Depression

Friday, November 28th., Cadogan Square, London.

I am now in a state of much desperation. Perhaps I oughtn't to have finished "Dance Club". Still it is finished. Anyhow the reaction after writing it has been too much for me. Two bad nights; last night awful; depression, indigestion; the usual phenomena after a 'work'. But "Prohack" tortures me all the time. I worked hard at it yesterday and nearly all that I did was no good. I hoped for better today; and lo! in the night from 2.50 onwards I watch the hours go by; get up, smoke, drink, do exercises at intervals. No sleep; and I watch also the hope of a day's work gradually destroyed. Looks as if I will not be able to work today, and every day is precious. I feel harried to death in a triangle of which the sides are fulfilling my engagement to Knoblock, fulfilling my engagement to Dorothy, and my financial worry. I can't see a way forward but know that a good night's sleep would work wonders.

Every hour of the day-time is precious, or seems so, and I have cut out all social things from all afternoons. People who must see me have to come to lunch and leave at 2 pm. I feel sometimes just as if I should go off my head and I remember that at exactly my present age my father's brain gave way. I know that I am getting near the end of my mental and physical resources. I have had a terrible autumn and I daresay that I am perhaps not quite so much of a stoic as I think myself, or am thought to be.