Cracking open the inner world, writing even a couple of
pages in my diary, threw me back into depression, not
made easier by the weather, two gloomy days of rain.
I was attacked by a storm of tears, those tears
that appear to be related to frustration, to buried anger,
and come upon me without warning. I woke yesterday so
depressed that I did not get up till after eight.
I feel inadequate. I have made an open place, a
place for meditation. What if I cannot find myself inside?
I think these pages are a way of doing that.
Paraphrases from the memoir Journal of a Solitude by May Sarton.