I started seeing a therapist when I was eighteen and saw my first psychiatrist around the same time.
Six years later, we’re on to therapist #7 and psychiatrist #3 and I feel like if this isn’t the combination that finally does the trick…
I’m 24. I feel that I am both too old and too young to be going through this tired old song-and-dance again. I am tired of feeling like I’m tormenting my husband (though he insists that while watching me suffer is upsetting, my illness is not a burden) and tired of trying to keep it all together. But falling apart is completely terrifying, which is why I get up every morning and put on the pretty dress and the high heels and the makeup and the perfume instead of doing what I really want to do, which is stay in bed and cry and drink or take assorted drugs until my mind is a big, blissful zero.
Because it’s a slippery goddamn slope and I’m too old to be such a mess but too young to give up.
Also, this is why having chipped nails or unshaven legs bothers me so much. It might seem silly to care so much about my appearance when there’s so much noise inside my head–some days, it is like having ten radio stations tuned in at the same time–but it makes me feel less sick. If I can be pretty and charming, even in all my infinite, glorious messiness, part of me believes that I’m going to make it through this.
But first I need to buck up and get over the “I don’t want to live like this anymore!” weepiness that’s been heavy on my mind lately. All these pills, man. All this therapy. All these bills that I keep putting off, paying in tiny installments because I know I’ll never be finished.
And maybe that’s okay.