Constant state of recovery

Most of the time I feel so far removed from the days when my anxiety and OCD hampered my life.  When things would upset me so badly that I would rant and rave and become explosive angry and simply be unable to think of anything else but the incident that set me off.  My brain would churn, churn, churn over the incident.

Most of the time I can let things go.  Glide relatively easily over life's little molehills.  My toes are always a little stubbed because I just wouldn't be me if I cleared the hill completely without any kind of scrape.

But then I have today, when I am so out of control of my obsessiveness that it is all I can do and even become physically exhausted by the effort of reigning myself back in, back to some semblance of composure.

I am fighting a battle inside my head.  And it makes me feel like a failure because I sometimes can delude myself into thinking I no longer need to fight.  That I am cured.

But I am not.  Only recovered.  In remission.

And little stresses have been sitting on my plate for months, never fully going away, just sitting, piling up, weighing heavily on their resting place inside my mind.  Keeping me at low-grade worry.

The ENT claims that were just sitting out in space, and are finally being processed (but for who knows how much?).  The specter of M needing surgery for tubes...another expense.  The new school year, 27 school days in force, which has brought with it sickness in each child.  The winter that looms ahead which could be as sickly as 2009 was.  My cavities and new fillings, which are giving me some discomfort and will require another dental appointment.....and more money.

I know perfectly well that all of these are minor, minor health-related issues.  No cancer.  Nothing life threatening.  Nothing that singularly justifies anxiety overload.  Probably even combined, in a person with a perfectly healthy head, they wouldn't amount to the proverbial hill of beans.

But I don't have a perfectly healthy head.

And nearly 12 months of interrupted sleep and very few "Mommy do something fun just for her and not just grocery shopping" opportunities are not good for anyone.

So yesterday's bill for $750 has not upset me solely because of the money.

That is only part A of my worry.

Part B is the knowledge that had I been aware, been notified, I would have been on it so hard it would have been resolved.
Part C is the anger at the whole "health insurance" situation, that by signing into the hospital to have my baby, I agreed to pay for it all, even in situations like this when the billing company and doctor's billing department were incompetent.
Part D is the recognition that I am not cured.  I am dependent on medication to keep my brain functioning in a harmonious way.
Part E is the sadness that my stability is sometimes fleeting.

And as my dear husband pointed out when I called him crying about this whole mess,
Part F is the memory of just how miserable my life was for a time, and that being overwhelmed by my OCD and anxiety brings me full force back into that life.

I didn't miss it at all.