Crazy

A week ago Thursday I had a nervous breakdown.

No, seriously.

I don’t remember where Erin was… maybe her boyfriend’s house? But I came home from dinner with a friend and completely lost it. I had a higher than normal stress level already thanks to a crazier than crazy week at work, but while that contributed, it wasn’t what made me upset.

It all started when I read this. To summarize, the post was written by a woman I admire, and contained her thoughts regarding those who recognize their own mental illnesses, but do not seek the help that they need.

…and the thing is… I do recognize my own mental difficulties. And I do want to seek the help that I need.

But I can’t afford it.

As in, I have no mental healthcare. As in, even if I decide to go anyway and work out a payment plan, I need a referrel from my pcp, and I'm not allowed in her office until I pay my back balance. As in, I can't both eat and pay my back balance.

So I lost it. And cried to Brian for close to an hour on the phone about how fucked up our healthcare system is.

And also about how… so what if I got help? What if I don’t want to get help? What if getting help actually makes me better?

You see, what terrifies me more than anything else, is that I might actually get better.

Because then it would be like nothing ever happened.

And do you see how not ok that is?

By the time I crawled into bed I really couldn’t imagine getting out again. Except that I had to. Because I had work the next day.

That Friday was the longest day of my life. I cried at least five times, sneaking into the company bathroom or out into the hall to try and keep it under wraps. A coworker asked me for a small favor that fell well within my job description and it was all I could do not to burst into tears and scream at him, “WHY ARE YOU PUSHING ME OVER THE EDGE RIGHT NOW!?”

I started to worry if my weekend might be spent in a ball on my floor.

Um… no. Seriously.

Erin was gone for the most part to her brother’s wedding, and for the first time in my entire life I considered whether or not I might need to check myself in somewhere to make sure I didn’t hurt myself or just go completely crazy before she got home.

I opted for bed, which was a bad choice since my upstairs neighbors decided to play music at midnight. Music I swear I could hear even in the confines of my basement where I finally set up some blankets for myself. Music a sane person could not have heard that far below them.

And so Saturday I gave myself an ultimatum. Curb the crazy or check myself in.

I started at the gym, took the day one step at a time, and made it through relatively unscathed. Told Erin what had happened, got honest with a lot of friends regarding my mental state, and only let myself do things I knew full well I could handle.

And I made it through.

So now I’m taking each day at a time. And so far, I’m doing ok.

But I wanted to share how scary that breakdown was… how scary a breakdown can be. Because I’ve always been of a firm belief that if I can count on anything in this world, I can count on myself.

And that few days not only could I not count on myself, but I didn’t recognize myself as anyone I had ever wanted to become.

Why He's my Best Friend

"What are you getting me for Christmas?"

"Bride, I don't have any money."

"Whatever, you still owe me for the hotel after the wedding."

"Oh right, what was that? $25?"

"No, only $15..."

"Ok... how about I give you my old UMaine Hockey sweatshirt and we call it even?"

"Ok."



Don't tell Brian, but I aready stole his good brown belt in exchange for the $15 hotel stay.

read this read that!

So I'm sorry for leaving you hanging on the whole romance between me and Mr. Indiana Jones, but I've been sort of busy writing about other things for other places.

As in, I'm officially going to be writing on a regular basis for the Weekly's music blog and I am really freaking excited.

My first post is up, so go here and check it out. Along with a charming little photo of myself where, unlike my last Weekly staff photo, I manage to not look like a Who.

And while you're reading that, I'll work on securing a third date with Indiana Jones, and report back as to whether or not he owns his own whip.

Woo!

Indiana Jones

Remember when I met a cute archaeologist in the midst of being a bar freak? And he was a good kisser?

We had a date last night.

But I'm not going to write about it because, you know, that was that other blog, and I actually really like this guy.

What I am going to write about is HOW FREAKING RELIEVED I was to find out that he's not conservative. Because lately, it seems that everyone I meet, is. And what the fuck is that? I mean, c'mon, this is Vermont.

You know, if you want to get wasted and pick up the (very young) captain of the local University's football team and bring him back to your friends house to kiss and stuff, you really shouldn't have to worry about him scoffing when you tell him you're against the war. Because then you have to shush him and pretend you have enough tequila in your system to let it slide.

I mean, that didn't happen.

I'm just saying it could... and I don't like it when it does.

What I do like is when cute archaeologists are not only liberal, they're 'green' too. Like so green that they want to start a business that has to do with being green. And SO NICE that they don't laugh in my face when I react with a big excited, "YOU KNOW, I'M ON THE WEEKLY'S GREEN TEAM!"

*Swoon*

I mean, it's not totally cool that he lives above the bar where you could maybe get wasted and pick up that young football captain... but that would only be a problem if that actually happened.

Which it didn't.