Over the weekend, I put this up as a Facebook note, with the hyperbolic title "Welcome to Bleak House 3.0":
First, the obvious: I am not planning to take my own life. Not now, not in the foreseeable future.
A corner has clearly been turned. I was never exactly hell on wheels, but I'm at the point now where everything I do will be second-guessed. Possibly third-guessed. And if there's light at the end of the tunnel, I assume it's an oncoming train: presuming that I am released from my seeming captivity in August, as I anticipate, I will be so utterly buried in work that I won't have time to breathe. Whether this constitutes going from the frying pan into the fire is left as an exercise for the student.
Right on time, my insomnia has returned with a vengeance. If I hit the sack at eleven, I might be asleep by two-thirty, but I wouldn't count on it. All by itself, that's more than enough to leave me despondent.
I don't know whether this is the beginning of Seemingly Permanent Sadness. I would not, however, be surprised. I know better than to bawl that nobody loves me; however, those who love me cannot save me. It's something I must do alone. And I have absolutely no aptitude for that sort of thing.
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Copyright © 2016 by Charles G. Hill