Today I wandered some botanical gardens, lush in spring, fragrant with roses. On my iPod was Coltrane’s version of “My Favorite Things.” I carried a yummy takeout decaf drink, and a little shopping bag with gifts for loved ones. I do enjoy really buying gifts. The weather was perfect, hot and sunny and summery, and so was my mood. In the shade of a lilac trellis I stopped and just took it all in.

Anyone would be euphoric in this situation, I thought, but then I’d been feeling good all day and not just marvelling at the gardens. There were other little things like wearing a thong with “fabulous” printed at the top paired with ultra low-rise jeans. Hypersexual.

Fabulous, life is so absolutely fabulous it’s better than a TV show. It’s fabulous enough that I can’t figure out how to make it less so without wiping it all out. I don’t know what to do, because I do know what to do and I’m doing it but still impaired and it’s frustrating for all involved.

More pills and treatments, yes, more and more, but never, it seems, enough. What is?