99.9% sane, 100% organically grown

...I mean, think about it. I can't really claim to be an inorganic lifeform, no matter how detached I feel from reality sometimes. Isn't that another symptom of my mental illness -and how I hate saying that out loud. Detached. This isn't really happening to me; there's really another woman out there who's living my happily ever after life and raising this child. My daughter is a changeling gifted to me by this other woman. Because this other woman is perfect and wonderful to have produced This Happy Child, and that's nothing to do with me.

Of course I know that line of reasoning is faulty. But that's how it feels inside, sometimes. I just have to remind myself that Tiffany is my daughter. That those china blue eyes came from my blood and that she will share in my legacy. I only pray that I can leave a better legacy for her than my father did to me, in terms of managing this illness, on the flip of the coin that she will one day feel this depressive shadow weighing her down.

My Boy tells me that I'm 99.9% sane. That's it's just that .1% of the time that something little will trigger off the insane parts of me. The short circuits that I still haven't tracked down and tried to hotwire back into place. Most of the time he can rest secure in the knowledge of my sanity. I can be the partner he needs and expects and deserves. It's that other bit that still worries us. That other little bit that will need managing and watching and leashing for the rest of my life.

Do they even make a choke chain for this sort of thing?