I screwed up some scheduling and it’s driving me crazy. It didn’t matter in the slightest – God love me some absentminded economists – but it makes me feel like a screw-up, out of control of everything, second- and third- and forth-guessing myself.
I hate myself for it.
I hate myself for it.
That is depression. Depression is your toughest critic, your meanest boss, your cattiest friend. In short, depression is an asshole
I know perfectly well it’s depression and yet? Still can’t make it go away. So instead I spent an hour reality-checking with my therapist. Working through the steps of telling my depression to fuck itself; to focus on that everything was fine; to come up with new shiny successful tasks; to second-guess my emotions, not myself.
My new motto for the week is “is that what’s really going on?”
I think I liked it better when the motto was “is it really snowing again?!?!?”
Aesthetic Snafu 