Here I am. Just slap me back to reality now.

Today felt like it was gonna be one of those godawful, no-good-for-nothing sort of days. You almost get to feeling that it's a bad sign when you've had dreams about overeating the night before (when you actually *could* get to sleep), and when you wake up, you realize that it may be a couple more months before the antidepressants really kick in and do their magic beyond the placebo effect.

And it doesn't help when you start to thinking that perhaps a swift boot to the head could probably be quite beneficial to jump-starting your sluggish brain.

Then, the work day ends, and I find this in the canadianboys group during my after-work Live Journal readings: That's more like it... Yes, I get to drive Kellie insane with my falling ass over teakettle for Steve and his rather well-fitting 501's. (so sue me for looking ... I swear, it's just the girlfag in me coming out to play.)


Getting home from work, unfortunately, was another story altogether. Riding the bus, you get to encounter the more "colourful" elements of your own fair city. Sometimes, it's just Crazy Mary prattling on to herself, having it out with the voices in her head. Or the pervert du jour who seems to be stunted in many ways - especially since he's decided to start whacking off on a fucking bus ... surveillance cameras and all. Today, it was some guy that seemed to have gone off his meds a loooong time ago: In between his regaling the tale of his sad-sack life to anyone that would listen (or at least seem to give the illusion of listening), he'd go on and on about God - then onto more of his sad-sack life story. I felt sorry for the bus driver, who probably got to listen to him prattling on, then saying "I'm talking too much, I'll shut up.", only to start yammering again, until the end of the line. (Almost an hour-long ride, with all the stops)


So, yeah, I was glad to get home. Strip to my skivvies, sprawl out on the bed reading smut out loud to myself ... and work on getting the stupid grin off my face over the lovely photo of Mr. Steve.

Don't tell me to not worry!

That's a pet peeve for me, when people tell me to not worry over something. For the record, that just makes me more anxious. And right now, that's the last thing I need.

I almost wonder if it's in my nature to worry over everything. Perhaps related to the whole "firstborn" thing, and that need to make sure that everyone and everyting is taken care of, that nothing's out of place.

Or, it's just my dysfunctional thinking, courtesy of the depression that seems to want to keep a stronghold on my mind, refusing to let go, no matter what I try.

It's the mindset I got myself all screwed up into - that whole idea of presenting a happy face, keeping up appearances, etc. Not letting people see you sweat or suffer. The mentality that only serves as self-sabotage in the end, when it all comes down. I'm not going to lay blame on anyone - it's entirely possible that this is all my own doing. My own damn fault.


I've gotten myself into this mess, I can get myself out. As long as I can reach out to another and ask for help. That's the hardest part.