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I have mental health issues. Do I talk about these? Not really. Should I? Probably. I am from a place were those who have mental health issues are considered unstable, crazy, or just searching for attention.
"Don't worry honey you're just stressed and over thinking about it. We can find natural ways to deal with how you're feeling." Basically "suck it up because you can't let people know you're suffering."
When I first realized that I needed therapy I was a junior in college. Instead of being honest that I was heading to a therapy session I would say that had another student government meeting. My councilor was great and I felt like I was making progress. Then she left. I figured I was okay and didn't need to talk to someone else. Fast forward three years and I realized I was not as okay as I thought. I moved to a new city 17 hours from my support system/home, started a graduate program, and was trying to deal with my depression alone.
Even though I knew I needed therapy, when I went to a new councilor I couldn't be completely honest with how low I had felt. That I was suicidal but the only thing that kept me pushing so hard was that my rescue dog needed me. Because of my lack of honesty I felt like this new councilor was judging me and that I was just a pretentious white chick that couldn't handle the world. So I never went back and decided to deal with my issues with food and booze.
From there I put on almost 30 lbs in less than four months. Now I had reached my lowest point and was trying to claw my way back to what I thought my "normal" was. I pushed and I worked hard to lose weight, work out, and clean eat. I lost 60 lbs in six months and was feeling proud of what my body can do. Always in the back of my mind though, I would wonder "when is the other shoe going to drop". Not a healthy way to think but hey I do.
Then you guessed it, the shoe dropped and caused my shit to hit the fan. Things slowly started to slip. My mental health was starting to slip but I ignored it and kept acting like everything was fine. What finally broke open the damn was the unexpected death of my grandmother. She was my rock and I a constant I couldn't fathom losing. I know I should have seen it coming because she was in her mid-80's but I thought I would have had some notice. What made the blow worse was she died the day before my birthday and four days before I was supposed to fly home and visit her.
While we're at it let's twist the knife a little harder by people who meant well continually telling me "Oh she was so excited to see you this week. That's all she'd been talking about for two weeks." I know people were trying to nice and reassure that she loved me. Honestly folks, that just made me feel like human garbage.
As my shit storm continued, since the day she died I have been suffering from night terrors almost nightly. My brain thinks I either need to A.) relive her funeral over & over in different ways, B.) Watch her or my other loved ones die, C.) I have to run from people trying to kill me, and finally D.) or I die in my dreams.
What finally broke me is feeling my dream self be consumed by flames much like Joan of Arc. So here I am actually admitting it and comprehending I HAVE A MENTAL HEALTH PROBLEM. I am not unstable or crazy. I just need more help and that's okay. It's okay to ask for help and to talk to people even if it makes me feel vulnerable. I know the road from here is not going to be easy but I see a new therapist Tuesday. I have made a promise to myself to be honest with her. But above all I have to keep promising myself, YOU ARE NOT BROKEN.
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