so what if it's only 1 o'clock in the afternoon

Therapy today.

We talked about how weird it is for me to be happy, and how I distrust saying the words, even. Also, evidently I'm hesitant to admit that I'm not depressed because I still need to do some work on my self-esteem; I don't think have trouble believing I deserve to be anything but depressed.

We also talked about how I carry my old walls with me, my old ways of thinking, as if I were a hermit crab carrying around its old shell or a plant that's reluctant to shed its dead leaves. They're no longer essential, no longer useful, but somehow—for some reason—I feel compelled to have what my therapist described as "like the angels of good and evil, except you have depressed Erika sitting on your shoulder, constantly telling you to watch out for the worm in the apple."

It makes me want to drink. Not on meds, thank you.