Crackers.

I, yes, I have landed myself in therapy.

Perhaps it was the meltdown over not being able to attend the upcoming Wiggles concert (August 8) with my whole family (seriously, wtf), or maybe it was the massive anxiety attack I had throughout X-Men 3 on Sunday night after we dropped the boys off with my mom for their first overnight together (I'd have been fine if the movie had been more engaging). Anyway, my husband asked my sobbing, disintegrating self this morning if it might help if I see someone. I think he was expecting me to fly up off of the couch and kill him for suggesting it. Instead, I wanted to ask him what the fuck took him so long to realize I am not myself and need a little bit of help. He's on the other computer right now, running the insurance approved list of care providers past my dad for a recommendation.

Whee!