(Happy) sigh.

Yesterday when M, my therapist, asked me how things had been going, I waxed poetic about how good I felt.  For more than half of my one hour appointment.  I know, right?  Awesome.  I told her about a family situation that came up and I simply decided how to respond in a way I felt good about, asserted my limits, and didn’t feel guilty.  I talked about how bad days of teaching didn’t feel like a harbinger signaling the inevitable unraveling of my life.  My persistent sense of dread has nearly vanished.  I feel well-rested in the morning.  My shoulders and jaw are not always tense.  I don’t agonize over ever word I speak.  I no longer feel the urge to word-vomit my entire sob story to anyone who will listen.  I text friends about mundane things, and enjoy the sense of connection.  I, more often than not, can stop eating once I feel full.  I don’t dread social events like I used to.  People listen to me like what I have to say matters.  Oftentimes, people honestly laugh at my jokes.  The weighty darkness that used to shroud every waking moment has dissipated.  I no longer feel irreparably broken.

Hot damn.  If that’s not progress, I don’t know what is.

If I would have known that a little bit of chemical help would have taken me the last few yards to feeling good about my life, I would have done this an awfully long time ago.  These little pills obviously didn’t solve all my problems.  Because of the work I’ve done, I have a whole tool chest of skills that are helping me navigate this brave new world I find myself experiencing.  But heavens almighty, I would be lying if I said they didn’t help an awful lot.

Life isn’t perfect.  It never is.  But I feel competent and capable.  More minutes than not, I feel content, if not downright happy.  Part of me keeps expecting to wake up and find myself right back where I was.

I told that to M.  She said, “Nope.  I don’t think so.  This is your new life.  You worked hard for it.  Enjoy it.”

I think I will.