It’s 1 AM and I can’t sleep.

Talked to my doctor today. My office has this convenient messaging system, so nice that I don’t have to drive 40 minutes and pay $25 to ask for a referral to a psychiatrist.

Yep. Psychiatrist.

I’ve been down this road a few times. Once in high school, except I saw a counselor and not an actual therapist. It helped none at all. Then, at the beginning of the year, I told my doctor I wanted to see a psychiatrist. She’s a nurse practitioner, so she referred me to a counselor (when I explicitly said not to) so this is not my first go round. 

Oh, I did have another option. Outpatient therapy, mandatory, 9 AM-3 PM, 5 days a week, almost an hour and a half’s drive. Did I mention those are my work hours and it was run by a pastor? Yeah, no.

I want someone to tell me yes, that I’m in the right direction, or no, let’s try this approach. My body craves schedule and balance but my mind refuses to give it over, so I’m desperate for something to work.

Mental illness is like a form of cancer. The disease takes its toll, along with the medications you try to fight it with. My mind has been so impaired that I’m not entirely sure of my own genuine personality. 

I do know I am an angry bitch on Lithium, low functioning and sad on Venlafaxine and Buproprion, and manically insane on Citalopram. Flip a coin and it still won’t predict what emotion I’ll show in the next 5 minutes.

Seeking help is hard. But you know what’s harder? Saying fuck it and trying to go it alone.

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