No really. I am.

At least technically I am.

Or, better put, I struggle with anxiety which at times is mixed with depression. So yeah, I am a little bit crazy.

And I forget things. A lot. Just ask Danielle if you don’t believe me. She’ll confirm it in a heartbeat. And it always seems to be the things she NEEDS me to remember. It’s almost like I try so hard to not forget that I end up forgetting. Go figure.

But I digress. Living with anxiety and depression is the worst. I would probably rank it right under living with a terminal physical illness. And this might sound harsh, but if you’ve never experienced it, you don’t understand, at least not fully.

And I’m speaking from my point of view. I can’t imagine the toll it has taken on Danielle during the 3-4 significant bouts I’ve had since we’ve been married. I can’t say “thank you” enough to her for sticking it out with me. Many other women would have left, and honestly, I wouldn’t fault them for it.

When Danielle refers to herself has crazy, I think of it more as OCD/control issues. Not literally crazy. Maybe annoying would be a better word, but you didn’t hear that from me.

So while her “crazy” is trying to deal with at times, I think it pales in comparison to what she went through standing by my side. Let me give you a little glimpse.

It’s Monday morning. 7:15 AM. The alarm has been on snooze at least 3 times now. My side of the bed is drenched in sweat, and I’ve been up off and on since 4 AM. My stomach is knotted up unbelievably tight, and the though of just getting ready for the day is a daunting, if not impossible, task. Imagine thinking everyone is upset at you or that every little thing you do is wrong. You constantly second-guess yourself. You’ve been going to the gym for a month or so, but now it’s been 3 months, and you haven’t canceled your membership, because that would be “giving up” and really admitting you have a problem.

Welcome to my world from August 2012 through February 2013.

That’s a small glimpse of what Danielle lived with for half a year. HALF A YEAR. She’s a saint in my book.

Of the two of us, I’m the crazy one. But I’m glad my best friend is fighting with me.