“why does my bi-polar husband run away?”

Because if he’s anything like me, he just couldn’t resist the compulsion.

I resist it constantly. This little voice in my head, my own voice but different saying “You could just walk you know. Just go.”

I don’t want to. Everything in me, except for that little crazy bipolar space does not want to go anywhere.

But it’s so scary to feel like you, yourself, your very essence can be overridden by some compulsive voice in the back of your head. I worry that sometime I won’t be able to resist, that I will be overcome with the addiction my brain has to different, somewhere else.

I know there’s no greener grass than that on which I sit. But that doesn’t stop the mini me in my head from whispering at me almost constantly, if I let it, if I allow it space.

Your husband isn’t running away from you. In fact, it has little or nothing to do with you. Being bipolar means you live in this tiny little place where only you exist, and nothing really gets inside and touches you unless you push yourself so hard you feel like blood might pool from your ears. Finding a place of real feeling is rare, lovely, and impossibly hard.

Those of you who love someone with bipolar, take heart. We love you back. We are grateful to you, proud of you. But we fight with a demon that sits on us daily, a demon that ties our hands behind us, prevents us from moving in the directions that might work. We drug that demon into submission, but somehow, it always knows how to escape, and return even stronger. We fear the demon, as we fear losing you.

Help bring us back. Stay strong for him, for us. He loves you, as I love my husband.

It’s just that sometimes, we forget how to steer, and end up in places we don’t want. Bring us back, and help us stay.

Things yelled in my house tonight

“Holy crap! That racoon just ran off with the Elmo Sprinkler!”

(it didn’t, but shit, it was funny when Mogo thought it did.)

It’s a beautiful day!

FINALLY. sheesh. I thought it would be winter forEVER.

Last night was pretty nice as well. Had to work all day, which is a JOY with two kids around at this age. Actually, Vivian isn’t that bad. Rosalyn though…sigh. Next year will be easier at least. I just hate that I end up having to stick them in front of the TV when I’m on a call. Can’t be helped I suppose. Plus, today, they’ll get barely any. Today, they’re out getting LOTS of Vitamin D.

 

Earlier we went for a walk, with me getting suckered at various yard sales. Anything I would want I either never carry the cash for, or wouldn’t be able to lug home anyway. Oh well. The girls got some dinky cars out of it.

Last night we went to meet Mogo coming off the bus, and on the way home, the girls started rolling around in the grass.

They do like each other, I swear.

Now Rosalyn is getting mad because she dumped her cold water all over herself. I cannot wait to see what this kid is like in 10 years….

 

 

 

I wish I had something witty to say

But I’m at a loss this week.

I still feel like hell. This has now progressed to sitting at the back of my throat it seems, making me hack and cough all night long so I get no sleep. I had 4 hours last night. There’s nothing on at 4am if you’re wondering.

I got my first sunburn of the year yesterday! ow. And before you lecture me, it doesn’t matter if I put on sunscreen, the bloody sun will burn through it anyway. I’m not some fair redheaded lass, but somehow, I burn within 10 minutes in the sun. Combined with the fact that I get sick when I’m out in the sunny weather (think nausea, headaches, etc) I try to just stay out of the sun. But since I had to mow the lawn from hell (I don’t know WHY it’s so healthy, but it is gawddammit) I ended up a nice crispy red.

Vivian took her first crap in bushes on the weekend. She made sure to try and tell me before Mogo had a chance to explain. They also described said poop. I really didn’t need the dimensions, especially since I was cooking spaghetti.

Rosalyn can actually say “flowers” now instead of “flies” as she was calling them. She can also sing along to many songs, and has the prettiest voice. But hearing her sorta making up the words is priceless. We really need to record it to play when she’s about 14 and super easy to embarrass.

heh.

Watched “The Family Stone” on the weekend, which was quite enjoyable despite being a little depressing. I only cried once.

Vivian has learned the “ask Mommy, try Daddy” routine already.

The cat likes me best of all.

It’s Monday, and it’s raining.

Sigh.

I forgot to mention

Mogo has started posting mp3’s of the music he likes as well as some words of wisdom regarding them. Go visit him.

Cake

Being depressed at least has one benefit for my family.

It makes me want to bake. Not just cook, but bake yummy bad things. Last week I made vanilla and chocolate cupcakes from scratch. (Totally worth it-SOOOO much better than from a box) Today, since I couldn’t work because the brain surgeons at work didn’t load the correct network profile, I made Chocolate Date Cake.

