Couch potato

So I'm seeing my therapist again.
Seems as if I should be saying this while sipping a martini in some chic little out-of-the-way cafe. Instead, I'm sweating in my family room, complete with white socks and over-sized t-shirt.
Me, that is, not my family room.
Besides, I don't like martinis.
When I was a teenager there must have been a spate of movies-of-the-week (remember those?) featuring women committed to insane asylums, er psychiatric facilities, against their will. Man, did those creep me out. It became a niggling, unspoken fear of mine. One of those fears that rears its ugly phobic head only in dreams.
Paranoid much?
Anyway, I think it's kind of ironic that I've spent my entire adult life battling depression and anxiety. Fortunately, it's become a lot harder to commit someone.
That, and crazy as this may sound, my husband likes to have me around.
And they say he's the sane one!
There's been a lot going on here the last year or so, and I've noticed my fatigue increasing along with a general inability to get much of anything done.
I mean, a greater-than-usual inability to accomplish much.
So, I guess it's time for a tune-up.
Again.
Sigh.
See you in the looney bin.