Welp.

I've been taking Zoloft (generic, obv) with great success for the last couple years, and I thought that maybe I was getting back to somewhat pre-depression levels of Stephness. I figured I had developed a substantial array of coping skills and that those, combined with clear-eyed awareness of myself and my mental state, would see me through just about anything the universe could throw at me. Hell, I've survived a pandemic, the death of someone very close to me, and the blazing trash heap that has been the last 10 years (longer, if we're counting my Bush-era neuroses). But when I think about how I'm feeling tonight, on the eve of the empire striking back, the phrase "curb stomped by clown shoes" comes to mind. None of my coping skills are really working. My Zoloft dosage is effective enough to let me watch the encroaching flames, to really analyze the shit train headed straight for all of us, and to accept both of these, without letting me take the easy way and just ignore our shitty flaming fate. This is gonna be visceral, y'all. 

I fucking hate living in interesting times.