Can you say yum? Or fat ass?in

I have to do something. I’ve always done this, even as a teen. The only difference is that now I can actually cook and bake.

I figure next up will be my chocolate peanut butter cups. You have NO idea how good those are.

Again guys, thank you for the kind words and support. It does help, even if I lose my voice when I try to tell you.

Thanks for hanging in with me.

Especially Mogo. Who I will now torment with some sappy Cure action. (which I incidentally listened to a lot when I first fell in love with him. This song specifically. But what chick doesn’t love this song?)

For Mogo, since it’s funny

Wellbutrin, Day Whatever

So we’re upping the dose in the hopes that it will work.

I absolutely hate the fact that if it doesn’t, I’ll need to try the Celexa.

Currently, I’ll be on:

• 400mg Wellbutrin
• 900mg Trileptal

I also take a horse pill like vitamin and my allergy pills which somehow stop whatever makes me explode into welts and itch. I feel like a bloody cancer patient some days. I HATE taking pills.

The Wellbutrin gives me headaches, makes me foggy, but does help me not eat everything in sight. (We’re not going to talk about the bag of almonds I just scarfed down either). Trileptal helps me sleep the sleep of the dead, much to Mogo’s annoyance. But thus far, I don’t have the same happy aura around me that I did on Celexa. I don’t feel all that much better on the Wellbutrin. The rage comes fast, and easy, easier than it ever did. The sadness seems to have been replaced by it.

So far, I haven’t been tempted to run out and pick a fight. So far.

My goal is simple-to feel like I can function like a regular person everyday. That’s it. But add in the desire to lose weight, have sex, eat normal and be a nice person, and it gets, well….it gets complicated. It’s like having mood swings and ADD and sucidal ideation all at once. It’s a mess of tangled thoughts and moods, occasionally punctuation by “AWW! My kids are CUTE!”

Then we’re back to rotten rage.

I just don’t know anymore. I don’t know what to try, what to say, how to fix it. My doctor has admitted he isn’t all that comfortable with treating bipolar, and he’s the only doctor I can get into. I’m not “ill” enough for the person who originally treated me to take me on as a patient. I can function after all.

Somedays I want to commit myself because then, maybe someone can really help me, really guide me.

Other days, I know I will never do that willingly.

So here goes nothing. Another day, more drugs.

Down with Bipolar.

I lost my fucking mind today.

I’m serious.

Wellbutrin isn’t working. Or at least, it isn’t working at this level. I’ve been feeling this way over the last 2 weeks or so, slowly. It’s been like a hole being filled, and suddenly, it was at capacity.

I woke up cranky. We went for coffee, where oddly enough, people were nice and polite and held the door for us. The coffee was good, which I expected since I NEVER put cream in my coffee anymore. We went home.

The screaming started. Mogo was trying to sleep in, and Rosalyn just screamed and screamed over everything, nothing. Vivian instigated her, making it even worse. She wouldn’t stop and I swatted her ass, something I never do. I stormed inside, tried to do the dishes. Down Mogo came, complaining about the noise.

That’s about when I lost it.

I vaguely remember slamming one of my favorite melamine bowls into my favorite drinking glasses. I came downstairs later to find both shattered. I ran upstairs, slamming the door, scaring the crap out of the cat, and I flailed and beat my hands against the door frame. If nothing else, being a teenager taught me not to use my fists. (I got lucky never breaking anything then-I didn’t think I’d be so lucky now. Once a doctor couldn’t figure out how I didn’t break anything considering the amount of swelling)

Then I stood there, panting, shaking, driving myself to tears. Rage filled my ears, my eyes, and I held myself back from heaving everything I could put my hands on out the window, or better yet, putting my fists through the window. I wanted blood, I wanted pain, I wanted discordant chaos and noise. I forced myself on to the bed, to curl up against my pillows and try to calm down.

Mogo came to see me, and the dam opened, and I screamed. And I screamed and I screamed. I wanted so badly to hurt him, to throw my fists and nails and teeth against him just so I could hurt something, so I could vent off my pure rage.

As usual, Mogo knew how to talk me down, talk me through it, force the anger out through tears-usually it’s sadness, but lately, it’s been anger.

It’s scaring me.

