I decided to go to the doctor when I got home and cried. I cried through a shower. I cried through making dinner. I cried for another 2 hours on the kitchen floor.
I say that’s when I decided to go to the doctor. What I mean is that’s when I decided to tell a friend about it. She wasn’t my closest friend. I hadn’t seen her in about 7 years. But we were still in contact on Facebook and she had been very vocal about mental health. So I sent her a message. She encouraged me to take a day off to see a doctor. Not later in the week, not when I had time, immediately. So I took a deep breath and the next morning lied down the phone feigning illness.
It was scary going to the doctor. I had to admit to myself that I had a problem. I wasn’t crying in the toilet every day at work because it had just been a tough day. I shouldn’t have to leave the classroom during a lesson to dry my eyes because of challenging behaviour.
I had a problem. And the scariest thing was, it wasn’t my fault. I prepared my speech for the doctor. It turns out I didn’t need it. I burst into tears as I walked through it for her. I cried as I explained how awful I had been feeling and requested pills and counseling. I left with a blotchy face, a prescription and the feeling a weight had been lifted.
The pills helped give me the boost and self esteem I needed to get a job at a different, more appreciative workplace. I feel like me again, and want to do things. There are days when the fog descends and it’s hard enough to eat, let alone put on a CD, but most days I feel like I am alive. I am aware of things around me. I think it is always going to be there, my grey cloud waiting to swallow me, but I use my bright days to find small things I enjoy, to engage and interest me on my dark days.
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