It was one year ago today that I went to the hospital for "routine hip replacement surgery." Thus began the worst year of my life. (And yes, that includes the year I was diagnosed with cancer and even — though this is a harder call — any particular twelve months of my surreal character assassination.)
I'm not ready by any means to sit down and assess this past year. But I want to mark it and try to make the anniversary into a mental milestone. I'm surprised and mystified by the fact, but the tides that rule my mood seem to have begun to turn in these past few weeks, even as the world seems ever more determined to burn itself down. My working thesis at the moment being — well, honestly, my working thesis is that no-one has a good grasp of how neurology, neurochemistry, and pharmacology on the one hand — and politics, economics, and the madding crowd on the other — interact to affect the world inside one's head. But that doesn't mean I can't have another working thesis, which right now is that when my brain is pulling my mood down, seeing the world around me rushing headlong towards doom seems to amplify the awful. And when my brain decides it's time to crawl away from the pit of despair, external events, however depressing in the everyday sense of the word, seem orthogonal to my mood.
And I'm going to stop reflecting aloud now, because I want to post this while it's still December 3.