Ugh.

This is one of the bad days. (Note to self: You know perfectly well you're a little fragile right now, so spending a week drinking and not getting enough sleep is just stupid. Fun, but stupid.)

It's the same old thing: I feel anxious and miserable and confused and sad and my shoulders tighten and my breath comes short. There is a line in a Philip Larkin poem about a girl's mind laying open "like a drawer of knives" - that phrase perfectly describes how I feel. But the difference is, the girl in the poem had undergone an assault; my life has its share of bumps and bruises but nothing of an impact to wake up these black dogs now circling, snapping.