On Monday, 25 March 2013, I broke.
A few different things happened recently and the snowball effect took my feet from under me. I tried to ask for help, but I had managed to push away so many people that the places I used to ask for and get help just weren’t there anymore.
Everyone I asked was busy, or just not available.
Someone recently told me that I couldn’t possibly have depression because I smiled too much. Having a full time job made me pretend for quite a while. She then asked me what depression felt like. My answer was simple. I just didn’t want to live.
It does vacillate for me, between wanting to die, and just not wanting to be alive.
I managed to get hold of a particularly awesome friend who had a long calming talk with me, and then I called my psychiatrist. She generally starts with a few questions:
1. How are you feeling today?
2. Do you have any feelings about death?
3. Have you tried anything?
4. Have you made any plans?
5. What are those plans?
She kept me on the line, and called for a bed in a ‘recovery clinic’, where I have now been safely ensconded since Monday 25th March 2013. I’m not quite sure how long I’ll still be here, but I’m ok with that. My medical aid pays for 21 days, and I’m on now on day 7.
I’m alive, and happy to be alive.
And fucking grateful for medical aid.
I spent 17 days in the recovery clinic. Daily therapy & a safe space made the world of difference.