Shortly before turning 50, everything went dark. I’d misplaced my purpose, strayed from my path. So I did what any normal person would do, and buried the depression deep beneath my feet.
This perfect storm was sponsored by the letter M. A milestone birthday, menopause, money mishaps, and marital friction.
Good morning, let the stress begin…
I had heart palpitations, lost weight, and got butterflies over something as simple as lunch with close friends.
I was humbled by this newfound Eeyore anxiety. After carefully cultivating a semi-charmed kind of life, how could anyone understand my heartache?
I finally raised the white flag, which I considered defeat, by seeking help from a trained psychologist. The therapist pointed out when I coughed up the deep dark shit, it was done with a smile.
I always wore a game face, proving that people who come across as unflappable aren’t always what they seem.
Therapy was hell, but it put humpty back together. I detested dealing with daddy issues, ancient history, my triggers, my flaws. She patiently explained that you have to tear down the foundation brick by brick in order to rebuild the home.
Like miranda rights, human rights should read: If you can’t afford a therapist, one will be appointed for you.
I didn’t know Kate Spade, or Anthony Bourdain, or Robin Williams, but I felt the ripple effect from their pain.
It’s not mind over matter, because my mind IS the matter.
There is no shame in asking for help.
Anxiety is not a chink in your armour. Avenge it however you see fit; naturally, medicinally, or pharmaceutically.
Treat people with kindness, compassion, and understanding. Give back to unearth true happiness.
When it feels like the world’s gone mad, look for the laughter, the love, the light.
We all love someone who lives with mental health issues. It’s time to end the stigma.
We’ve been there. We’ve got your back.
No judgment. No shame!
Canadian Suicide Prevention Line: 1-833-456-4566
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