full of moxie and viscosity

I think I may be a little depressed. It's safe to say I've been a little less than careful with myself in recent months, which is good in some ways and a little dangerous in others. Without going into any kind of revealing detail, I can assure the curious minds that I'm not in any kind of danger NOW... but that there have been situations, none emotional, but some physical and a few mental, that have been definitively dangerous for me. Risk taking is one thing, but putting myself into actual danger is another all together, and I can't help but define those decisions as results of depression.

HOWEVER. I have not picked at my breasts for over a week. A WEEK. That time frame has never happened before, even in the happiest of times in my past, I have still gone to the minefield every once in a while regardless. But now, no. I haven't even looked sideways at myself and my nails are growing out and I feel so GOOD about it... I'm trying hard now to compartmentalize these things but it's not working. Am I simply finding new ways to manifest my inherently lonely heartache? Or is it that I have a new kind of problem, a new onus for self-mutilation? Do I need more friends here? Do I need a }gasp{ boyfriend? Do I need to work on the novel more to provide more of those compartmentalizations?

With a marked neck and a rolling stomach, I now depart to Starbucks to mix espresso shots with confusion in the hopes that I will come out of my shift a little less crazy.