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If By Yes

Monthly Archives: July 2009

Damn you, West Coast, and Your Excessive Lettuce, Too

30 Thursday Jul 2009

Posted by IfByYes in East, West, Home is Best, Perfect Husband, Well, That's Just Stupid

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

birthday, carbs wonderful carbs, food, Halifax, Perfect Husband, Vancouver

Perfect Husband’s birthday was last week. After weeks and weeks of me trying to convince him that he should get to pick his own birthday activities on his birthday, rather than just sit around the house like we always do, he finally chose to go to a BC Lions (that’s football, apparently) game and then walk across the street to try the Atlantic Trap and Grill. As he pointed out to me, I got to go home (ever so briefly) but he hasn’t been home since we got married. On his birthday, he deserves a Halifax Donair. If you look up Halifax donairs on Google (and I suggest you do so if you like schadenfreude, since the wingeing of ex-pat Maritimers is pathetic to witness), this place in Vancouver apparently serves decent Halifax fare.

We both suffered through the game (which was a loss so blatant and humiliating that the stands basically emptied themselves long before the end of the last quarter) and then we walked over to the Atlantic Trap and Grill. It had just moved locations to directly across from the football place thingy. It also had a sign outside that said “Enjoy Our New Menu.” That should have been a warning to us. But we were put off our guard. Drunkards were wrestling each other outside, and there was an Alexander Keith’s sandwich board outside. So far, so good. So we walk in, and there’s a big mat on the floor saying “Welcome to the East Coast.” It was loud, and had wooden barrels and lots of drunkards. Seemed authentic enough.

It was crowded and loud. We didn’t care. We perched ourselves on stools in the corner, like naughty children, near an advertisement for Kokanee, the BC beer that no one outside of British Columbia will even consider drinking. That should have been another hint. When we ordered garlic fingers and donairs from the server (wearing a football jersey which read “Russel Beers”) our blatantly Haligonian order made him pause awkwardly.

“Uh… just so you know… the donairs don’t come in pitas. They… they come in tortilla wraps” he said. We blinked owlishly at him for a moment.
“Ooh… kay…” We weren’t sure how to respond to that. Imagine if you ordered a burger, and were told “okay, but just so you know, they come in crepes.”

I wondered how many angry Genuine Maritimers had explained the pita vs wrap thing to our server. Clearly enough that he felt he had to warn us. We should have taken the hint, and left. When the garlic fingers arrived, we looked at them in confusion. They were served (get this, Maritimers) in a basket. That’s right. Like garlic bread. Not on a platter or pan, the way pizza should be served. And yes, it did appear to be cooked on pizza dough, but when we picked them up, they drooped impotently in our hands, and radiated that certain warm moistness that pizza gets when you warm it over in the microwave. They weren’t even garlicky.

The “authentic” Halifax donair sauce with which we were served was thick, and when you dipped your finger in it and lifted the finger towards your mouth, it left a trailing drip leading back down to the cup, much the way honey does. Oh, and by the way, it tasted like honey. Donair sauce is not supposed to taste like honey, since there is no honey in the ingredients.

“What the FUCK?” was my husband’s appraisal, “there’s LETTUCE under the garlic fingers.”

But maybe the donair… wraps… would be better. I had abandoned all hope, but my husband, clinging to the last moments of his birthday, clung to optimism.

Soon, more baskets arrived. In each, was a snug, red little tortilla wrap, bristling with healthful-looking lettuce and tomato. A hint of red onion peeped out from the leafy fronds charmingly.

“What the FUCK??” said Perfect Husband, “There’s FRIES. Everyone knows that the only appropriate side order to a donair is MORE DONAIRS.
… and WHY IS IT RED??”

We began eating glumly. Not only could you pick these up and take dainty bites out of them, but your fingers stayed relatively clean. This is wrong. A Halifax donair only has the pita bread to help absorb the worst of the sauce and grease. You eat them with knife and fork. After a few mouthfuls of crunching though salad vegetables, a hint of meat appeared within the red tortilla. Further in, the cloying honey taste of their “donair sauce” was also detectable. It was bizarre. It was like going to a movie “inspired by” your favourite book. You recognize bits of it, but this is not the same thing.

