When you’re dealing with mental illness, which in my case is comprised of things like generalized anxiety disorder, major depressive disorder, obsessive-compulsive personality disorder, and probable PTSD, starting to actually deal with things can feel liberating.
“Oh, yeah,” you think, “I’m getting my shit together. Meds and psychotherapy and self-care and light therapy, I got this.”
And then you get through whatever crisis got you to rock bottom, and the really fucking hard work begins.
Shit like cutting off the attention stream that the tedious toe fungus in your head thrives on, and beginning to tell it to fuck off.
Or shit like willingly going to an appointment at the hospital that triggers panic attacks from hell, and choosing to feel the feelings as they come up instead of running away and drinking a bottle of wine.
Or my big favorite this week, analyzing why it is you blew your stack at your spouse and realizing by your very own self that it was your disordered fucking thinking and not that your spouse is a total asshole (which should be a much easier conclusion because you know for a FACT that you didn’t marry a total asshole).
I feel like it’s safe to say I’m through the darkest part of my mental health crisis, but if I want to avoid going down in that pit again, I have to do the work. And that’s some seriously hard shit.