It’s been eleven months with this bloody anxiety. A year next month. And while I can see that things have improved – we aren’t at that dreadful point of arriving at an appointment in tears and leaving within minutes anymore – this isn’t living. Not for me, or for S or for anyone. “You’re doing so well” our psych said when we raised it, but when I recounted a successful day and asked if she’d be happy with that, she kind of agreed she wouldn’t be but with an emphasis on what’s gone before and the shift to how we live now. Except, as I’ve already said, it’s not living. Sure, we – thanks to S – can get to Asda. Or to Nero for a take out. But is that it? Is that all we have to look forward to forever? Back in 2009 when I first got referred to services I got my (our but nobody knew then) life back fairly quickly. And I’m not a patient person. We’re doing all the right things for very little gain – some fresh air, exercise and an empty take out cup. Excuse me if I don’t get too excited by that. I still stand and/or pace in appointments. It still takes huge effort to get out the front door. It takes longer to recover. What’s the point, really? Another year like this? Longer? How long til we can really say we’re living again? Big questions with no answers.