Seriously, how hard is it to make a decent Halifax donair? Crappy, dirty, two-bit corner places serve them all over frigging Nova Scotia. You can’t tell me that the Maritime cuisine is impossible to duplicate. I feel like calling up King of Donair and tattling on these people and their false advertising. Presumably KOD would come flying down to Vancouver to start a good ole’ Halifax knife fight with the restaurant owner, for daring to call this… this… healthy travesty a “Halifax donair”.

What gets me is that if a Vancouverite moved East, and went to a sushi restaurant, and ordered a BC Roll, and was served a salmon-head (eyes still staring) covered in rice and roe, with a seaweed salad served on the side, they’d be pretty annoyed. But it seems to be perfectly ok in Vancouver to take a delicious East Coast dish, then cover it with LETTUCE and healthy red tortilla.

Welcome to the East Coast, my ass. I feel the way that Chinese people must feel when they walk into a “Chinese” restaurant and see people eating Chicken Balls and Fortune Cookies.

You know your country is big when you miss the culture from your side of the continent.

I’ve got the No Can Has Blues

28 Tuesday Jul 2009

Posted by IfByYes in Belly Battles, Me vs The Sad, Perfect Husband

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

babies, bosses, carbs wonderful carbs, coworkers, depression, doctor, life, parents, Perfect Husband, tears, weight problems, whining

I’ve been trying to get to the bottom of these blues. There didn’t seem to be any logical catalyst for them. After all, I have a Perfect Husband, a Dream Job, a Beloved Dog and an Inexplicably Loved Cat. I am about to move into a new house, which I get to redecorate thanks to the Generous Father Grant (Perfect Husband talked him down to half of the original offered amount, so we have pride AND money!) and I live in a city which is overflowing with beautiful views. I can’t wait to have a baby and my husband has promised that we can start trying as soon as I cheer up a bit.

So why do I find making it through the day so very nearly unbearable?

I think I’ve got it figured out.

Allow me to post a small timeline.

Fall 2008 – I am generally happy, and plan to have a baby some time in the next year. I reason that I should be going up a level in my apprenticeship in February, leading to increased pay, benefits (which all full time employees at my work are entitled to, except lowly level one apprentices who apparently don’t count), and general rainbows and sunshine. I picture myself showing up in Nova Scotia for my friend’s wedding with a belly just starting to swell with something other than poutine and garlic bread.

Christmas 2008 – when my boss is annoyed with my coworker, he decides to drastically change the requirements to move upwards in our apprenticeship, now making a promotion even within the next year uncertain, let alone in February. The Big Big Boss disapproves of this step, and countermands the order. My boss chooses to ignore the countermand, and neither I nor my coworker have any chance of moving upwards in our apprenticeship.

January 2009 – Since the Powers That Be cannot agree on whether or not the new requirements are above and beyond the call of ridiculousness, any potential for moving upwards in my apprenticeship is permanently stalled. Despite being told that the new requirements definitely do not apply, neither do the old ones seem to, either. I begin to accept the fact that I may be an apprentice until I am old and grey.

Promotion? NO CAN HAS.

At the end of the month, I turn 27, and my coworker gives birth to her second son. I hold the baby in my arms on my birthday and something in my heart squeezes so hard that I walk around in sorrowful despair for the rest of the day.

April 2009 – I decide that since there’s no point waiting around for a promotion that will never come. I have now passed the point where I could be adorably expecting in time for my visit home, and my stress over the last few months has led me to eat like a heifer. I am the heaviest weight I have ever been. I decide to seriously cut all carbs out of my diet, planning to be thin in time for my friend’s wedding. I reason that since I’m going to gain 20 pounds during pregnancy anyway, I might as well lose it first, so i don’t end up 20 pounds heavier than THIS. My reward for eschewing all carbohydrates? A baby.

May 2009 – 12 pounds lighter, I am pleased with my progress. My work situation still depresses me, but I look forward to buying a house, and having a baby. Perfect Husband and I even pick up a copy of What To Expect from Value Village (hey, it was three dollars) and I read it cover to cover. It moves into the bathroom, from which Perfect Husband emerges periodically saying things like “Oh my gawd, I feel so sorry for you”. I spend a lot of time looking for in-the-womb photos of fetuses in development, and researching things like pre-natal stimulation and watching YouTube videos of nine month old babies who can recognise short words. I study baby sign and teach myself how to fold a cloth diaper (thank you, YouTube).

