This past weekend, my sister asked me if I was depressed. For the last two of the four days I had been home, I was a ghost of my former self (my former self having been last seen on Nov. 7, 2016). The only time I made any effort to leave my bedroom had been when I felt the need to eat, wash up and/or relieve my bladder. I was a living caricature of every male director's idea of what a girl looks like post-break up - customary blanket shield and all.
It's true, I was depressed, and I'm damn mad about it.
