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.