Despite being a semi-basket case again in the mental health department, the fog is inexplicably lifting. Not being a mental health professional, I cannot be sure why this should be because, on the face of it, nothing has changed. A friend of mine, who is every bit as unbalanced than I am, says he wishes he could bottle the effects of when things get better, seemingly on their own. So do I. I have the feeling that much of it is, as Huey Lewis and his News put it, the power of love.
I’m not sure if I deserve all the love that has come my way, especially after my full-on breakdown back in March, but, in the absence of medical interventions (just), but I’m still wolfing it down just in case it all ends tomorrow.
I will not trouble you now with the full reasons why I went downhill so rapidly – that could later become a matter for Messrs Sue, Grabbit and Runne – and I’ll simply add that the hate I felt for the main protagonists has slowly morphed into pity. I’ve been reminded that hate is such an ugly waste of energy, as is anger. Feeling sorry for gutless, power-crazed inadequates who will probably always be that way improves my spirit immeasurably.
The main sign that my head is improving – and who knows how far that improvement will go – is that I am enjoying writing again and the quality, as exemplified by my piece in tomorrow’s Bristol Rovers matchday programme is better. I say that not to be boastful – it is not an accident that I am not paid to write – but because plenty of stuff I have written lately has been less than stellar.
I owe you. I have to admit it’s getting better, a little better every day. You all know who you are. X