I don't talk about my mental health a lot on here, but this week has been--as the youths say--triggering.
Look: my mom is a paranoid schizophrenic and my dad is manic depressive with schizoid tendencies. I've known I was "not normal" since long before puberty.
When I was a kid thearpy was mandated by the state. At no point was the idea of meds ever seriously bandied about by a doctor who took the time to talk with me, and for that I'm thankful: I've seen just how dependant my parents are on the stuff. I also know that there have been major advancements, but here's the thing: a decade of no health insurance would have made any kind of med routine for my bouts of depression a financial diasater.
I have major bouts of "there's no point in this" paralysis. I don't use that word lightly. There are reams of things I haven't fought for because the voice that dresses up as "rationality" says there's no point in making the effort. (You should hear what it's saying now.)
Oddly enough, I'm writing this because I'm tired of pretending like I don't have these feelings all the time. I'm terrified of getting a fresh diagnosis, and I swore long ago that I wouldn't go on meds: given how expensive they are that wouldn't even be an option. Even with insurance. (I haven't had a complete implosion in ages, just some good old-fashioned self-sabotage now and then.)
By putting this up I intend one thing: to spit in the eye of the darkness. To let it know that I'm not embarrased enough by its role in my life anymore. To not choke down the thoughts and soilder on like I always do, because that only seems to make it stronger in the long run.
That and to let you, gentle reader, know that the door is open if you need to talk. Because I've been there.