So, I asked Giant Deli to marry me today. The little minx cocked her head to the side and said we could date for dollar, dollar bills. I’m sad to say, I accepted her offer. But I reminded her that Wegman’s Hot Bar was just down the street, and she’ll be a fine little thing to have on the side. Since I’m having to pay and all.

I’ve spent the last three and a half years learning how to identify people’s strengths and point out examples of resiliency. Now I get to learn how to spot the crazy in all of us. It’s a life, I suppose.

But ya’ll. In all seriousness. There is something about owning my very own DSM-V. It’s so …professional. And that feels good. It feels competent. But it also feels and smells like…responsibility. Heavy responsibility. What I’ve been doing so far is all about hope and growth. And while I understand insurance companies want these words before they will come up off the money, I’ve never done well with labels. I don’t like wearing them, and I’m pretty sure I won’t like assigning them.

None of that will stop me from digging into this book like it was a novel, though, because mental illness FASCINATES me. Fascinates, I say. It always has. Which I guess is not surprising coming from an aspiring clinical social worker.

I promise to use my super powers for good and not for evil. Mostly.