For most of my life, I’ve struggled with varying levels of mental health. In high school, I was rushed to the hospital in an ambulance because everyone thought I had had an allergic reaction to Sudafed. Turns out, I just had a massive panic attack. Breathed in a paper bag and felt like an idiot for putting everyone through the dramatics. Then came the lows. Luckily my brain slow rolled them over decades, so they didn’t venture into really scary territory until well into adulthood, when I could be sensible about getting help and, eventually, medication. Therapists helped me sort out the noise in my head and organize the thoughts into characters, which sounds bananapants when I write it out or talk about it, but it’s the only way that I can conceptualize whatever it is that I’m feeling that the moment because without it, it’s just a mess.

About six weeks ago, my brain said, “hold my fucking beer”. I woke up one Friday with intense anxiety, like when you stay up all night and you feel cracked out the next day. Up until this point, anxiety had rendered into panic attacks, which, now that I’ve had so many of them, I know that I just have to deal with a shitty feeling for 20 minutes, whilst reminding myself that I’m not, in fact, going into cardiac arrest. The difference this time was that the terrible awful wasn’t going away. I even joked with people, saying, “can someone tell my nervous system that I’m not being chased by a bear?” So funny. Hilarious.

Throughout the weekend, the anxiety continued and, by Monday, my body felt like it was on fire. I wanted to unzip my skin and burst forth Alien style. Or maybe Predator? You know, like when they open their face? Whatever. There was something inside that wanted to get out. Desperately. The other problem? The Dark Thoughts Demon arrived to whisper sweet sweet nothings into my ear. Now, I hadn’t seen this guy in quite a while, not since before medication. But now he was back, in all of his sexy glory, ready to take over. He began to make…suggestions. Good ones too, that promised pain and relief. I’m not in a dom/sub dynamic, but I fully understand why someone would be. In that moment, that sounded like one of the more healthy ideas. Instead, I decided to punish myself at the gym, which ended up eventually doing the trick.

The anxiety episodes started coming every other week, each time getting more spicy with the lows. Which brings us to last week, when the What’s the Point Fairy gently landed on my shoulder. That bitch is very convincing. I tried so hard to ignore her. I kept busy all week and Saturday. By Sunday, all bets were off when, you guessed it, the Dark Thoughts Demon comes striding back in, with his cocky attitude and great ideas. Let me tell you, the Fairy/Demon combo is…not good. They are best friends, you see. When you have two danger creatures whispering bad decisions into your ears, permanent solutions start to seem like an excellent idea.

So yesterday, I went into crisis. Yep. For the first time ever, I went into a full-blown episode. My therapist and I worked through options. I had to sign a release form for her to speak with my psych NP and come up with a plan for me. She was very hesitant for me to leave her office and, honestly, there was a moment where I was as well. See, I live in America and in this country, mental health treatment is a joke. Behind door number one was in-patient treatment, where I would have spent three weeks with a group of people, who were going through any number of things, while I sat there, racked up a huge medical bill, and got probably nothing out of it. Door number two offered an outpatient program where I’m on Zoom from 9-3 every day for three weeks. What the actual fuck? I decided to choose the path of least resistance, aka door number three. I went home, called my psych NP, and upped my meds. I also have more frequent therapy appointments booked, so I can be more closely monitored and supported.

That’s where we are now. I feel weird as shit and slow because of the med increase. The mind creatures are still hanging out, but I’m trying my best to drown them out with loud music. All of it fucking sucks and I wish I didn’t feel like I’m broken. I hate the American healthcare system. I hate that my co-pay is $50 for every therapy visit. I hate that I would have paid out the ass for in-patient treatment. I hate that I still went to work today like everything was fucking normal. I hate that this is happening and that the only way is through. Because that is the only way, friends. Through. Even though I can’t see a damn thing in front of me and have to trust that I’ll eventually make it out. And it hurts. And it’s sad. And it sucks.

Anyway, I know it’s kind of weird to publish such personal information on an open platform. It’s probably too much, but maybe there’s someone out there, who needs to hear it. So, I guess, if that’s you and you want to talk about it, feel free to comment below or email me. Let’s all pinky swear to keep taking steps forward into the mist. Then we can get back to talking about books and fun stuff.