it's been a year.

Today is November 10.

Today I woke up around 6:30, got dressed for work in my Basic White Girl uniform (boots, scarf, cardigan, DUH) while listening to Christmas music (DUH), convinced (see also: bribed) my girl to wear something monogrammed, put her hair up in a bun for dance today, made coffee in my favorite Bye Felicia mug, dropped my girl off at school, stopped at Sonic for my usual Diet Dr. Pepper (Haters gonna hate. I don't need any lectures here, people. Like I say when it comes to my many other addictions {i.e. Sharpies, Target, monograms, DUH}- It could be worse. I could be addicted to heroin.), and drove to work with my sunroof open and my Michael Buble Christmas playlist turned up loud enough for all of Richmond Road to hear.

Today I worked on typical Tuesday things (I have finally found my niche in accounting and I l-o-v-e it. Matching invoices to purchase orders is my jam. Seriously.), laughed with my co-workers who have totally learned to live with my crazy, grabbed lunch with my husband, made a few more to-do lists for the move to our new house in a couple of weeks, picked up my girl from dance, and came home to my favorite guy, my favorite pjs, my favorite blanket, and my favorite book. Today has been a good day.

Today I can't help but think of how much has changed since last November 10.

It's been a year since I woke up with the depressed realization that I had indeed woken up. It's been a year since I cried at the thought of having to get up, get dressed for work, get my girl dressed, and get us both to school. It's been a year since I felt panicked at the thought of, well, everything. It's been a year since I spent the entire morning planning how to commit suicide. It's been a year since I sat in my doctor's office after school and cried to her that I wanted to kill myself because there just wasn't any other way. It's been a year since she told me the only other thing she knew to try was an inpatient facility. It's been a year since I tearfully agreed with her and packed a bag for what I thought would be a 72-hour stay to adjust my meds. It's been a year since I walked into what felt like a prison and screamed and cried and begged my mom and sister not to just leave me there. It's been a year since I cried myself to sleep without a pillow (since I was a suicide risk) on a plastic mattress in a sterile hospital room while nurses came in every fifteen minutes (since I was a suicide risk) to shine a light in my eyes and make sure I was still breathing. It's been a year since I was admitted to a 'unit' and given a 'number' - both of which felt much more like a prison than a hospital.

It's been a year.

It's been a year, and I'm still very much bipolar.

It's been a year, and I'm still very much struggling with depression.

But that's okay.

It's been a year, and I'm okay.

I take my meds, I check in with my doctor, and I see my counselor. I know my triggers, and I know (for the most part) how to cope with them.

I'm not afraid to call my doctor and tell her when I don't feel like I'm managing well enough, and I'm not afraid to admit when I need help making it through the days. I'm not afraid to tell someone when I'm not okay, and I'm not afraid of what that may or may not say about me.

I'm not afraid to make changes. I had to be brutally honest with myself and admit that I was unhappy in my old job. Massively unhappy to be precise. My heart wasn't there anymore, and both those kids and I deserved better. I deserved to have a job that didn't reduce me to tears every morning when it was time to go to work, and those kids deserved to have a teacher that was more equipped to handle the great responsibilities that come with that classroom.

I was afraid for so long that admitting I was unhappy as a teacher would make me a failure. I was afraid that it would mean that I wasn't good enough. Those fears fed into a defensiveness that only compounded how I felt and began to color my relationship with my co-workers, my administrators, and my students. Staying would have only been even more of an injustice to all of us. The brutal truth is that I was in no shape to take care of myself, much less 25 little people who needed as much emotional support as they did academic instruction.

So I turned in my notice that the end of the school year would be the end of my teaching career. And it felt wonderful. And that's okay.

I'm not afraid to tell you that I don't have it all together, and I'm not afraid to tell you that I'm not fixed. I won't ever be fixed, but I will be - I am - better than I was.

I would be lying if I said that the thoughts I used to have don't creep in every once in a while. They do. But then they leave - because I make the choice for them to leave. I make the choice to change my mind, and then I'm okay. And if I'm not okay, I just keep working at it until I am or I ask for help.

Today is November 10, and I am thankful to be here sharing these rambling thoughts with you instead of sobbing in my hospital room.

Today is November 10, and I am thankful to be alive.

Today is November 10, and I hope these words will find someone who needs them as desperately as I needed them a year ago (and to be honest - as much as I still need them now).

Today is November 10, and unlike last year (and again to be honest - several years before that), I am looking forward to November 11.

Today is November 10, and life is good.

xo.