I am really depressed right now.

No mytery as to why… I have had some unique stressors lately. If my ATC was low last week at this time, it’s buried the needle at E today.

The main stressor lately is wardrobe, or rather, lack thereof. First, I ripped the crotch out of one of my three pairs of pants when I tugged too hard trying to disentangle it from the agitator of our washing machine.

Then, first the cuff, then the left inside seam of one of my two remaining pairs of pants gave out.

So I am sitting here in my one remaining pair of parts. One. That’s it. One pair of pants is all that stands between me and being sartorially housebound.

This makes me feel very insecure.

And no lie, it’s a legit emergency.Anyone would be stressed out in my position. But for me, it goes much deeper. It taps into some deep issues stemming from the particular kind of childhood I had.

Specifically, neglectful. When I was only eight years old, I was put in charge of buying my own clothes. My parents would hand me the money from the monthly Child Assistance Credit check (known coloquially as the “baby bonus”) and tell me to go buy clothes for myself.

Who the hell does that to an eight year old?

Oh right, parents who wish you had never been born and are doing the best to simulate that experience.

This made me responsible not only for buying the clothes, but making sure they last.nbsp; When you know that if your pants rip, you won’t be able to buy more until next month, it makes you very self-conscious about your clothing’s durability.

And I didn’t know how to shop for clothes. I felt acutely out of place even trying. I never knew what to get when. At that age, I just didn’t have the mental hardware to put all the pieces together.nbsp;nbsp; An inventory of my clothes, how badly worn they seemed, what season it was and what it would be for the next month. It is the sort of thing that adult me would find easy and possibly even fun. But at that age, and given that every time I went clothes shopping I had a massive panic attack, plus the fact that I was a fat kid and normal clothes didn’t fit me, it was a nightmare.

That is why when a piece of clothing breaks, I get this massive burst of terror and shame. I feel like I am a kid who is in big trouble, and that isnbsp; very bad feeling. In short… It freaks me out.

And down goes my mood.

Then today, I got good news and bad news.nbsp; The good news is that I have been accepted into Kwantlen. Like there was any doubt.

The bad news is that I have to come up with $250 by July 2 for the desposit.

It is like the universe said “Well, we destroyed his clothes. What other things freak him out and destroy his mood? Oh, that’s right, MONEY and BEING HURRIED. Time for the Kwantlen letter!”

And the thing is, I knew this was coming. I was definitely told that I would need $250 for the deposit. But that information disappeared from my consciousness like all those medical appointments I keep forgetting.

And I am not truly worried about where I will get the $$$. I have a lot of options.

But the insecurity remains. I feel exposed and fragile. Just a scared little animal looking for a way out ofnbsp; the trap.

Darkness and fire. Depression and anxiety. Too little and too much.

And the Sense 8 episode where lack of Hernando drives Lito to attempt suicide didn’t help either. ^[1] That is probably what got my emotions to this heightned state in the first place.

But I don’t miss the numbness which might have protected me. I want to live life instead of staying out of its way and that means the numbing fog has to go. Once I reach the other side of the mood valley I am in, I will be rid of another load of emotional baggage.

And I will have gotten another piece of myself back. I am stronger than I used to be precisely to the degree that I have unburdened myself.

Catharsis is never easy (unless, I suppose, the only thing you have been suppressing is happiness^[2]) but it’s always worth it.

More on this when I get home.

(—)

769 words this time. A little less than last time. But I have a lot on my mind.

I feel better for all that catharsis up there. Walking home in the cool night air with my mp3’s going on in my headphone helped too. I had a real bad emotional pressure buildup there, and writing about it really helped me release it in a safe and healthy way that makes me feel better and doesn’t involve the police.

And for that, I am so very grateful. The fact that you brave few read my soul graffiti every day fills me with humility and gratitude. Like I have said many times before, none of this could happen without you. If I had zero readers, then I wouldn’t write at all.

What would the point be? I can express myself to myself without having to write anything down. If I was ever to start the old school kind of diary, where you don’t immediately post it to the Internet for all to see, but keep it locked away somewhere, I would have to convince myself that eventually it would go someplace where people would read it, or I just would not be motivated enough to write it.

I would just ask myself, “Who the fuck cares what I think?”

And the answer, dear readers, is that you do.

And I am eternally grateful for that.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.