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Writing is an adventure. To begin with, it is a toy and an amusement. Then it becomes a mistress, then it becomes a master, then it becomes a tyrant. The last phase is that just as you are about to be reconciled to your servitude, you kill the monster and fling him to the public.

— Winston Churchill

This Nut Isn’t Really Cracked

Several weeks ago I shared with y’all that I’d been skating on a slippery slope of mild depression for several months and I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. Well, actually, I didn’t think anything was wrong with me and I was chalking the whole thing up to anxiety…but my darling of a husband started to not-so-gently point out all the ways in which I seemed to be slowly losing my mind. My nut was cracking, and he was worried. I went to the doctor; she did a blood work-up and discovered my vitamin B-12 level is deficient.

I apparently have an issue with how my body absorbs the vitamin, regardless of how much I ingest through my food. I’ve been getting B-12 injections once a week for the last six weeks, and oh what a difference! B-12 is my new drug of choice, and it’s completely legal and covered by insurance.

I have more energy, more focus, and my memory has stopped taking increasingly random vacations. I’m still crazy as a bat, but at least I can remember insanity is my normal state of conscience and nobody has to be too alarmed.

I feel really optimistic again. Oh sure, life still requires I play doge with pitchforks, but whose life doesn’t require some zig and zag?  You know what else? I’m a lucky woman to have a husband who bugs the hell out of me when he suspects something is wrong. Sometimes he’s the only person I listen to, and he’s the one person who always stands up to me. I may complain when he tells it like he sees it, but I always appreciate his honesty and his advocacy.

The poor guy, though, he’s not sure what to do with me now that I’m smiling and doling out extra hugs like one of Santa’s elves with candy. After several months of living with my mood swings, cold shoulder, and erratic sate of mental malaise, he’s probably waiting for the pendulum to swing again.

I wonder if the bag of syringes and vials of B-12 I brought home from the pharmacy after my doctor agreed to let me shoot up at home are at all comforting to my family. With physical evidence in the house that happy serum will continue to flow, perhaps he’ll feel a little more confident in my long-term state of mind. Hell, maybe I’ll even let him make the needle tracks on my arms just so he knows I’m keeping up with medical protocol. Then again, my new-found optimism may not be encompassing enough to put a needle in my husband’s hand and give him permission to poke me. I think I’ll just give him another hug.

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