Might as well be a fat, sleeping ginger cat

So I used to look like this:

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 Now I look like this.
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 Asleep, fat, and a ginger cat. Oh how eight years can change a person.

Okay, so not a ginger cat. And asleep and fat is not the biggest change. I don't even want to focus on the ways this disease has fucked me over. It has and it will continue to do so.

In the hours I'm awake and with the kids, my mind is occupied enough to not ask questions with no answers or no good answers. The middle of the night is another story and I end up engaging in circular conversations with myself on how much, how long, and so on a person can stand this mangling of personhood.

It's an intellectual discussion, not one coming from my depression, etc., so there's no emotional component to it. And I always arrive at the same answer: as long as I'm breathing--my kids and husband need me and that means pushing on. Pushing through. No matter how crappy this is.

So, I'll keep on persevering, seeking answers to what this disease is called, knowing it won't make a bit of difference in how I'll feel. There's no fix to so many things. There's only moving forward.