My mental health has not been amazing lately. It doesn’t feel right to complain about it, as I very definitely have nothing to complain about. I live in an area with very low COVID-19 case numbers, where we can walk around safely without other people wearing masks, where even our gloomy weather is quite beautiful.

I kept my job; my industry has not suffered immensely (touch wood); I have a roof over my head, a partner who does not subscribe to domestic violence, and friends who check in on me out of the blue. I’m under no illusions here: I am very lucky.

And yet, there are times where words escape me or I stutter and mumble even when I know exactly what I want to say, where even the simplest questions are too hard to answer, where leaving the house is too unfathomable, where everything seems pointless or contaminated even when I know it’s not, and I laugh at jokes I know I’d normally find funny even when I don’t feel the laughter building from within.

It’s irrational and it’s odd. I wonder if it’s neurological or hormonal or nutritional. I wonder if it’s the cold or vitamin D or protein or hayfever or cabin fever or emotional contagion from others. It makes sense to blame workaholism and burnout, but in reality, I don’t know. The anxiety and depression—they’re just there.

Sometimes this just happens; the tidal wave sweeps through me and I have to ride it out.