Riding the edges

I hate the feeling of sitting on the edge of depression and sort of peering down the slope, the way it suggests that all I need to do is move and I'll turn an ankle. I've been riding along the edge of that path the last few days, occasionally doing things that push me back up onto a more even keel, sometimes not.

A bunch of discussions in various places mostly are just depressing me horribly, in ways that are not as warranted as my brain seems to want to think they are at the moment.

The nasty shock of a week ago has led to me finding my copy of Understanding the Borderline Mother again, but I haven't started rereading it. I've been reading bits and pieces of the book I'm reviewing for Rending the Veil, and poking at the editing thing that is in my queue for the same, though.

It's so frustrating. Objectively speaking there's nothing wrong, things are fine, some things are pretty damned good for that matter; subjectively speaking my brain is full of this miasma of meh that I have to fight my way out of every so often.

Up up upupupupup. Wrong voltage.