Deadlines and lifelines

I turn 31 tomorrow, and in a desperate race against the clock, today will see me call, chair, and boss my way through my first managerial meeting. I remember half my life ago, on the November 24th of me being 15, in a desperate race against the clock during those days of printer paper with wee holes in the side that kept jamming, I was printing out my first novel so I could say I'd finished writing my first novel when I was 15. I'm mildly perturbed today that by one practical measure I'm farther from my vocational dreams now than when I was 15. But what I wrote when I was 15 was utter balls and what I write now is much better, so I'm getting over it.

I've never felt less festive in a birthday sense, and that includes the years I spent in a very real and pressing depression. I'm not depressed at the moment. It's odd, all these emotional discoveries one makes when this are all fucked. I'm dangerously overworked, stressed, grieving and yet sort of basculated because we still don't have a body and I still expect him to walk into the office at any moment, and certainly my SAD is giving my brain some good sharp kicks, but even though I'd say things are a right shittery at the moment I know I'm not depressed. I'm still showering, for one. That's a bit of a giveaway that my depressive centres aren't acting up too much.

All the same I'm finding it a little bit difficult to give a fuck about my birthday. And that's partly because it falls on Wednesday, which is deadline day, so if I manage to get out of the office before 19h, then that will be a minor fucking miracle. For someone who isn't depressed I certainly complain a lot, don't I? But that's another bit of a giveaway my depressive centres aren't acting up too much.

All the same I shudder to think what sort of state I'd be in with the F-word. In fact I don't want to think about it because I don't want to know how dependent I am on his awesome. I'd rather just focus on his awesome.