and it made her grim in the end. I want to give in. To stay there and hide, to not surface into that dark. It is better in the morning. The sun helps. He helps. We talk of pills. It would make me happy, he says. And my fear of them makes me mishear him. No, he says later, it would make me happy to know that you’d got over it. Get over it. I wait for that. I wait for it to pass. Surely it will. Won’t it? If it’s the menopause surely it will do so, it will go. If so, I want to see it through, like this fast, grit my teeth and show my resolve, my strength, my stern stuff. But I just don’t know. All I know is that it is hard these days. Hard to put that proverbial foot in front of the other. And I feel ashamed for being this way for I am blessed, certainly. I can see the sea. I can walk to the sea. I have food to eat, a warm bed, clothes to wear and my love. Who is ever steadfast. Meaning for the moment escapes me. Perhaps I just need to look at it another way. I long to be on the move, to be going somewhere, anywhere, to just fly away for a while, to a hotel, to be somewhere else without this self, this sad self not wanting to do anything, to be anything but asleep.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.