I’ve been known to get angry during mania, but this is different. This is rage through mixed states, and it’s freaking me out. I contemplated committing myself today very seriously.

But I worry. I can’t afford to be off work. What happens if it’s for more than a day or two? What do we tell the girls? What do I tell work? I can’t imagine they would be as accepting of a leave based on mental illness as they might be of one for say, cancer.

I’m scared.

More than anything, I’m so fucking frightened of myself, and my own brain. This fucking crazy I hate it. I hate that it might get worse. I hate that I have to sacrifice something of myself regardless of the treatment.

And I’m terrified that it will only get worse.

For years I saw only blackness in my future after 30. I’m 30 in September. Is this the year I succumb to my disorder? Will I lose my strength and take too many pills? This morning I told Mogo that it felt that my life was up on stilts, and that I’m scared that a big wave will come along and wipe it all down. I worry I worry and I take pills that seemingly only make it worse.

I just want a normal life. I just want a normal brain. Hell, I’d settle for always wanting to be alive.

The boy, he did good!

Mogo managed to surprise me last night.

I came home, and went upstairs to feed the cat and change. I saw a nice pot of mums sitting on the dresser, with a bag of pretend jewels from the Disney Store. I thought “How sweet!” and went downstairs to say thank you.

“There’s something IN the bag you know…” he said

9 years later, and he still manages to pull stuff like this off. (I told him he’s still not off the hook for the diamond next year though.)

 

9 Years Ago

Two weird kids got married, and then got totally trashed for 3 days. (We drank the absinthe I made if I remember right) You had new tattoos on both wrists the day before-you joked that it looked like you tried to kill yourself. It sorta did.

No one seemed happy to be there-instead, it was like an obligation. My biological family especially. No one asked them to all come. I would have preferred my name on my grandmother’s obituary 6 years later to validate me. My father only asked if I was sure-told me he didn’t agree with marrying that young, and wished me happiness, as it was my life.

I changed into army pants for the reception at that bar-that grubby sports bar. Your friends played their own music, we got drunk on free beer, and received 3 steamers as gifts. We held knives to each other’s neck in the pictures, smashed icing into ears. My favorite picture is when we’re talking to each other, and someone took a picture, unknown.

I looked so happy then. So happy to be with you.

I still am. I love you baby.

One fine day

My wedding anniversary is coming soon. Next week actually.

9 years. We’ve been together 9 YEARS. Yes, this blows my mind as well.

We married young. I could tell that many of the people at the wedding thought it was a waste of time, that we’d break up only too soon, that we were too young to know what love REALLY is.

Hmm. Funny. 9 years later, I think we’re happier than we were, and we have two awesome daughters. 9 years later, I have never regretted, not once, my husband, or my choice to marry him. 9 years later, I’m still as much in love with him, if not more, than I was when we recited our handwritten vows, our hands shaking, our cheeks blushed.

After reading snickollet, I released how much my life is full with him, how lost I would be without him. Oddly enough, I had a dream a few days ago that he and the girls died. I was lost, floating in sadness and anger and grief, and unable to come down from it.

My fear of 30, my fear of the blackness that has always stood behind it, makes me worry for what this year will bring. It makes me worry that I will lose him. And I will not know what to do-what do you do if half of your heart dies? If a place previously filled is empties, leaving only the echo of a wordless love?

I’m paranoid, likely inspired by the switch to a new med, and the resulting chaos that ensues for awhile. But after 9 years of relative peace (and for me, it IS relative) I find this tiny voice at the back of my head nudging me to appreciate what I have, telling me to remind him how much I love him, how lost I’d be without him, since anytime I could lose him.

9 years. I have no idea what to give him to show my love, aside from my words. 9 years have gone so quickly, it’s like dust swept from a table.

I want more-I want years and years together, I want us to sit on our porch and throw pebbles as rotten kids, swaying in our rockers. I want us to, together, hold our grandchildren in our arms, and possibly, our great-grandchildren.

I want all the time in the world, I want time to stop, distraction removed, just us in a second that never ends. Somehow, I found the one person in the world who completes me, and I’m terrified I will lose him, since my life is a story of loss in someways. The fact that I let myself love him is amazing enough.

9 years later-and all I want from him is forever.

Mogo got a new hat-what do you think?

Only at the dollar store-they also have “I LOVE JESUS!” party favours. Creepy.

Taking Drugs to make Music to take Life to

I don’t think my drugs are working all of a sudden.

