"They said what?"
"I was saying that I was looking forward to my doctor's appointment this week, that we're going to talk about me taking an anti-anxiety medication, and their response was "I'm not a doctor, but I'm sure there has to be a better way to take care of your anxiety.""
"Please inform them that this kind an an attitude has has or will hurt someone in their life who is struggling with mental illness."
"I will."
"And that I want to punch them in the face. With science. And my fist."
"I don't doubt that you would."
***
"Welcome back."
His voice is the first thing I hear after the alarm, and between getting teary and wondering how he could tell from my face, I start berating myself.
"Hi." I mumble in return.
Superficially, it's been a normal week. We've gotten up, gone to work, come home, made dinner, and puttered about with our usual evening pursuits.
Unironic domestic bliss, usually.
But I've been sleepwalking through the week in a cloud of anxiety and sadness. I couldn't tell you what I've done with most of my days. I can tell you that I've slept less than 10 hours in the entire week and that I walked into a fire hydrant the day before because I was so out of it. I am, on a basic level, aware that the boyfriend has been gently encouraging me to eat, to drink one of the endless cups of tea he has made me, that he's been taking me for walks like a recalcitrant old dog.
I am aware of these things only because this part of our life together isn't normal but it's happened enough that it's tediously familiar.
And it's these small kindnesses, these tiny moments of thoughtfulness and love that leave me undone when I wake up back in charge of my own life. Because I meant to stay away from deep, loving relationships until I didn't need someone to do these things for me.
But, whoops, here we are, trying to navigate our way through this.
He kisses my forehead and whispers. "I'm so glad you're here. I missed you." There's no judgement or anger in his voice, only warmth, relief, and happiness.
I bury my face in his shoulder. "I'm trying. I really am."
"Oh Kel, I know."
There have been some hard-learned lessons in the course of talking more openly about mental illness. Namely: humor helps, you'll never be ready to talk about your mental health with your boyfriend's family (regardless of how warm and wonderful they are), and that some people are never, ever going to get it.
On my best days, I can find some degree of amusement in how freely people comment on my course of therapy, my decision to go on medication, and my desire to be as open as possible about life with anxiety and OCD.
On every other day except my best, I want to simultaneously scream and cry when someone asks me if I worry that getting treatment is going to make me a worse writer ("Afterall, your funniest, best, most engaging writing is about mental illness.")
Oh boy.
I am not a good writer because I have mental illness. I am not funny, engaging, or creative because of anxiety or OCD. Any good quality I have, I have in spite of mental illness. And here's the thing (and I'll say this once, psycho-typical people) even if I was those things only because of my mental illness it wouldn't matter. If I could press a magic button right now that would allow me to live a life without anxiety, obsessions, compulsions, feeling securely attached to the people I love, where I could have a whole month without a single sleep-walking day, but I would have to give up being a creative person?
I would do it without hesitation.
Because despite therapy and medication and a supportive partner, I still have days (weeks) where I am sleepwalking through my own life. I am so tired of mornings where the boyfriend could welcome me back to my own life. No amount of creativity could ever be worth that. When people suggest otherwise it makes me want to punch them with science. And my fist.
His voice is the first thing I hear after the alarm, and between getting teary and wondering how he could tell from my face, I start berating myself.
"Hi." I mumble in return.
Superficially, it's been a normal week. We've gotten up, gone to work, come home, made dinner, and puttered about with our usual evening pursuits.
Unironic domestic bliss, usually.
But I've been sleepwalking through the week in a cloud of anxiety and sadness. I couldn't tell you what I've done with most of my days. I can tell you that I've slept less than 10 hours in the entire week and that I walked into a fire hydrant the day before because I was so out of it. I am, on a basic level, aware that the boyfriend has been gently encouraging me to eat, to drink one of the endless cups of tea he has made me, that he's been taking me for walks like a recalcitrant old dog.
I am aware of these things only because this part of our life together isn't normal but it's happened enough that it's tediously familiar.
And it's these small kindnesses, these tiny moments of thoughtfulness and love that leave me undone when I wake up back in charge of my own life. Because I meant to stay away from deep, loving relationships until I didn't need someone to do these things for me.
But, whoops, here we are, trying to navigate our way through this.
He kisses my forehead and whispers. "I'm so glad you're here. I missed you." There's no judgement or anger in his voice, only warmth, relief, and happiness.
I bury my face in his shoulder. "I'm trying. I really am."
"Oh Kel, I know."
***
On my best days, I can find some degree of amusement in how freely people comment on my course of therapy, my decision to go on medication, and my desire to be as open as possible about life with anxiety and OCD.
On every other day except my best, I want to simultaneously scream and cry when someone asks me if I worry that getting treatment is going to make me a worse writer ("Afterall, your funniest, best, most engaging writing is about mental illness.")
Oh boy.
I am not a good writer because I have mental illness. I am not funny, engaging, or creative because of anxiety or OCD. Any good quality I have, I have in spite of mental illness. And here's the thing (and I'll say this once, psycho-typical people) even if I was those things only because of my mental illness it wouldn't matter. If I could press a magic button right now that would allow me to live a life without anxiety, obsessions, compulsions, feeling securely attached to the people I love, where I could have a whole month without a single sleep-walking day, but I would have to give up being a creative person?
I would do it without hesitation.
Because despite therapy and medication and a supportive partner, I still have days (weeks) where I am sleepwalking through my own life. I am so tired of mornings where the boyfriend could welcome me back to my own life. No amount of creativity could ever be worth that. When people suggest otherwise it makes me want to punch them with science. And my fist.
