I've actually lost count. How bad is that? I think it's eighteen...nineteen on Tuesday.
Oh well.
Life rather got in the way last week, so apologies. And since then, there hasn't been much joy to share.
That combined with my previous state of mentalness does not paint a pretty picture. In fact, I'm starting to wonder whether what we are doing now, with anxiety levels of meds and gentle talking therapy, is a mere sticking plaster solution. I'm not sure I will ever achieve actual saneness. The sort where you can go about your life and not worry that what you are doing is totally wrong, or hugely offensive to someone, or likely to result in serious harm to someone. The sort where you can enjoy an afternoon, an hour or a moment without fretting about its consequences for the future. The sort where you can be with people and be happy rather than constantly stressed about what they are thinking and feeling.
Does it matter? Maybe not. But at the moment, the prospect of months and years living like this is not very appealing.
I'm not sure what else I can do though. I'm applying all the "strategies", I'm taking the pills. I'm living the dream.
I just have to hope it's enough.
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