Lieutenant Pumpkin has been missing for over a week now, and I have eaten all the cookie dough.

I look for her every day, leave food out at night, put up flyers and talk to neighbors and call shelters and visit veterinarians and cry. I do a lot of moping. It’s exhausting. I recognize myself falling back into old depressive patterns, but I don’t feel capable of pulling myself out without knowing whether Pumpkin is okay.

I know depression lies. Jenny Lawson, aka The Bloggess, has a whole category on her blog devoted to this truth. The brain chemicals and neurons and shit that make some of us feel hopeless and too far away from being okay to even try are not an inescapable reality, though they do bang up job making it seem that way.

I know there are good things going on in my life, and I know it’ll most likely be better at some point. But I don’t know if Pumpkin is okay, or where she is. And right now, despite being a grown up with years of coping skills under my belt, I’m struggling just to keep it together every day.