My French class was extremely agonizing. It got so stressful that I was on the verge of tears at one point. On the way out, the teacher kept saying that I had to study every single day. I wanted to say that I never want to study French ever again. I had sort of broken down to a degree and told him why I feel immobilized from studying. I basically exposed my delicate underbelly, under pressure. It didn't do any good, only bad. I won't go into it all.

On my way home from the class, I had a major desire to go home and have a drink. I haven't had such an urge for a very long time. I do have one drink most days, but haven't been drunk for years. I've almost never mentioned here that I used to have a drinking problem in the past. I self-medicated improperly treated bipolar disorder for a good chunk of my life.

I did have one drink more than I should have tonight, but it was in my husband's presence. I had invited my neighbor over for dinner because she's moving far away this week. We also had another neighbor join us at my house for dessert. I had worked my tail off prepping the dinner and cleaning the downstairs for much of the day before and after the French class.

I forgot to mention that on my way to the French class, I found myself in the wrong part of the area/town. It was like I thought I was going to my therapist's office, or something. I had to totally backtrack to start heading in the right direction.

I actually missed my therapy this week. That day I was in a hyperfocused state writing and writing. The phone rang and it was my therapist who said "Hi, BirdDancer. How are you?" I replied "Hi Robin, I'm great!" She had to tell me she wondered where I was before I realized that I totally lost sight of everything outside my inner world.

I see my psychiatrist on Monday. I really need him! Unfortunately, this will be my last appointment with him until after his annual six week summer vacation on Martha's Vineyard. I sometimes wonder...is it his vacation that makes me ill so often in the summers?

My husband and therapist keep pushing me to keep going to the French lessons. I feel like running away. In contrast, my psychiatrist doesn't think I should ever move to Europe. Years back when I told him about my husband's plan, my psychiatrist loudly barked "Don't do it!" He thinks that such a move would be catastrophic for me. Deep down I don't want to go. It scares the living *h*t out of me. So many things about the idea make me want to run away and hide. But I'm no victim here. Or maybe I am. If I had never grown so ill, I could have been a director of sales or marketing by now, at my old job. We'd have plenty of money to live where we do. But I'm not and didn't. My illness took that away from me. I swear, I didn't!