Not really, no.
Have I said before how surreal it all is?
I don't like using that word, it's a cop-out, lazy, word but can't think of any other way of describing it. Never before has something been so potentially near, but equally as potentially disappointing, and increasingly likely disappointing as the days go on, in terms of progress in writing career. Never before have I had to deal with psychiatric illness at such close quarters, in such beautiful surroundings with such a lovely, gorgeous teenage helpmate at my side. I am not sure any more if I'm helping to cure or helping to prolong it all. If I wasn't here what'd happen? The professionals have been called in again and again all that's in hand but nothing much is being DONE. This has now been topped up by weird behaviours from my closest relative, who suffers from schizophrenia and is now calling me daily and texting nonsenses. Last night I retreated into the bathroom on my own wondering what the hell I do and that old chestnut, what have I done to deserve these double-whammy hits over the head with mental illness?