No shit, Sherlock

You know what? I think I’m depressed. I have deduced this by noting my constant anger, both generalized and specific. Historically, I do pissed better than sad. Everything steams me up, from the height of a closet shelf to the angle of the sun. “Godammit,” I mutter dramatically many times a day. And then there’s Husband. Lately everything about that man irritates the crap outta me and I have not been hesitating to let him know. Good thing we don’t see him much, living in different states for the time being, though of course his absence pisses me off, too.

And then there’s all the eating of junk food, which started right after the miscarriage. Damned if I was going to force-feed myself more quinoa for a dead fetus; no, French fries were the food for me. Then with moving it’s not like anybody was cooking anything nutritious. Look, I lost a pregnancy; I am having a neverending miscarriage; I left my friends; I moved out of my pretty house; I never see my husband; all my favorite belongings are in storage; my mother is harassing me, and all in a space of three weeks, so if I would like chips and salsa three times a day because it’s easy and it’s yummy and food is my favorite drug, well, I think that’s reasonable.

For now. Slowly, though, the pause in all the upheaval, a schedule, a gorgeous place, fresh air, exercise, a happy child, free time, well, hopefully they’ll create a salutary climate and I’ll get back to normal. If not, I can always investigate, and subsequently get disproportionately pissed off about, my poor mental health benefits.