It’s my fault for being happy for 30 seconds

When I left your house, I was happy.  I was fucking happy.  This should have set off warning bells, but it didn’t.  I went home and I talked to my friends about you and I smiled like an idiot and gushed like a teenager. 

Late night revelation

I switched medications because I wanted to try having a wider range of emotions: I was getting tired of having only numb and number. Although I am coping better since starting this medication, I don’t have that overly medicated zombie-esque façade to which I become accustomed. Quite often it would go through my mind that perhaps this medication was not working.

Feeling exposed and not in the good way

Against my better judgment, I’ve let someone in.  I have talked about my kids; I’ve told stories and shown pictures.  I’ve used their names instead of calling them “the big one” and “the little one.”  I’ve talked about my dad, my ex, and yeah…even my emotions.  I’ve done it without realizing, and I keep doing it.  As much as I know I should stop, I don’t.  I actually want to let this person in.  I want them to know these things about me.  I want to know things about them.