Enter whining

I am so cranky.

It’s 2016 and our entire system is about to be dismantled by a man who looks like a dog scrotum, those PDFs you can allegedly type into still won’t align things correctly, and I couldn’t find my favorite leopard-print pumps to wear to a client meeting today.

I think crankiness and depression go hand-in-hand, maybe in some inverse way, because as I’ve gotten farther and farther into perimenopause and therefore more and more cranky (and weepy, ragey, and anxious), my normal level of depression seems to be decreasing slightly. Or maybe it’s just like asking someone to step on your toe so you can forget the pain in your back.

I have been trying very hard not to let myself get pulled under by the election and predictions about what’s going to happen for the next four to forty years. And I think this crankiness is helping, because at least it’s giving me just enough adrenaline to power through the day without making me inordinately stressed. It’s sort of like a naturally-generated matcha–energy without the crash a few hours later. Except that then I’m cranky, and that’s no fun, either.

I’ve got no fix. No sprightly or spritely words of wisdom. I’m just going to crank my way through the rest of the day and then go home to the loving arms of my Instant Pot and feel grateful that I like everyone who lives with me, because not everyone has that luxury.

I hope that if you are feeling cranky, that it’s tolerable and not making the depression any worse.



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