I never thought the day would ever happen, but next Sunday is the day I’ll be officially moved back into my house.
Three months ago I decided to move out. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. The wife and I had stopped talking. She didn’t really want anything to do with me after that point. Only when I wanted to see the kids. Which right after I moved there was a job out of town for a few weeks.
So now it’s here.
The dream has become a reality.
I don’t ever plan on stopping writing here. Just because I’m moving into a different place doesn’t mean I won’t ever have issues anymore. She didn’t cure me 9 years ago. She can’t cure me now.
When she got home today, we talked about everything. About the move. About her fears. About my fears.
What would happen if I lost control again and mania started again? Would I even know it was coming, and would I be able to get hell fast enough to help myself?
Or if depression showed it’s face again? Would I be able to withstand the pain again and not cut myself again?
What would happen if all or a combination of these things happened and I had to move out again?
How would my kids handle dad going crazy yet again and have to leave again?
What if..what if…what if…
My words were…we can’t worry about the what if’s. We have to live for today. There might not be a tomorrow.
YES, I WILL ALWAYS NEED MEDICATION.
This I know and I will do everything I can to make sure I stay on the track I am heading now.
So…Wednesday I take my first load of stuff back. I’ll grab the nonessential items. Not like I have a lot here. I didn’t bring much. And I’m taking less than I brought with me.
I’m very nervous.