industrielle

Wits end?
Who needs therapy when you've got e-mail? I now present a semi-depressed letter to my boyfriend:

Bugs-
I think I'm crashing.
This episode has been creeping up for about a week, but thus far I've (semi)-successfully been fending it off.

I'm feeling pretty icky right now, like a wayward fish flopping in a puddle of negativity. My yucky pool is just deep enough to get my feet wet, but it feels like someone is stomping in it and splashing the shittiness all over me. Spray by spray I'm becoming saturated in this funk, soon I fear that I'll be drenched. I don't want to get there. I don't feel like having to dry off. I want to strip myself of these depressed and tainted threads, toss them aside and stand clean and unburdened.
Emotional nudity sounds nice.

What are my coping mechanisms? Which one can I employ to help? How can I shed these unflattering layers of jealousy, bitterness and self-doubt? If only someone could just fix it. Come hither mental architect! Build me a platform of happiness! I'll give you a dollar if you can cultivate a refuge of contented fulfillment... Intellectual carpenter, would you build a wall in my psyche to block out those who contribute to my madness?

A way out of these cumbersome bindings would be well appreciated.

I just got a kiss from a kitty.

That helps.

Writing this helps too.

See you tomorrow.
I love you-
Beans



Edited to add: I'm feeling quite well today, the ickies are being held at bay. However, I like the image of a little architect in my brain drawing blueprints for a happy platform, so I'm leaving my letter up.