So, I didn’t just decide to tell you about my attempt to hurt myself and then just totally drop the subject. It’s just been so super hard to get through every day life. I have no desire to write anything. And when I do, I get overwhelmed and just put the idea right out of my head.
But you guys, these last three to four months have been the hardest of my life, hands down. I’ve battled anxiety and (unknowingly, because I denied it) depression since I was about 11. I still am not sure if I have anxiety brought on by depression, or vice versa. All I know is that I remember when my anxiety set in. I was 11. I remember losing my appetite, and sleeping a lot and I guess, feeling depressed, but not really understanding exactly what was wrong. I just knew that I didn’t feel right or the same. But once I figured out the key to managing my anxiety, I was able to cope. I wish I could figure out the key that my 11-year-old self figured out so many years ago. Because somehow, somewhere along the way, I lost that ability. It’s probably adult life, and kids. And hormonal changes. But it’s just hell, and there are days where I feel like I’m one step away from eating cat food in a state facility.
And then there are the other days where I feel great. Not manic, oh my god, life is fucking awesome and lets blow our entire life savings on blow, kind of great. But, I feel more level and happier, and I made it through the day without crying or yelling, kind of great. That’s a success for me, even if I don’t recognize that day. Now if only my god damned doctors would stop trying to pigeonhole me into being manic, because I’ve never pulled and all nighter, or felt the need to do something enjoyable to extremes. Anyway.
After leaving the hospital, they wanted me to go to an outpatient program. I had no problem with this. However, there was a chunk of time between my discharge from the hospital, to my in-take date with the program. Because it fell square in the middle of Christmas week. I was stressed out over missing Christmas events. Namely, my kids little banal preschool Christmas parties.
Except for me, it wasn’t banal, it was my entire world. I would.not.miss.it. Especially not when my son, the child who could not communicate effectively for years, asked me “Mama, you’re coming to my Christmas party at school, right?” So I changed the date. Epic mistake. Because I was turned away. No clinical need, so insurance won’t cover it, they told me. My only choice at that point would have been to end up back in the hospital, which was not an option.
I couldn’t find a therapist. I wasn’t qualified for an out patient program, and my insurance wouldn’t cover an Intensive Out Patient (IOP). I felt like the system had failed me. I’ve been in therapy on and off for years. I never had this issue with insurance that seems to be prevalent today. I pay out of pocket for my psychiatrist. At one point, I was paying out of pocket for a therapist, which means, I was rarely going. At $125 a pop, that shit adds up fast. And before you know it, blowing your entire life savings on blow, is cheaper than geting the help, you need. The help you deserve.
I ended up in my doctor’s office, hysterical, sobbing. The dead-inside German woman. ”I just want to feel better.” Crying wasn’t the problem. I just didn’t want to be doing it all the time. He promised me he’d get me into out patient. ”If that’s where you want to be.”
I don’t care if it seems weak. I don’t care if it has a stigma. I will do anything to get well. For my kids. For my family. My kids deserve the best mother I can be. Not supermom. Not like so many other bloggers make themselves appear. Right now? I’m a hot mess, but at the end of the day, even if it’s a day of frustration, and more yelling than I’d like to have done that day. At the end of the day, I tell my kids how much I love them. That they can do anything they want to, and that no matter what happens today, I am more proud of them than anything in the world. And that I hope that they still love me, in spite of my faults. And that I can make them proud, too.
And I think, maybe I’m not such a horrible mother, after all.