Yesterday was a day of two halves. As so often happens. While the daytime was clouded by the fall out from insomnia, and related anxious misery, the early evening was taken up with seeing my old friend, "Miss Prosecco" [not her real name, but I nickname her that, for reasons that I will not divulge, but they may include Prosecco]. Sadly Miss Prosecco lives some way away now, in a whole different county, so we only see one another on select occasions, often around the time of school holidays [she is, unlike myself, a mother]. Such sparse meetings are certainly better than nothing -- and always worth looking forward to. Anyway, last night we had an excellent early supper at a local golf club... and as we then felt that we were having a little too much of a "classy" time, we mixed it up by going elsewhere for a quick session on the slotties. [Of course, my gambling addiction kicked in, and I ended up losing a whole British pound on the 2p Falls... such is my weakness in the face of demanding mistresses...] The journey between these places and Chez Buffy was lightened throughout by sing-a-longs to the car radio, which is not really my natural oeuvre, but I was inspired [not least by the wine; I was the evening's Designated Drinker] and it was to Miss P.'s credit that she feigned icy indifference when I tried to serenade her [briefly] by singing along to "Tonight I Celebrate My Love For You"... she only broke out into a smile by the very end. All in all, a most intoxicating evening... even though I was led astray. Once again. There was, however, one failure... which was my own. In the wake of trying to live a more upfront version of my life in 2O17 -- a more fearless facing of the dark storms of anxiety and depression that sometimes encircle me -- I told myself that I would tell Miss Prosecco all about my struggles; the length and breadth and the depth of them. Thus far she only knows that I've had "low moods". But I didn't: I chickened out. Again. Last night the chickening out wasn't a big deal [adrenaline, wine, etc] and it's not as if we didn't have lots to talk about [like me, she can talk for Britain about just about anything... though she's more interesting than I] but the more I reflect on it, the more it bothers me. But it shouldn't bother me that much. Should it? I've known Miss P. for over 12 years; she's my good friend and as such I love her very much. She is warm-hearted and very accepting. But I'm terrified of admitting my darkness. Why? Maybe it's because I don't want her to worry, or maybe it's because she has a young(ish) child with demands on her time -- and I don't want her to feel that she's obliged to talk to me if I'm a bad way and want to be in touch. It's a tough one. I'm reminded of a song from a musical that my late aunt used to love: "Tell Me On A Sunday" [written about the end of a relationship, but that's not important right now; the sentiment endures] -- ultimately when we have to talk to someone about something important, a Sunday walk in a park is a lot better conditions than a slightly boozy night of adventure! Perhaps I'm making too much of this... but some years ago when I told my lovely friend, the Angel, about the extent of my depression, she took it very badly and cried a lot. In the end, we were closer because of it... but it took time. I suppose I don't want my 'stuff' to weight anyone else down. It's my responsibility, my concern -- no one else's. [Hmm, that makes me feel a little selfish, even...!] Also, I suppose that just because something happens to be true, and important to us, it doesn't mean that we have to tell it to everyone we care about, does it? So that little "confession" is indeed back on the back burner. For the time being. But do I feel a certain gap between me and Miss P... plus I wish I didn't feel like a bit of a fake, right now.