The depression has me in its grip today. After a week where I didn't get a promotion I put in for, found out my second part-time job is ending, today I broke one of my treasures because I bumped it trying to get the crock pot out where I could use it. I gathered up the pieces and cussed out this miserable cramped tiny apartment where I can't do anything without bumping into clutter or breaking something. My husband, meaning to be comforting, told me "You shouldn't have put that so close to the edge. My depressed brain hears "It's your fault." And the slide into depression begins. Once again I feel like my life is shit, my writing is shit, nothing I've ever done has ever made a difference to anyone, and no matter what I do it's never enough. The Black Flood has drowned my ability to remember anything good - Oh, I know where J.K. Rowling got the idea for the Dementors, all right - and it's a damn good thing there isn't a gun in the house.
I'm sorry my husband has to feel like I'm mad at him, or that he has to do something to make this better. There's nothing to do but wait it out. The flood will recede. I just have to hang on.