ometimes, I get mad at my friends for not knowing intuitively when I'm having a hard time.
Then I get indignant that I have to ask for help.
Then I get distracted by organizing my shoes by heel height or filing a year's worth of paycheck stubs in reverse chronological order or redistributing my baking ingredients into applesauce jars so that they're all in the same sized container, and, suddenly, everything's alright again.