at the cabin, a cold, grey thursday.

The first hint of a normal state of mind since Saturday. After evening tea, close to ten, my anger and disappointment ease for a moment.

Just as my anger and anxiety recede, I feel the need to fart. People fart the evil out of themselves.

My difficulty is with close relationships. I can’t handle them. What is it that’s ruined me?

I’ve been in a strange state of mind all winter, in truth, since last summer. Only now, in this moment of clarity, do I see it. Am I losing my mind? What is this melancholy, this absence of joy? I’m overcome with the urge to isolate myself. I’ve cut all ties for the summer. The freedom I’ve longed for is slowly taking hold. It’s a draining transformation.

Cold air streams between the north and north-west. The oil heater ticks. It’s night. I imagine a dog breathing in the next bed.

friday. about 16.30.

The sun is like a party you unexpectedly stumble into, and, to your surprise, enjoy, despite the depression.

It seems to be getting warmer, contrary to the forecast. It’s been beautiful. I’ve been lounging on the rock in the yard and reading; then I went looking for false morel mushrooms on a whim, without a basket of course, that’s the magic. I found eighteen: it could be my best harvest here. I gathered them into my red scarf. A bonus: a bouquet of birch branches to place in the butter churn. I wonder why the junipers have died. The ones in the field are all dead. And the ones bordering the woods are turning brown.

9am. pentecost. saturday.

Today I’ve said all of two sentences. The first in the late morning: ‘Why play that song of all things?’ after an announcement on the radio that the next piece would be ‘The Last Flowers of Autumn’. I said the second one a moment ago. It went: ‘A salami sandwich!’ I’ve just made one for myself, and now I’m going to eat it while I read.

The air is cold as a refrigerator. I get to have my beer cold. What a luxury.

I feel no joy, not even the desire to live – yet my optimism shows faint signs of returning.

I can’t be bothered to feel apprehensive about potential visitors these days. I don’t bother to put the key in the door before midday – if someone assumes I’m not at home, then so be it. I’ve decided I’m not even going to try to smile if someone visits. I’ll replace my welcoming smile with a look of surprise. It requires less effort and wouldn’t offend. How worked up I’ve made myself anticipating guests in summers past! Always with the thought ‘in case someone shows up’ at the back of my mind.

I’ve had the strong urge to isolate myself even before this, most recently last winter, when I was at my parents’ cabin in the countryside until the bitter cold drove me away. That phase ended with a trip abroad, giving talks, being in the public eye, and after that I was happy to come home and appreciated the children being close by. A pleasant period that led to this severe spring neurosis, to this pain and depression as the leaves were budding. It’s only eased now that I’m here. I mean that literally: it has simply stopped. I feel no joy or euphoria. Only a loose and sour stillness, the consistency of viili yoghurt. A joyless curdling. And a renewed need to be alone. I’m tired of interviews and literary events, the endless questions and appearances. Wish I could hide in a bush. Disappear from the world entirely. Stop smiling. Escape being recognised. To be a plant, unnoticed but intensely alive. With my roots in the soil and my crown in the sun. I want to get my brain working again. Rid myself of my pain and find peace. Return to a normal state of mind. Without any demands. To the life force that is nature. And God willing: to write again. Productively.

If only I didn’t need to go to the library, give a friendly hello and present as a writer enjoying their summer. But I must. I’ve almost finished reading the three books I borrowed, and I’m craving more. That’s the only sign of life in me right now.

I dread being around people. Only love could save me from this feeling. But I have no love in me right now.

I don’t even feel the desire to call my children, to make contact in any way. Not with them nor with anyone else. Perhaps a little with my parents.

I’m turning into a plant. I think I’ll go unnoticed in the woods from now on.

sunday, beautiful and cold.

I slept a little restlessly. I dreamed about Ilkka and military exercises.

For the first time since last Saturday I find myself able to think of him more favourably. I let myself wonder what it would feel like to invite them here, what it would feel like if they came? Would Ilkka upset me again? Or would it be better if I didn’t get involved for a month while he studies for his resit exam alongside his work on the farm? Or would he feel rejected, without a home or family?

The last thought horrifies me, and rouses my maternal sense of self-sacrifice and forgiveness.

I turn it over in my mind.

I spent the morning sleeping and reading. Only drank one cup of coffee, then a cup of tea; I made my bed and combed my hair – my accomplishments for the day. But what is it that’s bothering me? That just now I noticed how the skin on my face sags when I looked in the mirror? I can no longer deny it: I have the wrinkled face of an old woman. It’s only in the right lighting, when I’m carefully made up – ‘dressed’ as Mother would say – that I still look like someone.

Children are powerful events in a person’s life, natural disasters like weather, the seasons – landslides, floods, or earthquakes. Beyond anyone’s will. Something that happened to me without anyone asking my opinion.

Depression latched onto me like a fish hook. If you try to pull it out, it tightens its grip, embeds itself deeper.