C you have hit the trough in the middle of a big job - the Slough of Despond.
Feeling like this is inevitable, it's the same as having workmen in, feeding them senseless with tea and doughnuts for weeks, then freaking out and screaming Get out of my house when eager smiling faces appear one Monday morning mid-makeover.
Look how far Newboy has come already. Sleeping in fave place, talking, eating (yep), sitting in room with you. Eyeing you up.
Given what a bad state he was in when he rolled up, I'm remarkably impressed. Don't get me wrong - this is not going to be a fast job, but all the signs of hope are there, and manifesting themselves daily.
It must be awful not having him in the bed. I get the arse if Mr C won't come on and bawl pitifully until he hops up.
Have you ever had a traumatised cat before?