All the times I've truly felt good have gone by too soon. For now life is endured in between the acute anxiety that can't be rationalised away and the bouts of depression that turn me into this creature, so useless, so difficult to be around, so pointless. I have even begun to fear happiness as I worry how long it will last this time and how long the fallout will be.
Take last weekend for example...[extract from notes taken]
'It's been a beautiful day, one of those fab crisp sunny autumnal ones - perfect for being outside and immersed in nature. In short, an allotment day and I hate the way it makes me feel. Here I write in the dark, having just awoken from another 'I'm too depressed to cope' two hour nap. I'm cold, I'm wearing the same pjs I've worn night and day for a week and I so desperately wish I could touch a switch and my life would quietly stop. I know that isn't the way it happens but, I've dreamt of it most my life....and suddenly I feel so ashamed and slightly angry with myself. I can't think straight any more and this bumbling must stop, I am too pathetic as it is without writing about it, indulging in it.'
I'm sure I'm not like this deep inside; corners of my mind are quick, artistic, interested, wishing to learn, wishing to do, longing to trust people. In short somewhere within this rotting lump is a quivering flame of hope. That's obvious by that very act of getting up each morning, even if it is to sit on the sofa all day.
It will all take me a good deal of time to get down on paper but slowly, with a hell of a lot of patience and kindness towards myself, I hope to be back writing soon.