About 8 p.m., I managed to bust out of the quicksand sucking me down. Now I feel good. I got stuff done: some housework, cooked a nice supper. But I'm afraid I'll lose the ground I've gained - just by going to sleep later. I dread that I'm apt to wake up right back down in the muck, and it'll take me all day, tomorrow, to break free of that again.

Maybe I should drink some wine to enjoy this while it lasts.

I guess I could be what they call cyclothymic. I go up and down in the elevator. I wish I could stop it. I've had all the professional care there is. Now I wish there were a doctor who could just recognize how miserable this is . . . even if medicine can't do anything more for me. Just for someone to understand. I wish my boyfriend would stop just blaming me for this. He could give me a hand to help pull me up . . . but he doesn't. Just says he has no idea what depression is.