Then my coworker moves, and feeds me pizza and un-diet coke. Given a new rush of sugar of which it had been deprived for over a month, my addictions return in full rage. I spend the next couple of weeks trying to avoid carbs, but then succumbing and stuffing my face anyway. I begin to gain the weight back. I am frustrated with myself, and my body. I loathe it, and I loathe myself for being unable to resist the desire to eat. I am no closer to having my baby, and I begin to accept the fact that it might be baby… or body. But if I wait for body, I might never have a baby.

Thin body? NO CAN HAS.

June 2009 – My husband and I celebrate our wedding anniversary, and begin to neglect condoms. This is followed very shortly after by The Great House Breakdown. Perfect Husband realizes how much the hopelessness of work and unsuccessful dieting is weighing on me. He is used to my having bouts of depression, usually in winter, but this is worse than usual. Unfortunately, he’s read that damn What To Expect and has seen what effects depression can have on the fetus. He requires me to get fixed up with a doctor before we start trying for a baby.

Baby? NO CAN HAS.

Okay, I think. After all, his reasoning is sound. I know he’s right, because he’s always right, damn his hide, which is all part of his perfection. I’ll get help. I’ll be happy and THEN have a baby. It sounds good. Until I promised my husband to get help, I didn’t fully realize how much my misery had been weighing me down. It was like a birth defect or something – something which hinders me occasionally, but which I’ve always managed to work around and which I’ve stopped really thinking about. But soon I’ll be free – getting help! Maybe taking a pill which might restore my lost energy, lost libido, lost ability to sleep soundly, and which may remove my intense carbohydrate cravings, thus also reducing my weight. I could be thin, and sexy, and pregnant, all at once! Sure, I’d still be underpaid and unappreciated in my job, but what of that?

July 2009 – I go home to Nova Scotia, spend far too little time with my family and friends, whom I realize I have missed terribly. My friends out West are still getting to know me, and faced with the new, gloomy, quiet and hermit-like Carol, they have backed off. When I lose control and cry at work, they don’t know how to help. They argue against me, instead of commiserating. They try and cheer me up by telling me that it’s not so bad, that I’m overreacting, when really what I need is support and validation. My loved ones are too far away to be there when I need them. I live more and more on the internet, because it is my fastest portal to the people who have known me for over a decade. The trip flies by far too quickly. My hopes rise and fall with the Late Period Panic. And then… the infamous doctor re-visiting.

Help for your depression? NO CAN HAS.

Now, I understand that one can’t just plunge into a spoiled funk when things don’t go one’s way. The depression isn’t because of these things, but simply fed by them, like a monster under the bed who eats your singleton socks. I feel powerless. I feel invalidated. I feel denied. And the more I mourn the baby that never was, the further I take myself from finally holding the baby that someday will be. The more I withdraw from the life that seems too much, the further I push my tentative new friends. It seems like the most useless, hopeless cycle.

On the Ethics of Baby Making…

26 Sunday Jul 2009

Posted by IfByYes in How is Babby Formed?, Me vs The Sad

≈ 9 Comments

Tags

babies, depression, pregnancy

Everyone knows (ok, that’s vastly inaccurate, but just let me believe it) that it’s wrong to have bring a child into the world because of personal problems. You shouldn’t have a baby to fix your relationship, to get unconditional love from someone, or any other selfish reason. You know this, and I know this.

BUT.

If you think that a large part of the reason that you are currently depressed is because you want a baby so badly… then is it wrong to have a baby in order to try and cure the depression??

The Circle of Sad

23 Thursday Jul 2009

Posted by IfByYes in Me vs The Sad

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

bosses, coworkers, depression, friends, hypocrisy, work

I feel sad, and lonely, and socially outcast. I just found out yesterday through a client that one of my coworkers has separated from her husband, and I was all like “lol yeah” but really thinking “wtf? really? How did no one mention this to me?” My friends haven’t had lunch with me or invited me out with them in ages… But I can’t find the energy or even the real desire to try and make an effort to seek out the company of others, so can you blame them for forgetting about me when I never reciprocate the invitations?

So clearly I need to hang out with my friends so I can feel liked and accepted, but I don’t have the energy to initiate anything, and then I don’t hang out with them which makes me feel rejected and more depressed, and I have less energy than before… Clearly, this is a case of “ur doin it rong.”

