Funkity funk funk.
I’m in a funk: I’m not replying to emails or returning calls. Having a 1-year-old and a 3-year-old makes it hard to isolate myself in my dark cave of despair all alone, but I manage well. After all, depression is pretty good skill of mine. I have practiced it to perfection.
Crap. I don’t even have the energy to type this entry. That sort of worries me. I mean, I’m so angry all the time, so full of venom for myself and everyone around me. Fortunately, the anger is manageable; it gives me something with which to work. But that psychomotor retardation sets in and that enormous weight of depression that compresses my entire body. Ugh. That’s beyond my ability to manage. It’s so hard to breathe…or think…or type.
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