Poor me

So my lovely wife has been gone for some 24 hours now--off visiting lovely friends and family on the east coast of the U.S., and due back next Tuesday, and I seem to be having a rather adverse reaction. Keep finding myself crying. Seems a bit extreme, actually. I'm thinking this latest is just the exacerbation of a bunch of other stuff. that's been going on for a little while now. Even though I'm not a Christian anymore, I still found a tiny bit of comfort in Mr. Spurgeon's "The Minister's Fainting Fits". My thanks to my brilliant father in law David, who introduced this to me. An excerpt:

As to mental maladies, is any man altogether sane? Are we not all a little off the balance? Some minds appear to have a gloomy tinge essential to their very individuality; of them it may be said, "Melancholy marked them for her own;" fine minds withal, and ruled by noblest principles, but yet most prone to forget the silver lining, and to remember only the cloud. Such men may sing with the old poet (Thomas Washbourne.)

"Our hearts are broke, our harps unstringed be,
Our only music's sighs and groans,
Our songs are to the tune of lachrymœ,
We're fretted all to skin and bones."

These infirmities may be no detriment to a man's career of special usefulness; they may even have been imposed upon him by divine wisdom as necessary qualifications for his peculiar course of service. Some plants owe their medicinal qualities to the marsh in which they grow; others to the shades in which alone they flourish. There are precious fruits put forth by the moon as well as by the sun. Boats need ballast
as well as sail; a drag on the carriage-wheel is no hindrance when the road runs
downhill. Pain has, probably, in some cases developed genius; hunting out the soul which otherwise might have slept like a lion in its den. Had it not been for the broken wing, some might have lost themselves in the clouds, some even of those choice doves who now bear the olive-branch in their mouths and show the way to the ark. But where in body and mind there are predisposing causes to lowness of spirit, it is no marvel if in dark moments the heart succumbs to them;

Also helpful in the past have been Ecclesiastes including

So I congratulated the dead who are already dead instead of the living who are still alive. But luckier than the dead or the living is the person who has never even been, who has never seen the bad business that takes place on this earth

and George Macdonald (From Diary of an Old Soul, February 25):

There is a misty twilight of the soul,
A sickly eclipse, low brooding o'er a man,
When the poor brain is as an empty bowl,
And the thought-spirit, weariful and wan,
Turning from that which yet it loves the best,
Sinks moveless, with life-poverty opprest:--
Watch then, O Lord, thy feebly glimmering coal.

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Do have any literature you turn to when you feel this way?