The bath was hot and bubbly. Lavender bath suds. A good book. Aaaahhhhh.

Well, okay, not everyone's idea of a good book; Suze Orman's The Money Book for the Young, Fabulous & Broke. To each her own.

I settled back into the water, opened the book, and plop!: out fell two photographs. Me. During the Bad Time. I let them dry on the sink as I bathed.

The first picture was of my niece carrying my nephew around in a swimming pool. Why is this important, why did I save this? I asked myself. Oh, there I am in the background, watching the kids swim. My leg is crossed over the other. I'm wearing my old Tevas and a red sweater. My hair is pulled back. I'm talking to someone off camera. I'm fat.

The second picture is of me, my mother, my father, and my friend Roxane. We've just eaten my birthday lunch at Scott's Bar and Grill in Edmonds. I'm dressed far more casually than the others, in a blue v-neck t-shirt and red, white and blue plaid pants. For a moment, I look happy.

What you don't see is the six weeks of panic attacks. The loss of 23 pounds in that time. The weeks of sleepless nights, with my mother in bed next to me, suffering at my side as she watched her oldest child unable to find refuge from terror.

My mother is amazing.

I had not forgotten how difficult that time was, and I never will. There are days I wonder if there is a possibility of that scourge returning. But somehow I know I don't ever have to feel it again. I know it, I've named it, and I've sent it away.

That was two and a half years ago, and look at where I am now. Living. Loving. Breathing.

Amen.