Weak

I've spent the last 40 minutes addressing and stamping envelopes to send to the kind people who've agreed to provide references for the Idaho Bar. It's a bad sign that now I want to cry, isn't it? Maybe, maybe not. I've been on the edge of tears almost constantly since I got back from Belize. But I haven't cried. There are plenty of silly, inane reasons, stupid insecurities, petty inconveniences, small frustrations triggering the chemicals that lead to a low-grade depression that makes the back of my throat clench and my eyes ache. I can't indulge because I have company once again. My uncle is back. Installing a new storm door as I type. I want to wail, feel small and hurt and weak and disappointed with myself and my life and my choices so that in the idiocy of my tears, the sheer melodrama of it all, I can get over it. Get my perspective back. But I have to wait until I'm alone. I have a process for dealing with this depression, honed over many many years, and the process requires space, and solitude, and lots of sugar. And for now I only have the last ingredient. Which isn't all bad I suppose.