I have an awful suspicion that I may suffer from depression. I’ve tried to wash over it so many times but I can’t seem to find another explanation. I cry a lot. Sob is probably a better word. I sob and sob yet don’t really understand why. I stare into nothingness for minutes at a time. Stare at myself in the mirror as if looking in the third person. My mind either races or sits motionless. I hate myself for it which doesn’t do me any favours whatsoever.
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Last night I went mad. Started worrying about money again and the fact I still have none. I wish my mind didn’t bend that way sometimes. I do know how fortunate I am. I have a lovely life. So what if I don’t achieve my desire to be a writer. So fucking what.
Maybe that should be my epitaph. If only it wouldn’t upset my family. Silly really because if I get published, this book will do that for me.
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