I hate you, dr. psychiatrist. I wanted you to help me.

Instead you have released me to the heavens.

I am not ready.

Wednesday's are no longer for weeping.

So, i am planning to go to BlogHer in July. I have about half the money saved. But, i can't buy my tickets or anything until i get my passport. I applied in January. Nothing. I called and they haven't even begun to start processing it.

I feel like this may be a sign. A sign that i am just not meant to go. After all, last summer's trip to BlogHer, while exhilarating and educational, left me an anxiety ridden mess.

I am doing well. The sunshine helps. We are all happy to have our living space increased by two acres. Patio doors flung open. Hours spent riding on the deck, jumping on the trampoline and wandering down to the creek. Freckles flourishing.

Sadness sits on my shoulder, gently tapping me throughout the days. I think sadness and loneliness hold hands up there. I'm just not sure that i will ever not be lonely. I hold everyone at arms length. Stand alone in the shade after school while all the parents chat amongst themselves. At parties i am usually wandering aimlessly or leaning on shane, basking in his ability to talk for hours. Usually, i just don't go.

I spent much of my four days at BlogHer last year doing just this. Wandering. Alone. Getting up my nerve to talk after cocktail party lubrication. Turning into that strange canadian blogger who talks silly things and eats other people's food. Socially i am a fool. I'm not sure i can handle that anxiety again.

Yesterday was therapy day. I really didn't want to go. It is finally sunny and beautiful out. The kids and i are itching to go to the lake for the years first swim.

I have been feeling better. Adjusted to my change in medicine, sleeping a little better. I even cleaned the whole house and bounced on the trampoline. I haven't done that since i broke my tailbone - jump or clean.

But, i went. The thing that i really don't like about my case worker is that she leaves everything up to me; if i am given the chance to not talk, to not feel uncomfortable, i'm going to jump on that. She asked me what i wanted to work on.

"I dunno."

"Do you want to take this hour and read a book, or maybe go to the beach?"

"With you?"

"No. Instead of seeing me."

"Okay."

So. I'm done with therapy every week. For now. I will still see my psychiatrist every three weeks where he can continue to beat my heart up, but my case worker let me go. I can go back any time. I just feel very full of things to "work" on already. I do think it is beneficial and i am seeing positive changes. It is just too hard for my tender-hearted self to get beaten up on a weekly basis. I need more time in between to digest.

I had therapy with my psychiatrist last week. I alternate; two weeks with the case worker and then the psychiatrist. It was brutal. When i left he said:

"You have a prescription?"

"Yes."

"You're miserable?"

"Yes."

"Then my job is done."

After i had my first daughter, tristan, i fell in major crush with my doctor who delivered her. I read that it was pretty normal. And it passed. Because, really, who loves a handle-bar mustachioed 45 year old man when they are 26? I feel the same about my psychiatrist. He's cute. And he totally gets me. He knows that i am only laughing because i can't cry. We laughed when i told him "well, i guess things are better because i haven't thought about killing myself this week..."

Holy, oh my stinkin' heck though, he asks the tough questions.

For me, those were:

"When were you last happy?"

I had to think. And think some more. And, embarrassingly, say "I can't remember."

And then he asked me:

"What will make you happy?"

I thought. And i stared at the floor. I tried to cry to take the attention away from just me. I thought about all the consequences and decisions.

"I don't know."

And those are the questions that are haunting me.