Mental health tenuous. This project noxious and making me ill. Can't go on but can't entirely conmit to being free of it. Lay in bed.
Long conversation with dad about my griefs: not being as good as I thought I was, being conceited, being delusionally convinced of my unique superiority, entitlement, indolence, snobbery, laziness, divorcement from reality, need for a helpmeet. Feel like I'm travelling a path that try as I will I cannot deviate from. Feel like a monolith of faulty programming, unfit for purpose, no longer supportable.
Counselling recommended. I boastfully feel like I would be too subtle and wiley for it to work. Exhausting constantly thinking, brain constantly chattering away, a useless reasoning layer on top of feelings, which seem to decide everything independently of worded arguments. Waking thoughts this morning, 'oh great, I'm me': tired of being trapped in my own diminishing thought spirals, constantly unproductively harrowing over the same barren ground.
And so the poet's vanity was flattered by this woman as it had been by his mother, his sister and David. All those about him persisted in lifting him higher than ever on his imaginary pedestal. Everything, the adulation of his friends and the fury of his enemies, fanned the flame of his delusions and ambition; the atmosphere he moved in was bright with mirages. The imagination of young people is so inclined to eulogize, to foster such notions, and circumstances seem so eager to serve a handsome young man with a future before him, that more than one bitter and chilling lesson is needed to dissipate such illusions.
Honoré de Balzac, Lost Illusions
Almost all the trees have their new coats of bright green leaves now. The cow parsely is out on the verges.
Partly it is the shock of coming from Paris to rural seclusion that has cast me yet again into turmoil.
