It’s going on three months now since I left my job as a veterinary technician so that I could pursue full-time psychiatric outpatient care. Add a little 12-day adventure on the inpatient unit (yay I spent Christmas AND my birthday behind locked doors) and week after week of 8:30-3:30 day hospital, a whole bunch of medications, a whole lot of alcohol, and no money, and here I sit.
Somewhere I thought I’d never be.
I started a part time job for lousy pay at a semi-local library. I think I’ll be good at it. I’m hoping I will be able to move to something full-time and perhaps better-paying in time. I like being around books. I like not being around constant death. I miss those extra $5/hour. But it fits around my now three half-days a week psycho program.
And still I struggle. With depression. With anxiety. With sleep. With nightmares and panic attacks and complete lack of motivation to do anything. I’ve stopped running, I’ve stopped geocaching, I’ve stopped doing much of anything. Lie on the couch and watch endless episodes of House. Struggle into grown up clothes for 18 hours a week of employment.
I also have a new pup to snuggle. My friend and flyball teammate’s sport hybrid Toothless is now living with me. He’s a little too terrier for her, but having never had a terrier brain before, she didn’t know that til he grew up in her house. She’s a better person than me, giving up a dog she just hadn’t bonded with to a life with someone who would appreciate him. I should have done that with Mushroom but I never did.
Anyway, he’s little, he’s adorbs, he’s smart, he’s excessively licky, and he doesn’t bark.