I was probably born with a genetic predisposition to mental illness. My father has undiagnosed bipolar disorder, my mother has unipolar depression, the majority of the adults in my family used alcohol to self-medicate, and my brother has ADHD which borders very closely on bipolar disorder.
Problems. Problems. Problems.
The neglect and abuse I experienced as a child created anxiety that has been with me ever since.
All of this triggered my complex trauma.
So some of this is in my DNA, some of it was imposed on me by others, but now it’s all mine, a mixture of disabilities.
Managing my mental health is a continuous act of resistance. I take multiple medications throughout the day. Sometimes the medications stop working so I switch, waiting for one to wear off while the other builds up in my bloodstream. I have side effects, most notably persistent hand tremors. I constantly have to determine if I can take a decongestant or if I need to stop taking my anti-anxiety medication for 10 days before an allergy test. I don’t have a car so I constantly need to be driven to the pharmacy.
Eve puts in a lot of effort handling the potions, her hands twitching as she pours them out. It’s fun.
Since what happened last summer, I’ve been seeing my therapist three times a week. Before that, it was two times a week so I had enough time to focus on talk therapy and trauma processing therapy. I try to see my psychiatrist more frequently, and thankfully, we’re both comfortable with distance therapy.
Then there’s insurance. I have good insurance through Highmark. But there’s a 10% coinsurance for copies, so when my insurance reimbursement rate goes up, so does my 10%. Right now my therapist’s billing team is negotiating with Highmark. The clinic itself changed from weekly to monthly billing without prior notice. In the back of my mind is the reality that if my wife quits her job and loses her employer-based health insurance, I’ll be forced into Medicare. It’s very hard to find a Medicare-approved therapist.
I have to take my medication with every meal. I have to keep a variety of drinks on hand to make sure I stay hydrated. My hand tremors affect my cooking. Sometimes I can’t hold a reusable bottle steadily enough to drink from it, so I use a straw.
Changing the dosage of my medication usually makes me extra sleepy, and I can’t do that because it makes me feel worse when my sleep schedule gets too disrupted.
There are everyday things to do too: chores, laundry, cleaning the cat litter box, running the water bowl, getting the mail, making sure the lawn is mowed, paying bills, grocery shopping, etc.
This is who I am, and it’s my full-time job to live my best life making the most of what I’ve been given. Of course I wish I hadn’t been neglected or abused, but there’s no magic wand, so I want to focus on my success in making it to 53 relatively unscathed.
Let me be clear: I don’t need to be fixed, saved, or prayed for. I need you to put all of your energy into creating a healthier world for me, for others, and for yourself.
I need you to support me. To do that, I need you to listen to me. I have many friends who fear psychiatric drugs as a tool of the devil, but I can’t talk to them about drugs. I’m not going to fix them. I’m going to talk to other people. I have friends who tell me two stories for every one I hear from them, to find a common bond. I don’t talk to them much. Shall we talk more about drugs?
I know that my vocal presence as someone with mental illness is an incredible burden to other people who have been brainwashed with terrible messages about people like me, because yes, there are people like me. I am just like the crazy, erratic, crazy, insane people in your life.
They don’t need to be cured. They need your support to access the tools and resources they need: affordable housing, income, health care, transportation to the grocery store and pharmacy, a compassionate ear that doesn’t spew their drama into their stories. And apparently there are also an increasing number of therapists who are allowed to accept Medicare.
I don’t need your sympathy. And don’t give me any sympathy, because that’s a huge trigger. But I need a ride to the pharmacy.
Know that you don’t need to be fixed. Some of the medications you hate or fear may make your life easier. Talking to a therapist won’t destroy the barriers you’ve carefully built. You are still who you always have been. You have agency and power over your health and happiness.
It’s not your fault, but how you respond is your choice.
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