I desperately, desperately want to get better. I do. I'm taking away the worst things from my life and I'm adding in things that I'm positive and passionate about. I wake up in the morning, excited for the day to come, instead of dreading it. I turn on my computer with the intention to do some good, necessary work. I am taking so many steps forward and trying to remain optimistic and positive. And then the doorbell rings at 10:20 a.m. and I panic completely. I suppose I didn't panic as badly as I have before. I didn't hide. I certainly didn't answer the door. It sounded like someone tried to open the door after knocking. I just panicked.
A moment later my phone rang. It was my mom. I completely forgot that she was coming by to pick up something that Mikko had forgotten this morning. It was just my mom.
She walked in and I was already crying. I just hate being scared in my own house. I hate being scared everywhere. I hate having good days shattered by something as silly as forgetting I'm expecting someone. I hate how far that sets me back.
I want to hope that this day will turn again, but that hope is somewhere stuck in my throat while my panic attack wanes.