Title Schmitle (or something)

This last week, I have been using most of my brain power on building a new computer. I’m kinda wondering if I have a brain quota, which only allows me to think so much during a given time period. I’ve built the computer, installed everything – and it’s peachy, but literally everything else I’ve tried to do has turned to shit. It’s like my brain has said, “WOAH!!! That’s it, missy, no more cognitive processing for you!”
My husband’s favourite is my putting the sugar in the fridge the other day. He’s really tickled by that. I don’t mind, at least it takes his mind off the job shit he is enduring yet again.
He is still with the same company, but they seem to think it’s okay to offer him temporary work, then at the last moment right where he’s crapping himself about how we’ll pay the mortgage next week, they offer him another few weeks work. It’s really taking it’s toll on both of us, and because of the incredibly long hours he’s working, it’s making it really difficult for him to look elsewhere. So, if anyone out there is looking for a highly skilled mechanical engineering quality inspector, e-mail me. (Like that’s really going to work…)
After the whole incident of not going to therapy last week, I have decided to write a letter to M, explaining why things have gone to shit. It mostly involves explaining about the Efexor experience, and how my panic and anxiety have sky-rocketed. I’ve tried to explain that it’s a different kind of anxiety – really sharp, like a kind of mental razor-wire. I guess having a constant headache and nausea doesn’t help. Funny, though, I’ve only had two panic attacks this month. I feel like I’m on the verge of a panic attack most of the time, especially when I’m out and about, but I always manage to avoid an actual attack.
My other symptoms are still there, and I feel flu-ey and hungover most of the time. I wish I could stop being so impatient. I’m aching to feel ‘normal’ again. Like my husband keeps on telling me: I’ll get there – eventually.

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