I am writing at the moment, but not for this blog. I’m keeping a mental health journal documenting dreams and pills and mood states, mostly in narrative “I went here and did this and felt that so took this”, sometimes in poems I won’t bore you with.

Within the last week I’ve felt annihilated, one of my worst moods ever — worse, by far, than I’ve felt in around five years. Then I felt happy, for the first time in however long — actual happiness, not ironic victory: a mild, pleasant sense of well-being.

Now, once again, I feel hopeless.

If you conceptually graph “challenge of” versus “skill at” a task you get something like this:

I can’t remember the last time I felt anything like being on the right side of that graph. Maybe “Boredom”. Maybe. Mostly I feel as though I move from Apathy through Worry to Anxiety and back. I feel that everything I do — including what I’m writing right now — is just really terrible and unskilled.

And, it turns out, there’s no pill for that — which was one of my big fears. This might be one of those mitigable-but-insoluble psychological problems that is going to cause me pain for the rest of my life.

Okay, back to sucking at whatever I can force myself to do next. This letter from Stephen Fry always helps.