I am a sick man

The Jessie Coulson translation of Dostoyevsky's Notes from Underground begins very memorably with the words, "I am a sick man. ... I am an angry man. I am an unattractive man. I think there is something wrong with my liver." This sort of listing of one's own personal physical or psychological faults, of which the narrator of the novel is so fond, is something that has become a habit of mine down the years, encouraged by the relative isolation in which I live. While my life takes place above ground with a wonderful wife and a dozen crazy cats for company and I get plenty of sunshine and exercise, the geographically isolated location of our home for the past 20 years in the narrow valley where she was born and raised, and our decisions to work from home and to abstain from car ownership, have conspired to keep my social interactions to a level rather lower than I feel comfortable with, and this in turn has led me into the kind of introspection that tempts me to compare myself with the nameless recluse described by Dostoyevsky. Hence the title of this blog. For the past two years I have been in emotional turmoil, a dance of anxiety and depression that culminated in nervous exhaustion, and after hitting rock bottom and fortunately remaining fairly functional in November 2011, I've been slowly recovering. Now that I'm clear-headed and energetic enough to write again, his blog is intended as a therapeutic exercise and a part of the rehabilitation process. However, I am a sick man and perhaps an angry one too, if the theory that depression is anger turned inwards has some truth in it. Unattractive is in the eye of the beholder, but I'm cool with my face and figure. And as for my liver, my GP assures me it's fine, especially as I've given up alcohol and shed 12kg in flab over the past two years.