Sometime within the past month one of my favourite bloggers wrote about being perceived as lazy. And they mentioned anhedonia in the blog post. I read and empathised with the blog post. I wanted to address anhedonia over the past week or so, but I hadn’t realised how much it was impacting me. Until this weekend.

Four things happened that made me realise it was time to seek help.

1. I had panic attacks and heart palpitations for six mornings in a row, five of which scared the hell out of me and I ended up taking time off work.
2. I was send a prompt for a piece of writing to do. It was a subject I have wanted to write about for six months. I felt nothing. I had writers’ block. I couldn’t focus. I ended up writing less than two hundred words and I hated the finished piece.
3. I was sent a lace body from my favourite company. Like a leotard kinda thing. If you know me, you know I love wearing these but I sat emptily looking at the body. The thrill of free clothes was gone.
4. I went into town as I thought it was a good way to tackle my agoraphobia. I spent £8 in a department store and I got some serious bargains; a ban.dō notebook, a pack of three Mara-Mi exercise books, three greeting cards for upcoming events and Penguin socks. I opened the notebook, put on a pair of socks then cried. I don’t know why.

The week was a vicious cycle. I applied to do a Creative Writing MA last week. I realise I haven’t felt the post-application buzz yet. I am also being interviewed by a practice-based researcher for an administrative job next week. But, meh. It all feels like no big deal.

The enthusiasm with which I tackled everything has depleted. And I feel embarrassed and ashamed about this. I feel like I’ve let down everyone including myself.

But I’m blogging and I’m visiting my GP often, which in itself is hard to do. So there’s some good.