Tomorrow is D-Day.
Okay, so maybe not that dramatic. But tomorrow is the day I’m dragging my parents to therapy with me to explain my brain and hopefully tell them I need a safety plan without involving a heart attack, for any of us.
When Sara and I initially talked about this, she mentioned that it’s my call, but she thought explaining this to them was something that I could do on my own. I entertained the thought for about 8 hours before I realized the stress of that would send me over the edge. I texted her and she had me scheduled within the week, conveniently right after I normally meet with her. Bless her.
I’m terrified. No, not terrified. Scared. Anxious. Nervous. I feel awful for the ways I’ve shut my parents out in the past, and I feel guilty for dumping all of this in them–I don’t want to worry them. I feel an instinctual need to apologize for how I’ve acted in the past, and for what I’m about to tell them.
I’m stable right now–more so than I have been in a long while–due to new medication. I’m calm, happy, productive, focuses…all those things. Seriously though, I actually sat down and read a book for three hours today. I haven’t been able to do that in months.
I so desperately want to pretend that I don’t need a safety plan and that I’m okay now and all of the struggles are behind me. It doesn’t work like that though. I don’t get to say when I’m all better, and I don’t get to say I can do this all on my own.
Mental illness, like any illness really, doesn’t let you do things by yourself. You don’t get to choose how and when it will make you like difficult, and it won’t let you handle it by yourself. No matter how strong-willed and stubborn I am, I don’t get to say I’m fine. I know that I could wake up one morning and suddenly be very not okay.