The only person whose company doesn’t exhaust me is my husband. When I’m with him, I’m fine. But when he’s at work or something, I feel so very alone and useless.

…Especially when a chronically late boss, who is not only known for being late, but basically expected to show up up to half an hour late for meetings, criticizes me for showing up five minutes late. I had half an hour to load three wheelchairs and a scooter, tetris-style, into the van and get to the bus station. I didn’t quite make it in time. I tried, didn’t I? Oh, the hypocrisy.

See? Even counsellors don’t want to help me

22 Wednesday Jul 2009

Posted by IfByYes in Me vs The Sad, The House Saga

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

depression, house, Perfect Husband

While Perfect Husband and I try to figure out the GP situation, he called the benefits people from his work and got them to sign me up for a counsellor. Six sessions are covered. They gave me the name of someone near to me, said they’d fax the info to her, and that she should get back to me by Monday.

…still have heard nothing.

On the bright side, did I mention we have a house? Paint swatches and flooring places, here we come.

Doctors don’t TALK to their patients, stupid.

18 Saturday Jul 2009

Posted by IfByYes in Me vs The Sad, Perfect Husband

≈ 15 Comments

Tags

depression, doctor, tears, whining

Okay, time to give an update in the depression saga.

For those of you who missed last month’s installment – I have been having tearful, inconsolable crying breakdowns. Perfect Husband seems to think that this is an abnormal state, and an undesirable one for the future mother of his children to exist in. He seems to feel that his first act as a good father is to get me happy before I try to grow a fetus in my depressed, distressing womb. So I mention it to my doctor during my PAP test and she tells me that this is VERY important but that she doesn’t have time to talk to me about it, since I am just booked for a physical and she is moving to different city next Tuesday. She encourages me to try a mental health facility in the local hospital, and asks if I want her to keep my file. I say yes, since woman doctors are scarce.

I had no idea where exactly in the hospital I was supposed to go. Do I go to emergency? Or is there a special set of doors for people-who-need-help-but-only-kinda-sorta? Perfect Husband suggested I call 811, so I did. The guy I spoke to had no idea.

“I’m going to transfer you to one of our RNs. They have access to more information than I do.”

So I speak to a male RN. He asks me a bunch of questions and says that yes, I assess as definitely depressed. He doesn’t seem to believe that I can be this depressed without thoughts of suicide, and keeps saying stuff like “are you sure you aren’t having thoughts of death?” He can’t help me himself, but he give me the number to the local mental health centre and encourages me to call them.

I do so, but they’re only open Mon-Fri, 9-5, when the depressed population are sloughing their way through another meaningless workday. Thankfully, I teach puppy class Monday evenings, so I called Monday morning. When the lady answered the phone I explained that I needed to be assessed for depression, but my doctor was too busy for me so did they have someone who could do that for me? She asked for my address and then said irritably “That’s the wrong part of the city. You need to call the other branch. I’ll transfer you.”

Another lady, sounding older and more crotchety, picked up the phone at the other centre. I started to explain about my doctor, but she cut me off with a bored “hold please” and I listened to eighties power ballads for several minutes. When she came back, I shortened my story to “I need to be assessed for depression. Can you help me?”

“I’ll have to take your name and care card number and someone will call you back after I’ve put you in the database,” the woman said blandly. She took my information and hung up on me. She didn’t ask if I was suicidal. I waited and waited, and no one called. Just doing this runaround was putting me near tears. How many people do you need to call and say “I need help” to before someone actually helps you?

Just as I was getting ready to leave, the phone rang. The lady who talked to me on the phone asked me that same bunch of questions, and told me that I definitely assess as depressed. But she didn’t think she could help me. She recommended to me that I talk to my GP. I explained that I had, and my GP was too busy to talk to me about it, and had told me to call the mental health centre, and had then moved practices the next week. She sounded slightly shocked, and told me I should go back to the GP.

“Tell them that you want to book an appointment specifically to talk about your mood. She’ll ask you a bunch of questions, and then she’ll be able to prescribe an antidepressant or possibly refer you to a psychiatrist. I’ll fax her some information about what we have spoken about today, and recommend you for antidepressants and the “Bounce Back” program that we offer. Will you promise to call her?”

“I don’t know where she is, now.”

