I am in a foul, steaming funk. My beloved little blue bike was stolen from INSIDE my garage (and yes, before you ask, it was chained and locked). I'm not even certain when it happened – I'm so discombobulated from the move and all the travel, and it still wasn't routine for me to notice it locked in place...it wasn't until I went out to hop on for a ride around the Hill this morning that I realized it was gone.

I know it's just a bike and all, and I try to stay breezy about my "stuff" (like, if I adopt a blasé easy come, easy go attitude, maybe the 'easy come part will materialize). But I'm pretty upset, dammit. I only had her for a year, almost to the day. This was the nicest bike I've ever owned, and I tricked her out with fenders and a rack and panniers and head- and taillights, the whole shebang. I'd really come to love scooting around town on two wheels. It's going to be a good long while before I can afford to replace her with anything near as nice – and should I bother? if it's just going to be stolen the moment I turn my back.

Grumble. This sucks! 

I'm wrapped in the depths of these deeds that have made me
I can't bring a sound from my head though I try
I can't seem to find my way up from the basement
A demon holds my place on earth 'till I die

-- Neko Case, Furnace Room Lullaby

This is going to be one of those posts that justifies/explains my stupid quasi-anonymity.

I really hate talking to most people about depression – the disease in general, mine in particular. And honestly, the worst ones are not the dismissive buffoons who "don't believe in" depression. It's my friends, the really sympathetic and supportive ones who inevitably meet any statement about being depressed with some variety of the same question: "About what?" About what?! Not about anything. I've barely left my house in the last 3 days; this afternoon I sat on my hardwood living room floor crying over nothing. And honestly, more often than not I just feel . . . nothing. Numb. "What are you depressed about?" my ass.

Okay, I get why that seems like a reasonable response. But at the same time . . . would anyone ask a cancer patient why she was in pain?

I just can't shake the feeling that this isn't going as planned.

Earlier this year, I decided (very abruptly) to apply for a really competitive federal government honors program for next year. Although this job would be right up my alley, it was a 180 for me. I came to law school planning on beginning my career in private practice – the famed "biglaw." In fact, this was the only way I was able to justify taking on the additional (enormous) debt that law school would entail. So I did all the stuff that I needed to, danced the dance, found a firm I could live with, did my summer gig . . . got the offer. And then almost immediately began reassessing.

Okay, "reassessing" is probably not the right word, what with its suggestion of reasoned, measured analysis. Likely more accurate to say that I quietly, suddenly freaked. This is not what I want!

Beat . . . beat. . . BOOM! Here comes the guilt. It is incredibly selfish and self-indulgent to sneer in the face of an obscenely lucrative and relatively prestigious job, particularly in a year when many new JD grads may be left out in the cold and the entire economy is in the shitter. I get this.

So we have panicky aversion to the job I've lined up coupled with a deep sense of self-loathing for my failure to appreciate the depth of my good fortune. That pretty much sums it up.

And then it all seems to come together. I learn about this honors program. It's for the federal agency that administers and controls the field I've spent my whole career in. I have great credentials and a pretty decent reputation in the field. The right people come crawling out of the woodwork offering to serve as references. I have just enough time to pull an application together. My firm enthusiastically agrees to hold my offer while I wait to hear. I apply for two different positions and get interviews for both. Let there be light! My heart is happy.

So why do I feel so fucking low over my prospects? Without any objective evidence to back it up, my gut sense is that the interviews were not so hot. I really don't think I'm going to get either of these jobs. And the worst part is that I can't tell if this is a fair assessment or my usual self-doubt. I can't remember the last time that I really wanted something, went for it, guns blazing, and fell short. Of course, I'm not even going to have confirmation that I've fallen short for another month, give or take. Augh. And it's also kind of shitty that I'm beating myself up over maybe possibly not landing a job that had MLB-like odds. They were expecting 800-1000 applications and will only hire 2-5 people. Let it go. Let it go.

I think I need a glass of wine.

Sweet Jesus. A friend of mine recently told me that her brother is quite sick; she just sent an email informing us that he has a malignant brain tumor. It's an extremely treatable presentation and it sounds as though his personal prognosis is as good as could be hoped for, but still.

First and foremost, prayers of whatever flavor you prefer to her brother (and indeed to her entire family).

As soon as I saw her email, I sat to write her a response. Okay, first I did some internet research on the type of tumor and the treatment, incidence, prognosis, etc. Forewarned is forearmed and facts are my weapon of choice. So first research, then response. And before I could squeeze out a simple "if there's anything I can do...", I realized that I was crying. Initially we're talking a couple of big fat salty tears plunking down, but before I knew what was what I was in the middle of a great big silent snotstorm. I wish that I could pretend that I was feeling weepy for my friend, that I'm just that sensitive a person (and that IS part of it), but really I was crying for me.

(I mean, what kind of wretched, small-hearted shit does this make me? Snatching someone else's nightmare and turning it into a platform for more of my own drama -- but if you can't admit this stuff to your anonymous weblog, then really what's the point?)

Here's one of the descriptions I found tonight on one of the brain tumor sites while I was doing my quasi-research. It's from an advocacy piece for people with my type of tumor:

"[Another] way tumors make themselves known is in initial subtle changes in mood and mind. Patients may have a spotty memory, wide mood swings, deep depression, bi-polar behavior, or fail to recognize familiar things. They can’t remember familiar words and names, experience red-hot anger (adult temper tantrums) and some withdraw socially. There are many, many more symptoms and it differs from patient to patient. Total apathy is known to occur, so is melancholia."

Poof! Just like that I'm right back in it. A couple of not-very-eloquent words on a website, and before I know it it's close enough to touch. It's been more than 7 years now since I first learned about my little black hole and finally found some relief. Not something I spend a whole lot of time thinking about anymore, despite JL's smartass claim that I invoke it in every sentence. But wow. It's still there (and by "it" I mean both the literal, physical tumor and the "it" of all of those years) and I suppose that a little reminder every now and again is in order.

Lately I've been so critical of myself and my squandered opportunities and all of my excuses for poor past performance. I think I'm gonna try to take a rain check on that stuff.

Does anyone else out there kinda hate this time of year?

I always feel a bit of a Sarah Bernhardt when I express any kind of negativity associated with the season, but between me and thee: the doldrums are here. Holidays are tough in my family, and the solstice ushers in the bleakest, blackest, most dolorous couple of months. I need to just focus on the spirituality of it all, the sense of renewal and the celebration of the year we've just completed, the anticipation of the rebirth that's just over the next hill. And so on and so on.

But in my little heart of hearts, I'm going to enjoy being a grim bitch for the next four weeks or so.

I'm still in a bit of a panty-bunch. Fer real.

It's kind of remarkable that a 31 year old woman who more or less has her shit together can be so emotionally derailed by romance funktitude. By now, the whiplash has worn off and I'm starting to accept that things with Mr. Guile are on ice...probably permanently. So, okay. We were only dating for a few weeks - I can't imagine that there'll be much of anything like the mourning process of ending a real relationship. But goddamn. Every once in a while the Sad just kind of creeps up on me, and I want to lay down and wail. For those few weeks, it was good. Really good. There's nothing quite like the bite of that loss.

Letting go. *Sigh*