Yesterday I asked for help. And I got it.
And asking for help was harder than I thought. I didn’t know if my doctor would listen to me, or what they would recommend. I knew what I wanted to have happen. (Even though many people told me to go about help a different way.) And by some miracle of miracles my doctor wrote me a prescription and sent in the most adorable woman to give me a list of therepists. And the one she advised me to see is four blocks away from my house.
My struggle with depression and anxiety is not nearly so hard as other peoples. I never have really self harmed for instance and my idea of ending it all was laying in my bed for 2 days and hoping for a lightning strike because I sure as hell didn’t want to get up ever again. I shut down when I’m depressed. I sit quietly in a corner and ball it up till I freak out at people. And frankly, I have nothing to freak out at any more. Not really. I went from a high stress environment where everything I did was wrong and made me throw up from the stress to an environment with my husband where everything is okay. The only thing not okay is my mental illness butting it’s way in to what should be some of the best years of my life. And I’m not involved. I watch my son play and can’t join in. And it hurts.
I feel that by seeking help I am somehow taking resources from someone else who needs more help from professionals than I do. But that isn’t the case. And I’m going to keep reminding myself of that. I’m going to journal to see how this all goes (offline. Don’t worry.) And try to see if this is helping. Tuesday I call the counseling center and see what may be seen.(Monday is a stupid holiday). And I’ll adapt. And change. And try new things. To get better. To be my best me.