While I sit here typing, my darling daughter is eating a PB&J. She took her peanut butter and jelly covered finger, rubbed it off on my shirt, and said 'uh oh.' The turd.
ANYWAYS.
For those of you who don't know, I am cursed with label of 'bipolar,' along with a few other stupid 'conditions.' While I may not be crazy (anymore), but I do get ticked off. I like to think that I did very well for the 2 1/2 years that I have been off my medication. Aside from having a husband who gets some twisted joy from pushing my buttons, I didn't get upset all that much.
Lately, it is all just a bit too much. The kicker - everything is significantly better in my life. Denny contributes as a parent, we have our own place, Sophie is sleeping much better, and I have free time to craft my little heart out... yet my moods are worse.
When I was 14 my therapist told me something that didn't make me all to happy. "You will probably need to be on meds for the rest of your life." Gee thanks, just what I want to hear.
Harrumph! I've decided to start taking happy pills again. This is not something that is easy for me, so if you value your life - you won't bug me about it. (at least for a month, until the pills kick in) According to my hubby I am 'sunshine balls of happy' when I am medicated.
With taking the pills, I have been forced to stop the one night feeding with Sophie. This did not go well. I lost more than enough sleep, but I know it gets easier within a few nights. On the plus side, the kid is chugging down cows milk now.
Well I must go save the pop-up book Tina got Sophie, before she completely destroys it. TTFN