Last night was bad, a freak out like I used to have before the drugs. I was crying, lashing out, being mean, unwilling to listen to reason, etc, etc.

I calmed down, eventually. I could actually feel the nothing behind the crying, but the crying was different, it was aching and echoing in my chest, and I was gasping. It was like I cried after my mother died, just blindly and with force. It’s scary, and uncontrollable.

I missed a dose of the Celexa the other day. I don’t know if that’s causing a natural dip to be that much more noticeable, or if it’s because my period is coming….who knows. I know my husband hadn’t missed being up half the night with me, or watching me act like and asshole and then threaten suicide. He hasn’t missed that at all. Last night I felt that I was slipping down a prepice into crazy, and it scared the hell out of me.

BUT, at least I got up the mountain FINALLY. 🙂

On another note, Rosalyn is driving me batty. Remember how I felt all superior because Vivian was the most normal even tempered toddler ever?

HAHAHAHA. Bowl of crow, RIGHT HERE. Rosalyn has a sudden forceful attachment to her winter coat. She slept in it last night,and I was only able to get it off her back today when it was covered in oatmeal by bribing her with Reese’s Pieces. She refuses to wear clothing most days, preferring to run aroun nekid. I refuse to buy her any clothes at this point, since she doesn’t wear the closet full of stuff. She’ll wear her sister’s Nemo shirt, or Batman/Superman/Spiderman shirts. Maybe a Dora or Backyardigans shirt if we’re lucky. She even tries to run outside lately.

I don’t really care, but it’s just annoying. But hey, i guess if i was 2, I’d run around nekid as well.

Did I mention that? She turns 2 very soon. 2 years old. I think that’s bothering me too-now that I’m “well” I’m sad for all the things I missed with her. I stare longingly at the baby books, and wish I could have been better with that stuff the first year for her. I wish I wish I wish….

I’ll get through it. Spring is difficult at the best of times. I just want this one to be ok.

He finally did it

The Dorf finally broke down and got himself a blog. Sector 2814 (the comic geeks will get the reference)

Currently he’s geeking out about music. I don’t even pretend to know half the bands he’s talking about, since sometimes our music tastes tend to really diverge. But hey, it’s the thing that brought us together in the first place anyway.

I’m sure he’ll geek out about comics as well at some point. Karrie, send your husband over sometime so they can geek out together. 🙂

I could love you for hours (draft)

Hours, minutes, days, years

we’ve counted, and not counted our time together not

tied it up, nailed it down, but 9 years you’ll remind me

9 years since we were so drunk the absinthe didn’t taste bad 9 years

9 years since we were so young and running, tearing away from a tomorrow which

glistening, scared us wide eyed in the woods.

I loved you like a girl then.

I loved you with a terror, a fervour-I would have chanted your name until

incense fell from my lips, my skin quaking for you, street lights covering our bodies in the windows of that whitest of white homes, barren walls.

Hours, minutes, days, weeks change us, reshape us

we pick at the clay we hand our daughters and mold ourselves

images not so delicate, not so innocent.

I know you now. Your socks lying always on your side of the floor, folded once catch my eye.

Your piles, your need for order.

Your face growing ever so slightly older, the wisdom time etches into your hands. My body knows all of these things, and wears them like old shirts worn soft over the years.

I can close my eyes and trace your face in front of me, the broken black stubble, kind guarded eyes, brown as the rich earth we’ll plant tomatoes in this year.  I can feel your breath all the way from here.

I love you as a woman now, as a mother, as a friend. I long to sit together, our children dancing, singing, floating on air, creatures of us and from us. Creatures borne of us.

Hours, minutes, days, weeks, years will take us farther from this place.

I just want to sit and stare at it all.

Hidden sadness doesn’t lie

I’m not sad anymore.

I’m not much of anything. Attaining any type of release lately is well nigh impossible. I’m blocked. It’s like when you have a cold, and you try and try to blow your nose, and your godamn sinus cavities will not give it up, and you make that lame “snrtk” noise and give up.

My emotions, as well as other things, are like that right now. It’s the most frustrating thing.

You’d think I’d be happy-I haven’t really cried in weeks, aside from a few stray tears when I was really upset about something. I haven’t felt that pressure in my chest, that heaving sadness prelude to crying. I haven’t felt my heart fill up either. But my dreams-they’re another matter.

