Even when I’m happy, I’m anxious and scared. I’ve been getting these dizzy spells lately that nearly take me over. It’s like a panic attack without the drama, so silent, so subtle. No one around me sees the sudden hesitation in my step. The next step is so even. Like magic, like I never stuttered or stumbled. I’m an expert at concealing, or maybe people just don’t want to observe deeply.

…

A coworker, engaged in conversation with another woman, described her sister as depressed: binge eating, which they called the “heartbreak diet,” and never leaving their apartment. Her fiancé had asked for a week to himself after they had returned from their couples’ vacation. I thought then, what if I tell them that isn’t depression, that I know personally what depression really is? I know I wouldn’t get the position I want, and everyone would interpret my every action with my depression in mind. They would speak carefully. Every mistake would be because I’m sick. And they would whisper warnings to the new people. That’s Luz. She’s a little off. They do it to others. I won’t be an exception. No one is exempt from their criticism, even the division head. In an industry run by women, you would think it wouldn’t be so, but we’re our own worst enemies.

…

Sam had a massive depressive collapse this week. Sang came over last night with beer, in hopes of soothing Sam. He did—immensely. They ground each other, these men. I want so badly to have that with a woman.

I hope Butterfly can be something like that. She’s young, but she’s sharper than most women. She’ll be a superwoman one day. That’s the type of woman I need: fragile but strong, sweet but assertive, needy yet capable. It’s a hard combination to find, but when she and I talk, things feel even like that. I feel able to be even like that. With Nyte and with Clara, I was always the strong one and the one to lean on. It’s a relief to just be company. Suddenly, I find myself once more enjoying helping my partner when she asks me to do so. It’s not a burden, it’s not a precarious matter adding pressure to our relationship, and it’s certainly not a duty. I get to show her my respect and adoration, and I get to feel those things in return. What a pleasure! What an opportunity! I look forward to learning this girl.

…

Now that Sam is feeling better, I feel the beginning of my own collapse. Too little sleep, no therapy, no marijuana, no meds, and no money have made Luz a sick girl. While this means that I’m doing great at work—the obsessive thoughts have an endless amount of information to organize—it also means, I go home exhausted from eight hours of consistent work, and I’ve started secretly dry heaving uncontrollably again. I’m hoping neither ruins my appetite. I really like that I’m eating again. I was so happy I was feeling up again. I want to hold onto it so badly. I want to— It makes me feel desperate, to feel it slip. There’s a madness stalking my thoughts. He’s scaring me.

Maybe I’ll start meditating again. Maybe I’ll find a good book. Anyone have something they recommend?