- a major meltdown just once a week now;
- going back to the gym (QMM's hangout area).
And now...I no longer depend on my Therapy Bag. TB, as I affectionately called it in my mind; yes, I know, that sounds kind of gross. That's why I never said to anyone "hey, I'm coming over and I'm carrying TB with me". I mean, really, how wrong does that sound?
TB was very important to me. It was a bright pink, obscenely oversized carrying bag. In it, I had crammed items that I felt helped me and without which I could not survive. It contained numerous, totally unrelated items. TB carried a crochet hook and afghan I was working on, a needlepoint kit, a book to read, a copy of the Quran, a drawing pad with a set of drawing pencils, a journal, and my laptop. That's all!
I lugged TB around wherever I went. I would start panicking just thinking about stepping out of the house without my precious TB (and yes, I know that still sounds gross). Wherever I went, so did my TB. Wherever TB was , that's where I was.
The items in there were at my disposal to help me focus, I guess, on something other than the reality I wanted to escape from. Anything to get my thoughts away from my living nightmare.
I don't know when, but I no longer rely on TB anymore. I don't even recall when I stopped depending on TB and the items it contained. But TB helped me at a time when I needed it the most. This big, bulky, bright pink bag was my best friend in the worst situation.
Thanks TB. I hope I never need you again.
