This morning, I got to work early to get some things done before my cadre of meetings. Because that’s what today was.

I wanted to make myself some tea and then looked at my desk where I normally have my obnoxiously huge but perfectly-sized-really mug that I use for tea. It wasn’t there. And yesterday came flooding back to me… pouring out my tea at the end of the day, rinsing my mug, going to the ladies’ room, putting down the mug on the counter, leaving the ladies’ room…. with the notable exception of forgetting the mug.

WIth all the other stress and feeling down that I’ve been doing, this was a kind of last straw. I just wanted a comforting mug of tea. But I was a bloody moron and I left it in the bathroom where the cleaning people probably took it and threw it out. I don’t forget things. This is not me; I just don’t. I don’t lose keys, misplace papers, forget where I put my glasses. So I’ve been beating myself up all day (between meetings) over the sheer stupidity I exhibited in forgetting my mug, which I’ve had for the three years I’ve been at my job.

It’s stupid and ridiculous and you can laugh; I would laugh too if I weren’t on the brink of depression and insanity, but I almost cried when I realized it was my fault it was gone. I called our corporate services desk to see if it had been turned in to the lost & found or something, but it hadn’t. So it’s gone and I’m angry.

I don’t know whether I should go to Target or Home Goods and see if I can find a new obnoxiously large mug for tea, but this one was perfect. It really really was. And I’m genuinely pissed and upset at myself and this is what I do. I beat myself up over stupid stupid shit like misplacing a mug. Because I should know better. I should remember these little things. That’s what makes me, me. Now I feel too tired and angry to leave the house and deal with people.

Also, I’m not improving mentally. I’ve been thinking things like, “I only get up in the morning and go through the motions every day because it’s expected of me.” I take no joy or pleasure in anything. Food is for sustenance. Sleep is to pass the time between days with some unconsciousness because being conscious exhausts and saddens me. Everything else is Distraction, parading around in its sequined suspenders and platform clown shoes, keeping things noisy so that I’m not left alone with my thoughts. I’m more concerned with letting people down and being seen as irresponsible than I am about how sad it is that I don’t care about anything - and that’s what’s driving me. My heart isn’t in anything. I’m tired of this.

My brother called me while I was on my way home from work. He got food poisoning from some bad shrimp and asked me to get him some Gatorade. So I did, brought it to his apartment, and then left because he just wanted to sleep. It hit me: I am a resource. I am useful. I am here to perform my functions as a sister, daughter, friend, co-worker. I’ll drive you to the airport, notarize your papers, buy you Gatorade, do my job, do your job, take your guilt trip, provide support… whatever. I’m highly proficient at being there and doing stuff. I’m not here to enjoy life and that’s kind of good because I’m really not enjoying it lately.

Repair work is being done on my ceiling, so for the last two weeks, everything I own has been sheathed in plastic and inaccessible - including my bed, my computer, my clothes (save what’s in a laundry bag that I tote around with me) and my books. I’ve been hijacking computers from family members, etc., but it’s really beginning to get to me - sleeping in a guest room, living out of laundry bags? It’s a bit disruptive and certainly doesn’t help me cope with my pre-existing stress and being on the verge of a depressive episode.

The physical signs, such as they are, are appearing already: I have been going to bed at 10… far too early. I’ve been waking up at 6:00. Again, far too early. Despite all the sleep I’m getting, I have no energy. I have little appetite. My stomach is constantly in a state of mild upset. I am Little Miss Cranky Pants. I have pain in my shoulders and back (that’s where my stress lives). I’m having moments of logorrhea where my mouth keeps going, despite my brain’s awareness that I should just shut up already (trust me, while this is close to my normal state, it’s not always this bad).

I really just want to return to my regularly scheduled programming.

For depression (as for most mental illnesses and conditions) having a regular routine is highly beneficial. I’ve learned this somewhat recently (over the last 12 months). My routine has been severely disrupted this past month and I am feeling it keenly. I’m trying to create a new one (since the old one is currently fractured beyond repair) but that takes time. And that’s disheartening and frustrating.

Ah, well. It’s 8:05. Time to leave for work.