Slept very badly, got up at 2am and read for a while. Dreams to do with my mother’s suicide, those old spectres that come to us at our most vulnerable hours. Lay in the dark and listened to the wind blowing across the valley and owls hooting as they hunted down by the river.
Woke to the relief of a bright windy morning. Church bells pealing out from the ugly red-brick Dutch Reformed Church up the road. Low-grade depression is just one of the occasional bugbears of recovery and I am lucky I have never been through the recurring clinical depressions I have seen friends struggle with over the years.
Making a large pot of lentil soup for lunch. The good thing about dried brown lentils is that they swell up and last for a long time. The bad thing about lentils is that they seem unending. Overseas I bought some Puy lentils in nifty cardboard packaging, tiny and brown, the caviar of lentils. They tasted of excellent chicken stock and, well, lentils.
Being poor doesn’t bother me. Being depressed is worrying because writing fiction demands a high level of imaginative interaction between invented charcaters and remembers place, and the lack of energy makes it harder.
My housemate has arrived back from church with all the village gossip bubbling out of her.
‘You’re depressed!’ she says accusingly. She can tell instantly, the same way I can detect she has toothache or arthritis or has suffered an angina attack. We know each other so well, beyond illusions.
Lentils with a sympathetic hug sounds a better prospect.