Why does the title of this post sound eerily familiar to me? Did I just use it? At this point, I don’t care. I like it and it fits with what I have to say.

It has been two weeks since I saw the doctor and I’ve got another week to go. Somehow, I’ve managed to make it. I don’t know how because there were days (and nights) when the sadness and anxiety seemed unbearable. It’s not so much the anxiety as it is the anticipation of the anxiety {and anyone who has ever experienced this knows exactly what I’m talking about}. I could be sitting at work, having lunch with my coworkers and then all of a sudden, a wave of dread washes over me: I’m not better. This hasn’t been some awful nightmare. I still have to face it every day.

I have these moments when things seem normal {whatever that means}. I cook dinner. I flip through a magazine. Sometimes I even sneak in a laugh. But it always hits me. The dread. It’s like some invisible person pokes me in the arm just to remind me of how awful I feel.

I like getting lost in those little moments – those small breaks from the sadness. I want more of them because I’m tired, so tired, of dragging myself around. I’m tired of faking smiles at work and with family. I’m tired of pretending. I’m just tired.

I’m very impatient this time around. I want to feel better and I want to feel better NOW. I know there’s work to do and it’s not something I can rush, but it’s really difficult when I wake up each morning and dread going to work to have to deal with things that don’t seem very important. And it’s difficult to come home exhausted and have to take care of my family when all I want to do is crawl into bed.

One more week.