“I can find that out for you. The thing is, you could go to a walk-in clinic, but you should really have someone who knows your medical history, and besides, you’d need follow up care. I could try and get you an appointment here, but frankly we work by triage, and since you don’t want to hurt yourself, it could be a long time before we managed to fit you in.”

My mind filled with images of pressing masses of people each claiming to want to hurt themselves more than the guy next to him. “Take me next, not him, I’m much more suicidal!”

So I called my GP’s new office and asked to book an appointment for the day after I returned from vacation.

“Uh, yeah, that’s, like, next week,” said the guy.

“Yes, yes it is,” I agreed patiently.

“The thing is, I don’t have her schedule for that far in advance.”

“What, next week?” I asked.

“Yeah. Could you, like, call later this week, or even better, early next week? I should have her schedule by then.”

So while I was on the other side of the country, Perfect Husband called and asked to book an “extra long” appointment to talk to the doctor.

He took me in on Thursday, after I called in to work for being jet lagged. We sat and listened to a pair of women complain about taxes, low income housing, the general way that everyone spits on the poor etc. It was clearly half walk-in clinic, half not, because there was a sign up reminding patients that if someone was called in ahead of them, it was probably because that person had actually made an appointment.

They called me in.

“Isn’t that just typical?” one of the women muttered to the other, “see how the people with money get special treatment? I was here before her.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, when was your appointment for?” my husband asked her innocently.

I waited on the table for the doctor. I could hear her outside, finishing with a patient and then being pulled aside by a drug rep, whom she assured she was trying to give out as many free samples as possible. Finally she came in, took my file off the door, and said “what can I help you with today, Carol?”

“Well, I’m here to talk about my depression. I did what you said, but the people at the mental health centre sent me back to you.”

She furrowed her brow and looked at the file, which contained a single, blank, record in it. “Carol, I don’t have time to talk you about that today. I’m really swamped here. When I saw you before, did I tell you I was willing to take you as a new patient? Because I…”

“I’ve been your patient for two years,” I said, nettled. She looked at the blank file again.

“Oh. Well, then your file must be in storage.”

“I was told you brought your patient files with you,” I said, confused.

“Yes, but I put them in storage. The only files I actually have in this clinic are patients who said they definitely wanted me to keep their files,” she said disparagingly.

“But you asked me if I wanted you to keep my file, and I said yes,” I said, tears beginning to well up.

“Oh. Well, I don’t have it, and I’m absolutely swamped today, Carol, I don’t have time to talk to you about all this. What are your symptoms? Just crying a lot?”

“I cry a lot, I’m sad all the time, I have no energy, I crave carbohydrates, I’m gaining weight, sometimes I have insomnia and sometimes I sleep too much…” I reeled off. She scribbled something quickly.

“Well, that sounds like depression. You want antidepressants?”

“I don’t know… I’m worried about side effects. I don’t want anything that is going to make me gain more weight, and my libido is already low…”

“Carol, you can’t go limiting me like this!” she snapped. “Look, I’ll give you some samples of a new antidepressant. You come back in 10 days, and by that time I’ll have your file out of storage.”

Yeah, right. “Well, but, are these SSRIs? Are they safe for pregnancy?”

“Why, are you pregnant?” She asked, folding her arms.

“No, but my husband and I are planning to have a baby sometime in the next year…”

“Well, WHEN you decide to try for a baby, WHEN you get pregnant, THEN we can talk about whether to change medications or take you off of them. In the meantime, take these samples, and come back in 10 days.” She hurried me out of the room and went on to her next patient.

My husband found me coming back to the waiting room in tears which flowed for the rest of the day and well into the night. I just couldn’t make them stop.

Maybe traveling frightens my uterus

14 Tuesday Jul 2009

Posted by IfByYes in How is Babby Formed?, Perfect Husband

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

parents, periods, pregnancy, traveling

It was very unnerving to find that, the first month that my husband and I go without birth control (not really trying, you understand, just not preventing) my period didn’t come the day it was due. Or the day after. Or the day after that. I was on the other side of the country, visiting my parents  and trying to find excuses not to drink wine while trying to figure out how to sneak a pregnancy test into the household, considering that they still won’t let me drive my Dad’s Lexus and thus chauffeur me everywhere.

Perfect Husband was bragging over the phone, calling himself the One Hit Wonder, and I was spending a lot of time thinking variations of “holy shit, there’s still stuff I haven’t done!” and “but I don’t feel pregnant.”

