There are spans of time when the weight of everyday life seems to be so much that I wonder if my vertebrae have what it takes to remain upright and functional. When I envision myself somewhat like a sardine in a can, my spine twisted and scattered hither and yon simply because I didn't have the get up and go to keep my shit together. Considering how out of whack life has been for the past six weeks I'm pleasantly surprised to find myself not a total basket case. Yes, at the end of the days the above mentioned backbone wants nothing to do with gravity and everything to do with a stiff shot of tequila and some horizontal memory foam. But compared to the trainwreack I can potentially be? I'm fierce stable.
There have been just a small handfull of crying-jag breakdowns. I have only lost my lost my cool with the children once, and though it was huge, it passed and we all got over our bad selves. My Ativan intake hasn't increased to Lindsay Lohan levels of scariness. Red wine intake is down, as is other alcohol related beverages. Really, I find myself rather cool with the entire situation. So much so that I am slightly suspicious of an anxiety attack, the likes of which could break California into the ocean, to creep up on me and say boo while I fall into a pile of spineless, blubbering cells.
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