Last night I had a mini breakdown.

All of the big things and all of the little things culminated in my mind at approximately 7:36 p.m. and I was, to put it mildly, inconsolable for the next 7 minutes.  I cried.  I wrote an angry email to my boss.  I cried some more.  I panicked and tried to see if I could “un-send” the email to my boss.  I was relieved when I saw that I couldn’t.  I curled up on my super plush and comforting bathroom rug in a face-down fetal position and watched, fascinated, as black spots of watery mascara marred its fuzzy white fibers.  I stayed there until I couldn’t breathe, as my sinuses filled with all of the stuff that comes to the surface when we cry hard.

Then I cried some more, because I couldn’t even cry right without having to stop for lack of proper breathing technique.  I mean, everyone can breathe.  But me?  No.  Ask me to do one thing, and I’m pretty sure I’ll find a way to screw it up.

And so it goes.

The thought process of the minorly depressed.

Then I vented on Facebook, for crying out loud:

Drained. Physically, emotionally. Tired of feeling worthless at work. Angry at myself for not — STILL — being gainfully self-employed. Exhausted from loneliness. Pissed that I’m pissed about turning 30. I thought I’d be above that. But when you realize you’ve not only NOT reached your goals by a certain age but have managed to take a healthy flying leap backwards, it’s like… indescribably demoralizing. And now I’m complaining about it on Facebook, which we all know is like tapping the keg at my own effin’ pity party.

Then again, maybe it’s just my period.

And that made me laugh, a little, and so did some of the responses.

I feel better today.

Sometimes, I think, we just need to vent.

All over email, Facebook, and a soft, soft rug.

P.S. Check back later if you’re interested in learning how to build a closet organizer out of plumbing pipes.  Because… you know… isn’t everyone?