I get up. I look critically at my stomach in the mirror, actually liking it this morning, and then put on my running clothes. I won't run for another several hours but it helps me stay on track to have them on. No weaseling out of it, although really, my run is something I look forward to every day. 

The coffee machine went off at 5:30 am when the dog was barking, so by 8 it's already tepid in the carafe. I pour it into a Pyrex measuring cup, microwave, then pour it into a little blue mug I bought for Yan's kit almost a decade ago. I plug in the lights, let the cat out of the basement, feed the other cat, and walk the dog under the flat, white, opaque sky that somehow gives me comfort. 

I feel depressed this week. A bad time to decide to strictly cut back on my drinking, although arguably that actually makes it a good time re: the depressant effects of alcohol. I feel generally unhealthy, like things are wrong with me below the surface - secret broken things, ruined things inside. I know that this is not normal, that this is a mania that I have developed in my middle 30s: that I am secretly, unknowingly very ill and about to die, and sometimes I truly believe it. It makes me dread going to the doctor's even for something little, because I am surely about to find out at any second that I have some terminal, self-inflected disease. My dad is the same way, which is not reassuring. 

I am sad about the house. I find myself tearing up about it at odd points in the day: stupid, stupid, stupid. My friend has taken the inspection report and made a beautiful list unpacking every single thing, describing the action to be taken, the estimate price, what the landlord should do to make the contract, what can be done without a huge expense. I should feel so grateful for this, but I feel stuck and helpless and anxious instead. I sit at my desk and drink bitter tea and cry about this. I think about my poor sad burnt up attic and have to go outside and stand in the yard to stop weeping.