Today, my mental illness is very visible. Normally I’m very good at hiding my symptoms, I’ve had a lot of practice. Most people don’t know when I’m hearing a voice, or when a part is just a little bit too close to the front. My psych can certainly tell, I’m not sure how, and will ask ‘what are they saying?’ when I have no idea I’ve given a visual clue of anyone saying anything.
As I prepare myself for the imminent arrival of my CPN to take me – possibly drag me – to the dentist I am up and moving, too anxious to sit. Pacing, talking to the noise in my head, blasting music, trying to work off the increasing panic. I’m trying to tune in to myself, to find the place I need to retreat to in order to last the appointment.
I would share how many diazepam I’ve taken but the anxiety has made me vomit so I keep having to retake the dose and now I have no idea. But it isn’t enough – the kick I’m waiting for, that I love so much, isn’t there. I have nothing else to take and nothing else I can do.
I am ready to shut down. Not long until I can. Yet at the same time I am ready to run, to walk out the house and not come back until it is too late to attend, to pretend it doesn’t hurt and I’m fine. But I’m nothing if not stubborn, and I refuse to let my mental illness win. Plus I’m an absolute wuss when it comes to physical pain.
So I keep pacing, and rocking, and stretching, pinning everything on my CPN to keep me safe. After nine months I wouldn’t normally trust her, but I do, there’s something about her. I, we, will be fine with her.