Intermission: I’ve been lying to myself for a long time.
Do you ever have those moments where you realise that? Where you find yourself detached from the situation, from yourself, and you realise things that should be so obvious.
Two weeks ago I had one of those moments. One of those moments of clarity, resurfacing from a haze of denial to realise how messed up things had become. I realised – and over the course of these long, wretched two weeks, that I still have problems with mental health. In march next year, it would have been four years since my last CBT appointment. Four years away from depression and it makes me feel sick, and ashamed, to be back here. It is, not actually as bad this time around. It’s not even depression again, at least.
After that moment, as things suddenly started coming together into one big, horrible revelation of everything that was wrong, that had been wrong ever since that last CBT appointment, I was frantic. I did not know what to do, who to speak to. I did not even know really, what was wrong. I wanted a name for the monsters inside me. How could I fight what I did not know? I was terrified, terrified of ending up where I was four years ago. In the end, I phoned the health centre and made an appointment with my GP. After all the courage it took to make that phone call, I could only get an appointment a week later. A week of being unable to concentrate, of constantly worrying about what I was going to say, constantly telling myself that I was being crazy, a hypochondriac and I should cancel. On Thursday I sat, alone and terrified, in the waiting room, trying my best not to fidget, reading the notes I had made in an effort to organize my thoughts, to make sure I didn’t mess up. If I was going to do this, I was going to do it properly.
I wanted to tell someone all that I had been keeping locked up in my head.
I did not want to tell anyone, but I wanted to tell someone nonetheless. That is how my thoughts were, how they are.
In the end, sitting there in front of the GP it all fell apart anyway. I caught my reflection in the glass, the dark night outside making my reflection stark, showing exactly how red I had become. I felt ashamed, I felt crazy, even though I’d drafted out my letter six times, I still found myself unable to express it. I kept stammering, losing track. I got across the overall points though- that I am very anxious, and that I am struggling to control my eating. The doctor was lovely, patient, sympathetic, reassuring. He told me I don’t think you are crazy and I did not believe him, but it was still nice to hear. He did not give my monsters labels, which makes me think perhaps I’m seeing their stretching shadows, and not what they really are. That I’m blowing things out of proportion. At first, I thought he was not taking it seriously, then I just felt relieved. I needed that more – to be told, however subtly, that it wasn’t as bad I was thinking. That my fear and anxiety was blowing things up, distorting things. I do not want to be in that dark, miserable place I was nearly four years ago. And it is immensely relieving to know I’m not. I’m going to see a psychologist on Wednesday, and I booked myself a counselling session in a few weeks time. In the meantime, I need to help myself.
But I admit, I do not know how to begin. I’ve been dealing with this for so long, and I feel so lost. Notice every time I talk about food – I always mention the binging, and I always say I’m working on it. Notice, how many times I use the words worried, anxious, afraid. It’s been so long, and I feel so tired, and I do not know what to do. I have tried to fix this before, and I have failed. But I admitted out loud, I told someone my shameful secret, and that is the first step right? Admitting it. I did the right thing, right? I think it was actually easier when I was ignoring it all, now I cannot be in denial and everything I’ve been ignoring for the past years is piling up and I don’t know how to make it go away. This really is horrible. I thought, I thought after that appointment my thoughts would clear and I’d feel more focused. But I just feel embarrassed, regretful, and even more confused as ever. I cannot concentrate on my work any more. I don’t want to go home over Christmas, don’t want to be around even my family. I have to force myself to go to lectures – its so tempting just to go back to bed, to pretend that life is not happening, whilst I am here, unable to deal with it.