It's my birthday, of sorts. Not my actual birthday, which I hate, but it was a year ago today I started this brand of anti-psychotics. It's the birthday of the new me. The me that can function in society.
My therapist suggested I start keeping a journal. I've always liked staring at my computer screen more than an actual notebook, so I decided to start a blog instead. Just as many people will read this anyway. Probably.
You're probably wondering now what's wrong with me, and, believe me, the list goes on. Social anxiety. Panic attacks. And, at one point, hallucinations. That and some other stuff. Some other bad stuff I don't want to get into now. But I will. One thing I've learned from all of this is that you have to talk about it. Even if it's only to a blog. Even if it's only to yourself.
The worst thing that ever happened to me happened because I didn't talk about it. I tried to deny it. Everything built and built. Baking soda and vinegar trapped in a bottle. A rabid bird in a tiny cage.
But that's all over now. No focusing on the past. No rewind button, no fast forward or pause. It's just play, play, play all the time, and for once I'm happy to do so.
So welcome to the new and improved me. I've got my crappy retail job at the St. Vincent de Paul's (crappy only in the sense that all retail jobs are crappy), friends I can rely on, and a happy mental state. What more could a girl ask for?
I also haven't seen the creature in over two years, and, in the end, that's all I really wanted.
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