My nephew brought his dog over to bring me back to life tonight!

Bridget (the dog, not my nephew) is the best medical dog in the world except 1) she has no accredited nursing degree 2) she keeps asking to borrow my stethoscope and I'm beginning to suspect she doesn't even have one of her own 3) her scrubs are decorated with little superhero kitties, which—I'm sorry—is COMPLETELY implausible for a dog nurse 4) she is way too fidgety to just lie down and snuggle 5) she's even worse when you try to get her in a picture, like this tender loving emotional nursey one of us both sitting upright and attentive and side by side in front of the lit tree.

So I swear my bloated woe-is-me ramblings on here every time I spiral out of control aren't thinly veiled solicitations for love notes in the comments. In actuality, they're not even veiled at all. I know I have a vast support network, I am humbled by its size and sincerity, and sometimes getting lengthy lists of Facebook comments reminding me you're all out there does more good than you could ever imagine. So thank you. Between you, my parents (who are the fiercest, most devoted advocates a crazy bipolar man could ever hope to have), Bridget the dog (who at this moment is selfishly in the next room not doing a damn thing on behalf of my mental health), a workday highlighted by two Diet Cokes, a bag of Famous Amos cookies and my favorite shoes, a 500-hour nap and a bowl of store-brand Jell-O that was so deliciously limey that no other lime in my past or future will ever measure up, I am exponentially better than I was when I started typing my unfocused manifesto 24 hours ago. I'm not out of the fog yet and I'm gonna spiral out of control again sometime but I learn new ways to cope each time and when I brain-dump on here again to organize my thoughts, my Facebook support army will come out of the woodwork again and make me feel able to keep on keepin' on.

Cymbalta withdrawal is a bitch. Bitch Kitty is a bitch.

Cymbalta withdrawal gives me brain zaps, which are like blackouts with extra dizziness and lip tingles and confusion and disorientation but no actual blacking out. Bitch Kitty gives me the come-pet-my-soft-warm-exposed-tummy fakeout, which is like a real come-pet-my-soft-warm-exposed-tummy invitation but with growling and hissing and swatting and running away as fast as her waddly soft warm tummy will allow but with no actual soft warm tummy petting.

 
Cymbalta withdrawal brain zaps hit me then fade away then hit me then fade away until I'm exhausted. Bitch Kitty swats at me then runs away then swats at me then runs away until I'm tired of her bullshit.

Cymbalta withdrawal brain zaps will eventually go away and I will dance on their grave. Bitch Kitty will eventually go away and I'll actually kinda miss her.