The brain is a dark country. I travel there alone, lurching over its high roads and through its scourging vales. I believe that what happens to us is only a small part of our moods. The rest is a geology set down when we were in the womb, shaped by the fidgetings of life.
At times, I don’t like my own mind. I tell my therapist that this came from this and that caused this other thing. I despair because blame for my condition does not incite cure.