All night last night, I dreampt I was crying-really crying-sobbing, death sobs. In the dream I had found a box that contained all the answers to my life, pictures from when I was born, the time between birth and adoption, written memories from both my biological parents. The words of my dead birth father. I cried to have it, I cried to open it, and I cried even harder to know what it contained.

Can I only cry in my dreams now? Is that all that’s left to me? Has Celexa robbed me of normal feelings along with the urge to off myself? To outside appearances, I’m actually normal-relatively social, friendly, not so cranky. But I don’t feel like me inside-I feel like it’s just become easy to fake it, to pretend that I’m someone I’m not.

I do not like this sam I am.

I woke up exhausted, couldn’t get out of bed. The Dorf was upset that I made him get up, was cranky and yelly with the kids. But how do I explain all of this when I’m barely coherent, unable to move, paralyzed by this hidden sadness that I cannot vent? I can’t help but feel that Celexa hasn’t removed the problem, it’s merely covered it up and stashed it somewhere, ready to spring at the worst moment.

In my dream I held myself, grinning in a photograph, holding my infant self. What am I clinging so tightly to?

Tell me again why the weekend is fun?

I used to look forward to the weekend as more than just a break from work. I really did at one time. Now, I’m just happy to sit on my ass and eat torilla chips while the kids chased each other around the basement.

So it was yet another unexciting day in the life of someone’s mother. I managed to bat my eyelids and get some money out of my father (never too old to do that) so I went to the grocery store and grabbed a few things. Blood oranges are out (woot!) but they aren’t cheap. (sad)

Grabbed the girls “Where the Wild Things Are” since I’d always wanted to get it, and I LOVE that Vivian is into actual storybooks now. I remember loving books like this and this, and new loves like this and this make me want to buy her even more.

Went and found, after much searching, a heart shaped cake pan for a cake for my baby. I had no idea what to get, so this is a better way. I’ll also make him whatever cookies he wants tomorrow. I have a feeling he thinks I’m just being cheap. Which sucks, since the fun of Valentine’s day is doing sweet things. Or so I thought.

I’m just glad I went by myself, since it seemed to be pissy kids day at the mall. Every single kid I saw was screaming, screeching or whining. I can get that at home.

Took the kids for a walk since it was only -16 out. Man, how happy were they to get out after about a week and a half stuck indoors. Poor little dudes. Ros of course is the cutest. She overheard me saying ‘Yup” to Viv, and kept saying it. Yup. Yup.

Yup.

Ros is starting to talk more, Viv is starting to mouth off, and I’m forgetting stuff more than usual.

Life moves on.

Oh, and I’ll be posting a new Event! soon-think about mutants…

Old Maid

My husband and I had a conversation the other night, and I swear, I’ve never felt so old in my life.

We were talking about how difficult we find it to relate to 99% of the people we meet, and how much easier it is when younger, how you’ll put up with more. (It’s true. I’m much pickier today than I was at 16, when my criteria likely revolved around easy access to good hash.) I want ready made friends, who have read books, and who are curious in new music, new ideas. I want people who get me. We both do.

In having this discussion, my husband started talking (ranting really) about how “kids today do have any sense of where their favorite bands come from-they have no desire to know the bands who influenced their favorites”. I do believe he actually used the phrase “kids today”.

I sighed, and said ‘We’re old. It’s official.”

We never planned on children, and so we had plotted out a life that revolved, roughly, around music and books, tea and cats. The life of blissful childfree people. We sat as many young people did, awaiting life. But we were aimless, and drifting, neither inclinded to do much more than stare out the window, wondering what to do with ourselves. We were those “kids”.

Now we aren’t. Now we silently tut tut the very people we once were, wondering where the activist spirit has gone, wondering why they all seem so closed up and swallowed by their PS3’s and Wii’s. We feel superior in our memories of when we were “with it”, when we knew what was going on.

But I really don’t care that much. I’ve grown out of it, beyond it, turned into that one thing I was loath to become.

An Adult.

I say ‘Pardon Me” when I sneeze. I thank people for giving me space on the sidewalk. I tell my children to watch their mouths. I’m beginning to understand what my parents meant when they said ‘Life isn’t fair.”

