Holy fucking shit, that is a lot of stuff. And I did it all. I mean, I've taken obscene amounts of Imodium. I've freaked out inside and sworn to myself that I couldn't go to whatever activity was next a million times. But I fucking did it all. And I did not shit myself in public, or make a fool of myself in any other way (that I'm aware of, friends that I saw could address that issue better than me). Pretty incredible.
One of my friends even commented that I seemed to be handling all the activity really well. It made me think of a dear old friend who suffers from chronic depression. When it all came out that I was having a pretty significant breakdown she commented to Z, "Nice Game Face!" I was so proud of that, I had cultivated being the picture of normalcy for so long, the fact I'd fooled someone who had pretty excellent mental illness radar somehow meant I was winning. Even when things are going really badly, when I need a bathroom urgently or my heart is pounding or I think I'm going to faint, if someone asks how I'm doing I'll probably reply, "Oh! Just fine, thanks!"
But now I'm scared I'm going to crash and burn when we get home. It has been so hard (and wonderful) keeping it together. So hard to push myself to get out the door and fucking live life. And so incredibly worth it. I'm scared my crazy isn't going to let me get away with this whole doing things situation for much longer. Fingers crossed I make it though getting tattooed. Losing my shit there among the cool kids would be beyond humiliating...
So as soon as Z left this kid started liking me again. Today he even asked for kisses.
And this kid got a fever in NC and fell asleep while eating pizza.
This is what Z is doing this week. He's taken apart an antique piano and it recording music and making other instruments out of it for Dance Exchange, a modern dance company in DC. How fucking cool is his life?