because some one else has ordered it. So I struggle on. The worst
of nerves is that they are so whimsical; one never knows when to
expect their assaults; the temptation is to think that they attack
one when it is most inconvenient; but this is not quite the case.
They spare one when one expects discomfort; and again when one
feels perfectly secure, they leap upon one from their lair. The one
secret of dealing with the malady is to think of it as a definite
ailment, not to regard the attacks as the vagaries of a healthy
mind, but as the symptoms of an unhealthy one. So much of these
obsessions appears to be purely mental; one finds oneself the prey
of a perfectly causeless depression, which involves everything in
its shadow. As soon as one realises that this is not the result of
the reflections that seem to cause it, but that one is, so to
speak, merely looking at normal conditions through coloured
glasses, it is a great help. But the perennial difficulty is to
know whether one needs repose and inaction, or whether one requires
the stimulus of work and activity. Sometimes an unexpected call on
one's faculties will encourage and gladden one; sometimes it will
leave one unstrung and limp. A definite illness is always with one,
more or less; but in nervous ailments, one has interludes of
perfect and even buoyant health, which delude one into hoping that
the demon has gone out.

It is a very elaborate form of torture anyhow; and I confess that I
find it difficult to discern where its educative effect comes in,
because it makes one shrink from effort, it makes one timid,
indecisive, suspicious. It seems to encourage all the weaknesses
and meannesses of the spirit; and, worst of all, it centres one's
thoughts upon oneself. Perhaps it enlarges one's sympathy for all
secret sufferers; and it makes me grateful for the fact that I have