I've lost my optimism. I just want to give up. But I can't. Not yet, at least. I have to keep going, to take care of Dad. It's just such an endless cycle of work without anything achieved, nothing beyond keeping things in a holding pattern at best, knowing the next day the mountain to be climbed will grow just a little bit more. The depression is as bad as it's ever been, there's nothing that brings me more than a fleeting moment of content, not pleasure, just, ah, OK, this is Not Too Bad. As usual with depression, I've lost interest in the things that used to make me feel better, that I used to enjoy. It's just all something to do that isn't as important as all the very many things I have to, need to do.
And that's why I've been quiet. It seems pretty pointless to talk, when everyone else's world is going to hell as well, in ways similar and different. I can't even enjoy petting the cat without thinking of something I should be doing instead, but for what? To stave off the inevitable miserable ending? Real ray of sunshine, aren't I?
In the end, it's the same old story, the story of me: nothing I do will ever be good, be enough, be good enough. It never could, because I do it


























