This excellent word “humdudgeon” came to me from this book, part of which is a daily diary of a mid-20th century newspaper editor.
One entry read, in part:
Suffered an acute attack of the humdudgeon today; the symptoms of this illness are a sense of failure, self-contempt and mental fatigue; there is no cure for it; application to the bottle merely brings on a crying-jag; a walk in the park suggests thoughts of suicide; while the fit lasts, all seems dross; sufferers from the humdudgeon should be left alone, though if they can be persuaded to lie down with a pillow under the knees, it helps . . .
One of the worst spells I’ve had in a while and I might have an explanation for it. Since we joined NetFlix we have been catching up on our movie watching, and last night’s feature was Shakespeare in Love. It was good, though it’s ending is no happier than the play it features. But what I think started dragging me down was watching the play being written and the players groping their way through it, as a completely different play than any they had experienced. It was the passion of creation, of doing something original or new, if for no one but yourself. (Shakespeare’s plays and the self-aware characters he created are considered the foundation of modern literature and that seemed to a big part of the movie’s plotline.
It struck me as I was out riding this afternoon that I am leading a completely colorless, drab existence, as a meaningless cog in a machine whose functions are opaque and meaningless to me. I was more satisfied when I was between opportunities for that oh so long stretch than I am now.
Once I worked that out (aided by some exercise), the spell passed . . .
The challenge now is to keep it away: the Black Dog of Depression, another occasional visitor, is nothing compared with this, as depression is dull while the other has an ache to it.