I started reading books again after six months spent in bed. I had bought some Henning Mankell, translated into English. I devoured them, he bought me more, all used books from thrift stores. I read everything he’d written besides the children’s books. It woke me up from my lethargy. For a while. I was still sick with depression and the pills just kept piling up. But I had started to read again. I was so sad when Henning Mankell died. I felt just like Kurt Wallander, and like him, I was afraid to lose my mind. That’s why I write everything down. Before that happens. While I still can while I get up at 5am. Thanks to the ducklings, thanks to the lambs. Thanks to life. I’m no longer depressed. I just have my OCD now. Life is more bearable this way. It’s so beautiful it hurts, but it’s also only a slow way to death.
It’s a paradox.