I haven't written in a while, and there is a reason for that.
Winston Churchill called his depression "The Black Dog". It's been such a long time since I've seen my particular canine that I didn't realize it was here. But it is. I am depressed.
What this means for me is that life has no joy, no savor, no creativity.
I feel bleak.
Living is an effort and takes all my attention and effort.
I'm incredibly tired, yet I can't sleep, or my sleep is haunted by incredibly vivid and horrifying nightmares.
I'm confused and I can't find words, nouns, names. It's frustrating trying to express myself. I can't even compose a decent compound sentence, for cripe's sake.
At least I know what this is and what I need to do, and I'm doing it. I've done it before. But it takes time to get better, and I'm an impatient perfectionist. I hate waiting, yet I must.
Winston Churchill said "If you are going through Hell, keep going."
I intend to keep moving.
Thanks for listening.