I’ve been having trouble writing and posting lately. But I questioned whether or not I wanted to post this. Maybe I decided to do it because I know I’ve not been posting… or maybe I’ve finally realized that since I’ve written at least five different versions of this post over the past few weeks, I need to get it out of me. Yet I still have reservations… hopefully I won’t regret this…
I’ve lived with depression and anxiety for most of my life. And I hate it. Of course I hate it. I’ve seen doctors and nurses and counselors and therapists. I’m finally seeing someone who’s really good. Not because she gave me a diagnosis, something I never had until this past year, but because she really listens to me. She’s not even a therapist but she hears me more than any therapist ever has… even to the point where she sees that I’m not in a place right now where therapy is going to do me a damn bit of good.
But… a diagnosis is a double-edged sword. It’s a relief, in a way, to have one. There’s a real reason I am the way I am. It’s an illness. It’s not my fault. But when I heard the word, it freaked me out. It still freaks me out. In fact, I can’t get myself to type the seven-letter word in a post. I find it embarrassing. Like I should be able to fix it. Like I’m weak and pathetic because I can’t. Like people will run from me when they hear it. ‘She’s fucked up! Get me away from her!‘
I blame my bad decisions for the way I feel today. My fault. But should I be blaming my illness? Or is that just an excuse? It feels like I’m just making excuses. But… did those bad decisions bring me to where I am today or did the illness cause me to make those bad decisions? Some would say the latter. I’m not sure I’m on board, though. I continue to blame myself… to be ashamed and embarrassed… to hate myself for being this way. My NP has told me many times that I have a real illness… that none of this is my fault. Yet I struggle to believe her… to believe any of that.
Am I one of the very people I get frustrated with because they don’t think mental health illnesses are real illnesses? They think I can just ‘cheer up’ or ‘choose to feel better’ or other such cliché garbage. But it is an illness. I sure as fuck didn’t choose to have it. I wish I could choose not to have it and it’d be gone. Poof! I fucking wish. I wish my cousin could have chosen not to have cancer… but he had no say in the matter… and neither do I. I’m sure my cousin didn’t blame himself or hate himself for having cancer. Yet I blame myself… and I hate myself… for being this way. How is it different? The blame, the hate, the choosing, I mean. How is it different?
Please don’t run screaming away from me. I’d miss you.
©2017 what sandra thinks