Hi, my name is Mary, and I need therapy.

Kitty Therapy!

The topic of therapy has come up more than a few times in Zoloft and Coffee. I have discussed how it is not a technique that works for me. How I don't really like talking to anyone, much less a stranger. How everyone thinks a therapist is god's gift to the mentally ill. How it only makes my racing mind run faster. Well, I am going to take all that back. I have been out of therapy for almost a month, and I am not ashamed to admit that I miss it.

To make a long story short, my insurance situation has made it more complicated for me to get the help that I need. What is the proper course of action when you find out that you have insurance through a family that you are estranged from? This is the dilemma that I am facing at the moment. 

Do I just go ahead and use it hoping they don't mind?

Do I ask permission to go through their plan and risk making it sound like I am only looking for a relationship to use them for their insurance? 

Or do I try to forge through the dense forest of bipolar and anorexia solo, without professional help?

While none of those options sound appealing to me, it seems like I have settled on the last one. I am navigating my way through pills, stressors, stigma, and triggers with nothing but my trusty journal who is getting quite a bit of attention these days. And I can't decide if it is the fact that I am too proud to ask for help or too scared to admit that I actually need it more than they know.

I did make a small, very small, effort to replace therapy with a support group. And when I say very small, I mean VERY small. I couldn't find the room it was being held in, so I turned back towards home and never looked back. Never made another effort to find that, or any other, support group again. And I justified it by saying that I don't even like talking, especially not to strangers. It's not a technique that works for me. Support groups are not god's gift to the mentally ill. Wait, have I been here before? Fuck. Maybe I should try again.

So that's where I'm at. If it seems like I'm meandering a bit, I probably am. I'm missing a stabilizing piece of my treatment. Missing it in more ways than one. But don't confuse my meandering for being totally lost. Sure, it provided me with some guidance and direction, but I will survive without it if I have to. I'm still ok.

Bah Humbug! No, that’s too strong, ’cause it is my favorite holiday

Good Riddance, Christmas!!! Bah humbug!!! Other anti-holiday phrases! Ok, just kidding. I love the holidays, but can't there be one that celebrates the circadian rhythm? Or maybe a holiday where everyone turns off their cell phones and no one cooks? Fun!

In all seriousness, it is hard to have a mental illness and carry on with the social conventions that appear to come naturally to the rest of the world during festive times. I understand that everyone has stress involving finances, relatives, and general exhaustion this time of year. But when you throw a mental illness or two into the mix, December is not only stressful, it can be triggering.

I can't speak for every person and all illnesses, but here are a few of the hardships I experienced December 23-25.

• Lots of people were in my house two days in a row. This is a big deal. I spent a long time isolating myself, sneaking out of gatherings early, and "feeling sick." Now all of a sudden, I had people ringing my doorbell, and I had to let them in. Because I invited them. 

• Not only did these people want to come in, they expected me to be dressed and capable of pleasant conversation (neither of which are guarantees on any given day). I broke down in loud, messy tears in the middle of pre-party cleaning, hating myself for not being normal and afraid that I wouldn't be able to handle a Christmas party with family I see on a regular basis and friends I talk to daily. "It's my party and I'll cry if I want to"? Bullshit. That is a bad party. A bad party that would have all the guests backing up to door and talking about the crazy lady who thought she was capable of sanity for a few hours.

• Then there is the opposite of depression to worry about when you're bipolar. "Wild Mary" kicked in on Christmas Eve, and she cooked for at least 9 hours, and cleaned for another two, starting at 6 because she woke up before 5. Dainty little appetizers, color-coded fruit kabobs, individual wonton cups for spinach dip, multi-cultural desserts, and dreidel-shaped ice. With the wildness usually comes anxiety. By the time guests arrived, I was sure they would see I'm crazy. My mania was written all over those mini quiches. 

• At my house, every other house, and most offices, food. Food as far as the eye can see. Chocolate and cheese and sausage and breads and pie and egg nog. Do I really need to explain why that may be scary to someone with anorexia? 

• I am not the most superficial girl, but I do like pretty nails. Any coat of color will do really. But Lithium tremors came full force the day before Christmas Eve. I wanted some festive, fun nails. Lithium just wanted to splash red all over my fingers. I felt like I was preparing for a low budget Christmas-themed horror film. 

• Finally, there is alcohol to worry about. I don't go to bars or clubs for the sole purpose of not drinking, but it creeps its way in during the holidays, oozing down the windows and crawling under the door. Oh, right. I wasn't actually in a Christmas horror movie. Fine, I bought it. But not with the intent to drink. It fucks with the lithium. Like, for real. Christmas Eve, I had to make a choice: drink with my friends and suffer the consequences, or abstain like a good girl and feel bitter that I don't get to relax after all my hard work. I drank. I didn't sleep all night. I was dizzy for hours. Bad choice, and I didn't even get close to drunk.

I love my family and friends. I love the holidays. I had a wonderful time when I wasn't teetering on the edge and was glad I did it. I proved to everyone that I can hold it together and create a wonderful evening and cook lunch on no sleep the next day. But next year, I'm handing over the reins or serving hot dogs. You guys pick.

Thank You Letter

Since starting this blog less than two weeks ago, I have gotten tons of feedback. People are commenting on the Facebook page, emailing me, calling me, inviting me over. And everything I've heard is positive. I'm told I'm so brave for sharing my story with the world and that everyone is so proud of me. Strangers from across the country are thanking me for putting into words what they have always felt. People I haven't talked to in years, people who I pushed away for trying to help me before I was diagnosed, are giving me confidence to continue this effort.

I am in awe of how accepting people have been of my going public with something so controversial. Instead of being thanked, I feel like I should be the one doing the thanking. It is too easy for me to feel sorry for myself or think that it's not fair that I have to suffer with mental illnesses while everyone else gets to be healthy. Several people (friends, family, and strangers) have admitted that they suffer from some sort of illness as well. They have hid it, just like I did for so long. Thank you for making me feel less alone.

Even though I always knew it, I am realizing what a fantastic support system I really have. I have amazing friends who are willing to talk me down when I'm freaking out about whatever it is that may be driving me crazy in the moment. I have a great family(-in-lawish) who constantly reminds me that I am loved. And I have Boyfriend who, on top of everything else, never makes me feel like I have to hide who I am. 

I know that someday, probably someday soon, someone will read this who is not so accepting or supportive. And that's ok. Knowing that I have everyone else who is makes me confident that I will be able to handle it. Or at least that I will have many shoulders to cry to. 

With Love,

Mary