I’ve always read broadly, and usually have multiple books on the go. I can compartmentalise the different works in my mind, though sometimes blending occurs in magical ways, especially when I am creatively fertile: a sentence in a short story meshes with the theme of an essay and combines with a personal event and suddenly I find a new way to tackle a project or problem. It’s as though the different texts line up, stone by stone, to form a new pathway. Reading has always renewed within me a sense of possibility, and that sense of possibility (for story, for articulation, for form, for art) results in enthusiasm, and, for me, enthusiasm is essential for wellbeing.

I lost it for a while, recently. Another part of me took over, a part that couldn’t make those connections, couldn’t really envision those pathways. Every now and then, a lamp flickered and I caught sight of a few stones. For the most part though, I lost my capacity. It was an effort to believe, to be enthused, to plan. I felt alien to myself. I’ve had symptoms of both anxiety and depression since adolescence, but they have been relatively mild in comparison to what I have seen others go through. And yet, they have shaped my life—manifesting in different ways, and through different behaviours. This time I really sank into it.