Today, despite it being summer and my not having to rush my two girls to school, I woke up in a big 'ol funk. At 5:00 a.m. our precocious Lucy, now a thirteen-week-old bundle of energy, acted as a canine alarm clock and woke me up. She was raring to go on a puppy ultra-marathon. My husband rose early to let her outside, and he made enough noise in leaving our room that I couldn't get back to sleep.
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As of this writing, I will be welcoming a puppy into our home tonight. Our family is totally freaking out about our new addition in the best way possible! And now more than ever, I believe in "furry antidepressants". Please allow me to explain…
“We’re never gonna survive, unless, we get a little crazy”
I used to love listening to Seal sing “Crazy” on my VW Jetta’s stereo while driving up and down San Francisco’s steep hills, a fitting backdrop for such a song. One must drive differently in San Francisco – it’s such a treacherous maze of streets, especially when driving a stick shift car like mine. I was twenty-one years old at the time, a thrill seeker, and a bon vivant in the making.
I never knew what "pdoc" meant until I was diagnosed with bipolar one disorder, and learned that it's a shorthand term used for psychiatrists by those in the bipolar community.