An illness decides how much of me exists on any given day

I have an illness that decides how much of me exists on any given day, and an honest post from me has to start there rather than tuck it in at the end. Some weeks I am entirely ordinary. Some weeks the plan is getting to the end of the corridor and back.

Forty three, east London, I work from home three days and lie down on the other two. Diagnosed nine years ago, which is long enough to have stopped being angry about it and to have become quite organised instead.

Practically: I cannot promise a fixed evening, I can promise honesty about which evenings are real, and I need somebody who hears a cancellation as information rather than rejection. I have lost two dynamics to exactly that misunderstanding and I do not think either woman was being unkind about it.

What I want is a female led relationship where the leading includes the illness rather than politely working around it. Being told to rest is far more use to me than being told to try harder. I would like a structure with slack designed into it deliberately, rather than a strict one I keep failing.

I am not fragile and I am not looking for a nurse. The woman I have in mind is bossy about my health and otherwise entirely occupied with her own life. Not looking for anything involving stairs or long standing. Not looking for pity. Not looking for somebody who decides in week six that she would prefer the version of me from the good week.