Damn. Damn damn damn.
I was doing really well there, couldn't you tell? Besides the Volcano Crazy and the Manic Bitch Crazy, I was definitely on an uptick. I made it through the Social Phobia Event of the Season. I made it through a week with the Amazing Projectile Pooping Puppy with grace and ease and four bottles of Nature's Miracle. I made it through a week of Incredibly Important Grown-Up Meetings and did not get fired, but was actually invited to my company's equivalent to the Big Kid's Table for more Incredibly Important Business Planning Brainstorming Thingies.
I made dinner one night and put my clothes away. I went to the store and bought Jason a present to thank him for all the flowers and gifts and molten chocolate lava cakes he's sent me over the last few hellish months. Real-life people who know me complimented me on how "like myself" I was.
La, la, la, bunnies and rainbows and such.
But I think It's back.
I'm still not even sure what "it" is. I just know it sucks and it makes me sad and it makes life hard for everyone around me. It's panic, tears, trembling, insomnia, fear, worry and the urge to self-destruct. It's scratching at my own skin until I bleed and lying about how many Tylenol I just took. It's lying in bed, too terrified to move lest my heart stop beating while at the same time wishing that it would.
I'm not ready to say it's definitely back. That I'm back where I started. I'm not. I can't be, because I'm fighting it too damn hard. I'm not curling up inside of it like a warm blanket. It. It it it.
So I guess all I can do is issue a pre-emptive apology to everyone for birthdays I'll forget, phone calls I won't return, lies I'll tell and crazy things I'll do. I'm sorry. It's not me. It's not who I am.
And I promise that I'm fighting It with every ounce of strength I have. Because I've fucking had ENOUGH of this shit.