About a month ago, I admitted that I was in over my head. Not only to myself or a family member. Someone I’d never met, who simply wanted to help. And she got me on the path to finding a counselor/therapist. So I started calling offices to get an appointment. And I left messages. Then I called. And left more messages.
I was surprised at how difficult it is just to get help for mental health issues. I’ve been told that I basically have to brow-beat someone into seeing me, which makes me a little sad. There’s no shortage of people willing to give me a pill that will cause nausea, blood clots, heart palpitations and death. But, to actually get help? No dice cousin.
The ebb and flow of my moods have always been a source of anxiety for me and I’ve always classified myself as “moody.” It wasn’t debilitating, so I just waited until I felt better. Then about two months ago, I could barely get out of bed. I would go home, lay down, and get up when it was time to go back to work the next morning. One day, I gave thought to the last time I’d actually been up all day and enjoyed myself. I also thought about the last time I hadn’t spent every spare moment shoving food in my face. When I couldn’t remember, I decided that it was time to get help.
So now, I’m in the process of begging. If you hear about a woman kicking in the door of a therapist’s office, just know that it’s me. My intentions, however, are pure.