Sunday

As I struggle to move from my bed I am struck again by how physical and palpably real my moods are. The part of myself called "I" is only a small part, and "I" can think positively and practice mindfulness and do nice things for myself all I want, the rest of my brain and my body won't go along with the plan.

I ache all over and I feel completely exhausted. I still can't concentrate on anything. My vision is distorted and in addition to the voice giving me strict and fierce instructions one of the wormy ones keeps piping up, undermining my sense of reality and self. I am suffering washes of shame over being unwell, and an occasional sense of hopelessness about the future, though I'm trying to ward those feelings off.