It’s 9.39am and I’ve just had my first phone appointment with the secondary mental health service.
I am writing this half-sobbing, as I’ve just opened up my head and exposed it to someone, in more detail than I ever have.
How do indeed?
Relieved. Upset. Scared. Mortified. Hopeful.
I should be proud, she said. I’ve just spoken in full frank detail about how much I hate myself, how guilty I feel.
This lovely human being has just told me, it’s ok to feel like this; and that they will help me to get better.
I keep telling myself that if I had cut my hand, a doctor would stitch it up and stick a plaster on it.
All this is is a doctor stitching up my mind and sticking a plaster on it. Mental illness may be invisible but it’s still an illness.
My plaster may fall off. It may unstick. What if the stitches don’t hold?
I’m telling myself there will always be more stitches, always be more plasters.
Fuck you, depression.
I’m coming to get you.
L⚜ | Kicking the arse of depression one day at a time