There is time when everything seems unconnected and without purpose. It is like weather forecast, we can't control our feelings and they are changing all time.
When I've read your post I've got sensation that I've read recently something that has captured same whirlpool of emotions (theme is about writing). As you are damn good person I've decided to retype something in a try to dispel some clouds from your sky. I've found some fractions of your thoughts in this sentences
"Let me explain what I feel on a day when I've not written well, am unable to lose myself in a book. First, the world changes before my eyes; it becomes unbearable, abominable. Those who know me can see it happening, for myself I come to resemble the world I see around me. For example, my daughter can tell I have not written well that day from the abject hopelessness on my face in the evening. I would like to be able to hide this from her, but I cannot. During these dark moments, I feel as if there is no line between life and death. I don't want to speak to anyone - just as well, since no one seeing me in this state has any desire to speak to me either. A mild version of this despair descends on me every afternoon, between one and three, but I have learned how to treat it with reading and writing: If I act promptly, I can spare myself a full retreat into death-in-life.
If I've had to go a long stretch without my paper-and-ink cure, be it due to travel, an unpaid gas bill, military service (as once was case), political affairs (as has been the case more recently), or any number of other obstacles, I can feel misery setting inside me like cement. My body has difficulty moving, my joins get stiff, my head turns to stone, my perspiration even seems to smell differently. This misery is likely to grow, for life is of things that conspire to keep a person from literature. I might be sitting in a crowded political meeting, or chatting with my classmates in a school corridor, or eating a holiday meal with my relatives, struggling to converse with well-meaning person of unlike mind, or occupied whit whatever is on the TV screen; I can be at an important business meeting or making an ordinary purchase, making my way to the notary or having my picture taken for visa-when suddenly my eyelids grow heavy and, though it is the middle of the day, I fall asleep. When I am, far from home, and so unable to return to my room to spend time alone, my only consolation is a nap in the middle of the day...
...If I'm feeling pessimistic, I think only about how bored I am. Either way, a voice inside urges me to go back to the room and sit down at the table.
I have no idea how most people answer such voices, but my manner of response turns people like me into writers. My guess is that it turns us more typically into writers of prose and of fiction than verse. Here, then, is a bit more insight into properties of the medicine I must make sure to take every day. We can see now that its active ingredients are boredom, real life, and the life of the imagination."
Orhan Pamuk - The implied author
Be well Lee, you are doing great help to people and kids around you. Don't be too pushy to yourself, you can't save the world by yourself, it takes time for others to join you on this path!!