The stick told me that I wasn’t, and at the height of my confusion, my period decided to show up, well beyond fashionably late. The mixed emotions of “phew,” and “goddamnit!” cannot be easily described.

I drank two glasses of wine at my aunt’s house. If my parents were having suspicions (and I hope they were, because my 93 year old grandmother asked me out of the blue whether I’m hoping for a boy or a girl, so either they told her they thought I was pregnant, or I’m even fatter than I thought!) they must be really confused now!

I’ll Portion Control YOU

03 Friday Jul 2009

Posted by IfByYes in Belly Battles, Oh The Inanity

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

carbs wonderful carbs, Inanity abounds, weight problems

Can I just say that I hate it when people who don’t have eating problems act like those of us who do are simply being lazy/greedy/stupid?

Things I am tired of hearing:

  • “Have you tried exercising?”
  • “Have you tried just eating healthier, instead of dieting?”*
  • “Can’t you just eat less?”

*people are vague about what constitutes “healthier” but they’re pretty sure that it means whatever they are eating for lunch that day, which I am not.

It’s that last one that gets me the most. Like, I’m looking up depression and carb cravings on Web MD, and a helpful little link promises to tell me “How to Stop Overeating.”

So I’m like “YES. I NEED THIS.”

I click on it.

It tells me:

“Want to lose weight — or maintain a healthy weight? Practicing portion control will ensure you don’t supersize your servings and help you control the amount of food you eat… “

…followed by a series of pictures of tiny portions of delicious looking fish sticks, french fries, and macaroni and cheese with breaded chicken breast, thus clearly indicating that I can have all the carbs I want, as long as I stop being such a greedy hog.

So… the way to stop overeating is to not overeat? IN WHAT WORLD IS THAT SUPPOSED TO BE HELPFUL? Thanks for NOTHING.

I could write articles like this, too. Look:

How to Avoid Cancer

Worried you might develop breast cancer and die after a mastectomy followed by excruciating chemotherapy? The answer is to not develop neoplastic cells in the first place. These cells are the root to all cancers, so by avoiding the development of neoplastic cells (particularly of the metastatic variety) you will ensure a long and cancer-free existence!

How Not To Drown At Sea

Worried that you will drown should you fall off the side of a cruise ship – or simply nervous of the swimming pool? When you find yourself sinking in an endless ocean of roiling waves, be sure to start swimming as soon as possible. By swimming, the motion of your arms and legs will use water resistance to keep your head close to the precious oxygen that your body so desperately needs.

How To Stop Biting Your Nails

Are your fingernails pinkish stubs, and do your hangnails take the attention away from your Flock of Seagulls hairstyle? Try taking your fingers out of your mouth, you orally fixated freak! By not putting your fingers in your mouth, you not only avoid appearing as if you stopped developing emotionally at the age of five, but you prevent accidentally ingesting contagious diseases, and your manicure technician will not want to curl up in the fetal position, weeping, upon viewing the workload you have placed before her.

…I hope the writers of articles like these get a taste of their own medicine some day.

That’s right. I’m willing to wish uncontrollable carb cravings onto other people out of a misdirected desire for retribution. I’m BADASS.

My own, personal, Kobayashi Maru

03 Friday Jul 2009

Posted by IfByYes in Belly Battles, Me vs The Sad

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

carbs wonderful carbs, depression, weight problems

It would appear I have two choices in life:

1. Be miserable. Eat nothing but cheeses, lettuce, and spicy meats. Lose some weight. Weep. Plateau. Sob brokenly. Lose a little more. Feel good about self. Feel hollow and hopeless inside.

2. Eat carbs. Feel happy. Feel fat. Feel guilty and dirty inside. Eat more carbs to smother feelings of self disgust. Feel happy. Feel fat. Feel guilty and dirty inside. Develop desire to hide burgeoning stomach and wobbling layers of fatty corpuscle from outside world. Sit in bath and eat guiltily and incessantly. Loathe body. Be miserable.

Is this normal?

03 Friday Jul 2009

Posted by IfByYes in Me vs The Sad

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

coworkers, depression, dogs, tears

Because I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t be bursting into tears, sitting behind a work building crying into a golden retriever’s fur, just because a coworker was a little rude to me.

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