I am a fool. I am attempting to make croissants in 95 degree weather.

Have you ever tried to make croissants from scratch? It is hell. It’s endless rolling and rising and folding and rolling. But all the while you have to frantically keep track of the temperature. Is the dough too soft? Is the butter cold enough? Over and over and over for hours.

My shirt is filthy. There’s dough under my fingernails. I can feel the layer of flour in my pores and on my face. It’s like working at the bakery all over again. Bittersweet.


Something is wrong.


For days I have felt weak. My sleep has been heavy and dull; my waking hours filled with vague melancholy and sharp spikes of id. I have not upset my routine: at 6am I still know your decaf, your milk on the side. My mouth is a wide grin. My eyes are glass.

I went to acupuncture today. My heart has been in my throat this week, breaking only to travel to the pit of my stomach. Needles have helped before.

I can never seem to shake the sorrow that I feel when I am expecting bad news. It’s not that I am anxious: it’s that in my mind I have prepared to grieve and I can already feel it with my entirety. I am always certain people will leave.

But there I was, trying for any relief that could be provided to me. I should have known better. It’s a rare day that I can go for treatment and be left without thoughts of you. After all, you even share the name of my doctor.  I told him I wasn’t feeling well this week. I said no more. I never do.

I was apathetic towards the new placements of the needles. My mind raced. My head hurt.

I noticed the redness around a needle in my arm. I remembered that late one night you showed me the same on your own arm. My hand felt heavy. My heart hurt.

Most days I dozed easily. Today I shivered. My lungs felt as though I were screaming. I turned my head and found my hair plastered to my damp cheek. If I had drifted off, I had also wept. I was out of ideas and had exhausted my resources.

I called my mom. Her phone was disconnected.

I could still find solace in a bottle of wine. I drove the long way home. I turned the music off. I didn’t want to sing. I thought of Israel. I felt nothing.

Who the hell is this?


I need more spoons

Have you guys read that thing online where the girl is trying to describe to her friend what having her illness is like? How she has to pick certain tasks each day and she cant take any action for granted? She compares all her energy to spoons and explains that it is very, very finite.

I feel like that too. I used to think that I was just very lazy and now I realize that at times my depression is actually just crippling. I wish I were more organized and energetic and inspired to just cook and cook and write about it all the time. Unfortunately, I really only have the energy to cook here and there, I try to remember to take pictures as I cook for the day when I’ll finally have energy to blog about it. As it is, I have a few posts sitting in my drafts that I never managed to post. And then life happens. I’m moving right now and it’s horrendous. It’s a sudden move. My spoons are going to that. Actually, I feel so overwhelmed by it that I’m using my spoons to write this post so that I can avoid packing.

I’ll try to be better about posting.