I spend a lot of time trying not to give in to despair. The creature some have called The Black Dog dogs me. I vaccillate between self-aggrandizement and self-loathing; I don't seem to have a "medium" setting: I'm a fucking goddess or I'm filth. I'm a genius or I'm decaying and deluded. When I'm sane, I recognize that I'm a normal, middling human creature with normal, middling ills and fortunes. This middlingness irks me; I want to be special. I despise my vainglory in wanting it. I'm also convinced I'll die prematurely of some stupid, self-inflicted, patently avoidable ill, and that nothing I do can possibly matter or last.
This black dog of mine frightens small children and strong men. Except my fella, bless him, who just rolls his eyes and reminds me that tomorrow I'll believe I'm a goddess.
So I will. MaƱana, then!