The sun is shining, birds chirruping away. The bushes outside are a sparklingly brilliant chartreuse. The weather is warm but not hot. My cat is purring and contented by my side. This chair is extremely comfortable. I live in a lovely house. And yet, this morning is one of those mornings. This morning, I woke up, and wanted to die.

I’m awaiting a friend who is popping over to bring me some of her old clothes (in case there’s anything there I might like). This should be a pleasure. I’m dreading it. I want her to go away and she hasn’t yet arrived. I got dressed and put makeup on because I didn’t want her to see me crying in pyjamas. I hate my figure in these clothes. The makeup is patchy and emphasises my ageing face, just as it used to highlight my youthful prettiness. My hair is hanging limply, refusing to approximate any sort of style. I care enormously about all this, but I also don’t. Because it doesn’t matter. She will leave, and I will sit back here again, looking at nature and telling myself to enjoy it. Because humans do that, don’t they? They listen to the birds and enjoy their environment and appreciate the beauty of green trees. It all looks grey to me.

I finally saw a psychiatrist last week. I’ve another appointment tomorrow. I should be pleased that I’m getting treatment but at the moment I’m not seeing the point. Why make myself better only to slide back into worse again? Why try to pretend that I can bring something useful to the world? And why try to make myself go out into it? I hate the world. I hate the judgemental people in it. I hate the standards I have to reach, and to pretend they aren’t difficult to uphold. To withdraw is to be mentally unstable, to participate is to be healthy. But society is inherently sick, isn’t it?

I’m rambling again. I sometimes try to organise my thoughts by writing them here, only to end up more confused. There’s more to articulate, but it eludes me as soon as I try. I’m trying to work out what it is I want, what would bring my joy or at least some sort of temporary cessation of despair, but I can’t think of anything. All things I might have found fun in the past, hold no excitement whatsoever. It’s an enormous amount of work to watch a film, and to concentrate on it. Singing makes me sad as I remember the past. A bath or a shower exhaust me enough to send me back to bed. Going out drinking is pointless; I don’t want to small talk, and alcohol will make me feel worse tomorrow even if it grants momentary relief. So to those Positivity Twats who advocate doing things to make me feel better as ‘self-care’ to help ease the down: what do I do when all of it is grey?

Grey sludge, not crisp white and crunchy like winter snow, nor clear and cleansing like spring rain, or even enveloping and soothing, like fog. Just ugly, dirty sludge.

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