Recently I found myself sitting back in the chair across from my Psychiatrist. Six years later and I still see a Psychiatrist. I am pretty sure 5 years ago I probably thought by now I would be done with my routine visits with a Psychiatrist, but nope. You see the Psychiatrist is not a bad thing, in fact I am sure it has helped me get to where I am today. However it is the shame that is often associated with a Psychiatrist. The jokes society makes about "crazy people."
I have heard myself say, "people with cancer don't go see a foot doctor they see a cancer doctor. I see a Psychiatrist. Someone that specializes in what I need, meental health." Oh how I wish Mental Health was not tabboo in our society but that it was accepted along with all other Health Care.
Even in those first two paragraphs I hear my own voice of shame in being a Mental Health Patient. Why is this all so hard?
The box. As I began to morn the sadness of my Daughter's birth story and attempt to explain the PTSD that comes a long with it, she listened compassionately. After listening she says to me, "Maybe you want to see those notes from the psychiatric hospital because you still want to make sense of it all. It will probably never make sense. I have heard of people taking a difficult experience in life and picture putting it away in a box. Maybe you should try that. Just think about the hardship you went through and put it away in a box so you can move on."
There was some truth to what she said and I listened with an open mind. But later when trying to process that thought, anger surfaced. I thought to myself more than once, "really a box!? With everything I endured and you want me to find a box to put it in? I don't think there is a box big enough! Where am I going to store the box? What does this box look like? Oh how I wish it were that easy.....a pretty, perfect, yet tattered box. Put all of this in a beautiful yet horrific looking box and bury it in the deep depths of a dark closet?"
It's not that easy! You see this experience is part of what made me a mommy. It still lingers everyday as I put that little white pill in my mouth. It lingers when I hear other mommies talking about the joy of being pregnant. It lingers when I see something or smell something and my mind goes back to being locked up in a psych ward. It lingers when I can't sleep at night and my husband wakes to check on me and he still seems terrified. It lingers when I think, "how will I tell my daughter about the horrors of her birth story?" It lingers.....
This experience was given to me and in many ways it has shaped me. I have learned to take one day at a time. I have learned to "give up control." I have learned to be thankful in all things. I have learned that God's plan is not always our plan and sometimes His plan is painful. I have learned to love myself as a "crazy person." Because this experience has shaped me and changed me, I think why should I have to put it away in a box?
Will that "BOX" ever exist? Maybe, Maybe not?
I have heard myself say, "people with cancer don't go see a foot doctor they see a cancer doctor. I see a Psychiatrist. Someone that specializes in what I need, meental health." Oh how I wish Mental Health was not tabboo in our society but that it was accepted along with all other Health Care.
Even in those first two paragraphs I hear my own voice of shame in being a Mental Health Patient. Why is this all so hard?
The box. As I began to morn the sadness of my Daughter's birth story and attempt to explain the PTSD that comes a long with it, she listened compassionately. After listening she says to me, "Maybe you want to see those notes from the psychiatric hospital because you still want to make sense of it all. It will probably never make sense. I have heard of people taking a difficult experience in life and picture putting it away in a box. Maybe you should try that. Just think about the hardship you went through and put it away in a box so you can move on."
There was some truth to what she said and I listened with an open mind. But later when trying to process that thought, anger surfaced. I thought to myself more than once, "really a box!? With everything I endured and you want me to find a box to put it in? I don't think there is a box big enough! Where am I going to store the box? What does this box look like? Oh how I wish it were that easy.....a pretty, perfect, yet tattered box. Put all of this in a beautiful yet horrific looking box and bury it in the deep depths of a dark closet?"
It's not that easy! You see this experience is part of what made me a mommy. It still lingers everyday as I put that little white pill in my mouth. It lingers when I hear other mommies talking about the joy of being pregnant. It lingers when I see something or smell something and my mind goes back to being locked up in a psych ward. It lingers when I can't sleep at night and my husband wakes to check on me and he still seems terrified. It lingers when I think, "how will I tell my daughter about the horrors of her birth story?" It lingers.....
This experience was given to me and in many ways it has shaped me. I have learned to take one day at a time. I have learned to "give up control." I have learned to be thankful in all things. I have learned that God's plan is not always our plan and sometimes His plan is painful. I have learned to love myself as a "crazy person." Because this experience has shaped me and changed me, I think why should I have to put it away in a box?
Will that "BOX" ever exist? Maybe, Maybe not?