As so often happens in life, it’s an either/or situation. There is no in between. My choices?
A.) Stick with the current meds that have been beating down my panic disorder for the last 10 years and just accept that occasionally I end up hiding behind furniture when there’s an unexpected knock at the door… accept beating the occasional frustration bruise into my body while hiding behind that blasted furniture,… and accept worrying myself raw before, between, and after such belittling, horrifically embarrassing incidents.
B.) Add meds to the regime that would probably deal with the furniture follies but would most definitely change/dull/blunt/mask/shroud my personality into something unrecognizably fuzzy and ill-defined.
Bottom line? It’s a quality of life decision.
I’m going with Option A.
I will not lose me to the panic.
So, world, this is as good as I’m getting. Deal with it.
*smirks defiantly from behind the chair*