I am getting wearied of living. The last three years have been hard going. 

My feelings of happiness and optimism are becoming less frequent and of longer duration each time depression hits. 

The challenges of life also penetrate my sleep so I am never rested and do not feel anything other than weak pallor at the dawn of each new day.

I write, not always because I enjoy writing but rather have this as the only way I can escape from the feelings of despair that assail me time and time again.

So often I feel redundant – a person living an inconsequential life that no more counts for anything. The bubble has gone out of my personality and the effervescence generated by exciting and vibrant is flat and tasteless.

I am on an antidepressant medication which does little to overcome the deep foreboding and discomfort about life that sits, always, in my mind. 

I often feel totally fatigued and can drop off to sleep within a minute when on my reclining chair. It is an awful, uncomfortable sleep. I often feel guilty because I am not up and about doing things. 

I am increasingly erratic and sporadic, hate like hell feeling that way but seemingly unable to correct how I have become.  

Where to from here? I just don’t know.