Today was my last day on the morphine. I'm getting closer.

I go to therapy twice a week. I try to get outside at least once a day, if for nothing else than fresh air. I scrapbook pictures from our Jamaica trip. I read anything and everything I can get my hands on. I diligently work on the things suggested in counseling, and notice small changes. I smile and kiss Aaron when he walks in the door, even if I feel like someone has taken a sledgehammer to me. I try to pick up a little bit every day so that my husband doesn't feel as overwhelmed. We spend our time together cuddled up, and he massages my legs when they won't stop twitching. He welcomes the newfound affection I'm bestowing upon him, as it's been so long since I lavished the man with love. Because I know it's good for me, I accept invites when people want to come over and check on me, though I hate people seeing me so vulnerable and weak. My cats sense that I'm not feeling well and they come purring loudly to keep me company. No matter how bad I feel, I make an effort to get dressed every day, and it helps me from feeling like a complete invalid. I cry when I need to, but try not to drown in the tears. I hope in my heart of hearts that the changes I'm making, little by little, will replace the old habits.

I try. I succeed. I fail. But I hope...