But why has this taken so long? I’m 30 this year. I thought that adulthood was something that fell upon you sooner than this, like down from the sky while you slept. That you’d wake up, and suddenly be an adult, without any of the silliness from your youth. You would do fun things like travel, you’d volunteer for important causes, you’d make cupcakes. You’d find meaning, and realize it’s not to be found in a magazine or a CD. Adults made their own fun, told jokes kids don’t get, stayed up late.

Funny. Now that I’m old, I realize how NOT late 11pm is. It’s just half way to morning.

Am I halfway to old age? Am I on the first steps? Realizing that I just don’t get many of the people I run into made me stop and consider that yes, I am aging. But I don’t begrudge it. I accept it, and in some ways enjoy it. Those little panics younger people have over what to do with their lives-I don’t have those anymore, not that I ever did. I have a family now, something that has brought me meaning, and I didn’t even know I was searching for them. Am I halfway to another plateau of meaning? Will I find it when the kids leave home?

Will I find it when the cross into the school yard, forever separate from me in some ways? Will I find it at the first heartbreak, when I have to warn them/remind them, that love is fickle, and many colored? Will I never find it, and lie on my deathbed, wishing for more? What if I never find my halfway there?

Will I really sit on my porch, in a dirty rocking chair, sharing a BB gun with my husband as we shoot the “youngins” walking by?

Celexa Redux

Some of you may remember that I jibbered and wavered about adding Celaxa to my treatment awhile back, and eventuallly decided it was for the best to at least try it. (Ok, so the visions of dancing razorblades was what really did it, but hey…)

I was worried about side effects, namely, sexual ones and weight gain. I’m not a teeny tiny girl, and I’ve struggled with my weight all my life, to the extent that one can struggle with something they don’t really give much thought to (I’d love to lose weight, but I’m lazy, along with other things). My thing with weight is, if it’s my fault fine. But don’t give me pills that might make it worse, and not enable me to lose it.

Part of the weight issue is tied in with being bipolar. That’s the part that I feel like I can’t control, and it’s frustrating. Add in some issues from childhood that I just connected recently (my distaste for exercise is linked directly to one of my abusers for instance) and that leaves me as a fat ass.

Don’t get me wrong. I want to beat all this. And I will. It’s just getting there that’s annoying. One of my friends always says “You have a million excuses lined up for why you don’t do something about it.” But they aren’t excuses. They’re reasons, and just like quitting smoking, when I’m ready, things will change for good. I know myself well enough for that.

Sex, in my relationship, is like glue. It’s the one thing that will always keep us together, and never fails us. I’m lucky to have a great partner who truly gives a shit about my needs and wants, and who is always into me. Having someone who can’t keep their hands off you when you feel fat helps on those bloated and fuck off days. I don’t like fucking around with our sex life. It’s the one constant in a life sometimes full of chaos. While my needs may change, the chemistry and passion between us never does. I’m lucky that way.

Thankfully, the Celexa hasn’t much affected sex. It’s made it a little more difficult to get the train around the mountain, but it’s like when you’re pregnant and having sex-everything is still there, it’s just…different. So it’s an adjustment more than anything. I’m used to having zero difficulties, so it’s been an experience. But I’m interested more, and I feel more “normal” during sex. I’m not kissy at all most of the time, again, due to circumstance. Lately I am. So that’s been cool.

Weight wise-it’s hard to say. My trip to NashVegas did NOT help. I ate VERY well, and drank a LOT. I know I gained a few pounds, and it’s just too freaking cold to get out and exercise. I contemplated a walk tonight, and then noticed it was -28C with the wind. So no. I feel bloated a lot, but not fatter. The bloated thing I don’t dig, but it might go hand in hand with the raging bumpukes I seem to get on this drug.

I feel better on it. I’m more even. I don’t cry at everything, in fact, I haven’t cried since the drug kicked in. I used to cry, on average, almost daily. I almost feel like I can’t quite feel the emotions, but I feel happy thoughts all the time.Is this what “normal” is like? Knowing something is crappy, but not feeling it in your heart down to your toes? Yet being able to shine with the love you hold for someone? Cause it’s weird. Not complaining-it’s just WEIRD.

I’ve read that some people adjust to the drug, and I hope that doesn’t happen. So far, I haven’t had any real issues, and I love that. I love just feeling like a normal human being, although it’s been hard to adjust to being able to, oh I don’t know, go out in public and not freak out.

You’d think I wouldn’t miss that. But oddly, I do. I guess it was my “thing” or something.

Ah well. Any Celexa questions or advice, feel free.