Jean and her second skin.

As I explained in an email to Christina and Jenny today, I've started wearing a second skin.

It's long underwear.

At work, I've found that I'm constantly freezing. I'm allowed to bring in a blanket, which I wil do tomorrow, but for the last week and a half, I've just been shivering. I've been sitting on my feet to keep them warm, rubbing my hands over my thighs hard enough to start a fire or a spark, blowing hot hair into cupped hands over my face to warm the tip of my nose. It's just cold in there. And it's even colder waiting for the bus. I only have one pair so far, and our washing machine isn't working--surprise!--but so far so good. The clunky thermals make my regular pants look too tight, but it's sort of nice to wear two pairs of pants. It's comforting. And Christina has even suggested the silk ones so the layers don't feel as thick.

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Today I am starting the first of a twelve-day-in-a-row work stint, which is unbelievably depressing to think about. On Sunday I dropped the Good Doctor off at the airport. He flew to Miami, and then he got on a giant cruise ship full of fruity drinks and personal butlers. While I'm ankle deep in snow, he's stopping at random small, tropical islands and eating exotic, expensive foods, and I hate him, and he better buy me something, and I can't believe he went on a cruise without me.

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I've come up with a metaphor that compares this late fall to the mid-summer troubles I was having earlier. Unfortunately, and what I cannot deny, is that I have been having a difficult time being out of school. And there's no reason to pretend it's been going easy. It's weird, and hard, and I don't feel like myself, and my emotions continue to rise and fall by the day or sometimes by the hour. I will sit, do work, read, watch TV, I'll be fine. And then I will sit, do work, read, watch TV, and be miserable. This summer, I was depressed, and it was a crippling depression. It had taken over, and I'd lain in bed. I was depressed and desperate for an answer. I was in the mentality of being so depressed I could call myself sick. I knew what I was. And now, I don't know what I am. I am comfortable being sad, maybe. When I'm happy, I sometimes question why, which is backwards.

Anyway, the metaphor is that the sadness this summer was like being pulled over by a cop. He just shows up, he puts his lights on, and he makes you stop driving for awhile. You literally must stop driving and moving forward, unless you're willing to suffer some serious consequences.

And the sadness I'm feeling now isn't enough to pull me over. There's a cop tailing me. He won't put his lights on, but he's watching me and he's following close. He's certainly making me drive slower; I'm certainly allowing my gaze to lift up into the rearview mirror to see if he's going to turn on his cherries. And I'm not exiting anytime soon, and he's got nowhere else to be.

*

Liz and I put up the Christmas tree yesterday; Darren's van got towed by the city of Minneapolis. We moved my furniture back into my room and found damage. I emailed the new landlords (we have new ones now, the old ones sold the house just days after the flooding) and asked for compensation of my lost items. My new furniture set. Clothes and books. Bookcases. I don't know what they'll say, and I'm crossing my fingers. I was happy to have the furniture. I bought it myself, I put it together myself, and it was mine.

And for dinner yesterday, like true adults, Liz and I made exactly this: mashed potatoes and cookies. She said, dinner's done! And she brought me my plate, which was half filled with homemade mashed potatoes and other-half-filled with four warm peanut butter and turtle cookies. I wanted exactly nothing else.