A couple years ago I started writing a book on mental illness, my mental illness.
Because I have been somewhat disturbed for as long as I can remember, I started way back.
I’ve taken a few excerpts that reveal states of mind, that I now know as anhedonia. 
It was clearly well developed by the time I was 16 years old.  A number of instances stood out starkly
by virtue of their emptiness in relation to the experiences others were having.  How confusing and unrewarding it must be to be close to me.

       On my 16th birthday Jerry gave me a beautiful diamond engagement ring.  I accepted it.  I liked it but I couldn’t ‘feel’ it, there was no emotion with it.

          He was crying and I could see his pain, but I could only feel a tiny bit of it, just enough to make tears run down my face.  I wanted to give him an explanation.  I looked hard inside myself to find one.  It was almost like staring at a blank wall.  I couldn’t even feel confused, just tired out on the inside-some kind of dull ache.  “Please,” I said, “it’s not about you it’s something wrong with me that I can’t explain.” 

        Other people had feelings, lots of them.  I could see them flash across their faces, they expressed awe, appreciated the beauty around them and talked about their relationships, their connection to other people. Even in the emotionally impoverished environment in which I existed, I could see I was different.  I had anger, fear and pain. 

        I have worked for decades on the anger and fear and pain.  I have overcome much, only to find this nothingness, that this is what I have to look forward to.