Off the prompt "cuddles."

Managed to be rational enough about depression to do things for myself, both things requiring energy (hard to find in depression state) and things of a wallowing nature, which--frankly, when I'm depressed, I sometimes need time to just be depressed off in a corner. And that's okay, as long as I let myself. It's when I beat myself up about it and feel like a failure for hiding in a corner that it spirals and gets out of control.

(It feels so weird to be in a depressive funk and not be a million miles behind on everything. Also to be in a depressive funk and also be mellow and at peace with myself instead of hating either myself or everyone else in the universe.)

And I drank. I drank enough to get giggly, and it was pleasant, and I am somewhat concerned because... because I took DARE twice when I was a kid so I'm still shaking off some brainwashing and because my grandmother says my grandfather was an alcoholic and because it seems unlikely that a depressant would be a good treatment for depression and because drinking doesn't to much for my productivity, just my mood, and on a temporary basis.

But this is how I know how to take care of myself, worked out haphazard-experimentally over years: eat something to make my brain function; eat something that, being delicious, brings me joy; let myself be alone when I need to hide but ignore the impulses to sabotage all human relationships; spend time with my friends, even if we are just being antisocial together; dye the streak in my hair new colors, for joy and redefinition and self-esteem; occasionally get dressed up in platform boots and a push-up bra and relish being tall and busty; and drink, to the point of silliness, with friends I trust.