A year of therapy, more or less; a job, sort of, my parents mostly off my back, my own flat, and there are still days when I wake up and want to set the world on fire. It was so hard to get to work this morning; my legs are made of lead and I slept badly, nightmares about how disgusting I am all night. (In one, my nan tried to have me sent to a correctional facility because someone had looked through a window and seen me and then gone into a coma because he'd thrown up so many times. Subtle, Morpheus. Cheers.) Now it is hard to get work done, because all I want to do is curl up on the floor and cry.
One day, maybe, this won't happen to me. There's no real reason for it right now, apart from general empathy because other people have some godawful things happening at the moment, but I never did work out how to shake it - only got better at riding it out. Which I will; you know, it doesn't seem like the end of the world any more. Just boring, and unavoidable, and so frustrating. Work feels pointless; I feel useless. Argh.
Sorry for whining. Back to trying to work now.