anxiety
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Don’t look. Don’t look at the mental hospital. Don’t look at the signs in Sacred Heart pointing down the hall to the psych unit. Every fucking day, triggers and flashbacks. Even flashbacks of the future. I take my meds religiously. But my sleep meds are quickly losing their power. Even the Ativan is just not
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Today is my birthday. I’m 40 years old. I am amazed I’ve made it this far. I never would have imagined I’d make it to 40. But here I am, scarred but alive. My mother made me a special dinner to take to work. We are trying to get along. I’m soaking up this break
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My mind is a swirling mess, so many anxious thoughts and visions of the future. So many triggers in my world despite my best efforts to mitigate them, to manage them, and use the therapy, so much therapy. When I want to sleep, I’m wide awake. I take the Gabapentin, Vistaril, Melatonin, sometimes Ativan. Force
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Two weeks complete of grad school. This morning I was nearly in tears, overwhelmed at all of it. Overwhelmed at my home life and the misery of my mother and stressed by increasing demands from a totally online Master of Public Health program. I’m trying to roll with it, enjoy it. I was very good
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I’ve completed nearly a week of grad school. The program is public health and is accelerated. So far it has been research practice, reading and writing. I’ve spent time scouring scholarly journals as I have total access to all of them. I’ve taken part in class discussions – conducted online of course – and I’m




