One of the most potent aids to depression (for me at least) is when I start to measure my weeks in terms of hours, rather than days. “I have an hour of class, now I can read for two hours, then dinner for half an hour, then read for two more hours, then I have to write my paper for three hours, then sleep for three, take fifteen mintues for breakfast, seven mintues to pack my lunch, two minutes to brush my teeth, thirty seconds to grab my coat and put on my shoes . . .”
This systematic approach to time is deadly for me. I need the death and resurrection of each night. I need to know every day is a new one.