40 minutes in, the critic stops you. That's not good. Why? What? Heart pounds. It's because you cried. You should not have cried. But the critic almost cried too! Twice you saw tears in their eyes. Well, it's done now. The moment of truth. Did you pass on to the next level? Is there going to be a sequel or will the buzzer mark for all the X's?
You passed with flying colours. Why you didn't have to finish the whole hour monologue was because 40 minutes was enough. You will definitely continue with this path. They'll see you again next month. You leave the stage with a smile and a bow. First breath of fresh air makes you want to call all your loved ones...
...and tell them that you had your first ever mental health consultation.
But who would want to hear about that?
The point going to see a professional is to pour it on someone who is trained to handle someone else's pain and not to bother my friends who has their own problems. I always knew I was crazy but I wanted to know how crazy. It's a mystery because I've always been a high-functioning lunatic. My sense of duty has always exceeded my need to sleep the whole year, close the drapes and sit in darkness with songs about never loving again playing on the background. One of my friends once quoted Hemingway to me: "You are so brave and quiet I forget you are suffering." I've never thought myself brave.
Quite the opposite. Walking home alone at night is scary and I'm practising that. Getting yelled at in a public place is very scary. Either I don't have the guts to answer or maybe it's best not to answer so I don't get all worked up and hurt someone. Falling in love is scary. Trusting anyone is a nightmare. Trusting myself is even scarier. "I wonder how much of what weighs me down is not mine to carry."
The nurse I had an appointment with asked me three times if I've ever talked with a professional before. If anyone at school ever asked me if I needed to vent. If the place I worked when I had the long sick leave ever offered me to cope with such things. Nope, never had the pleasure. What would it help anyway? Talking won't make it go away. My life's been what it was and there's nothing that can change that. There's no band aid for scars.
There are three reasons I went this time. First because my friends have been telling me I should for a long time and because one of them said that my childhood experiences are not normal and basically grounds to be taken in custody. Secondly because as a student I get help for a very low price and because it's for once easy to ask for help. Thirdly because I still dream of having kids one day and I don't want to have them deal with my problems. Hopefully generations of pain will stop in me. And let the kids get their own traumas.
It was quite weird to go talk about the darkness when it's so bright right now. For a long time I haven't felt this optimistic about the future. I have as we Finns say "the buns well in the oven" (golden buns, not offspring). Gorgeous, huge, sweet buns that I made myself by just being myself. I love and feel loved. But maybe this is the best time to tackle the problems. The ego boost I've gotten at work and the field work and with the short summer love and everything, gets nicely balanced with talking about the most horrendous things ever happened to me.
There's not going to be applause, but there's a chance for peace, which is so much better.
I'm a bit scared of the process and I have a lot of school and work lined up for the autumn. Maybe it's a good thing to not have as much time for my friends than I would hope because once your brains have been set to one track, it might be hard to briefly visit other tracks.
And now my friend, while you're reading this and thinking "what the hell am I supposed to say to that?" or "can I like this or is that weird?", the answer is that you don't have to say anything. You can pretend you didn't read this. But I wanted to tell you. I needed to tell you, as I always need to. I want telling about mental health issues be the same as telling about carpal tunnels or rash in weird places. There's a time and place for all of those and no one wants to hear about them endlessly, but that shouldn't mean they're not normal things. Because that's what we all are. Normal. Even if we wanted or not.
The song of the day would have been Pain of Salvation's Ashes, but I think Blogger has make the rules what you can show from YouTube stricter again. Pffft.
"Good night and good mental health." -Frasier
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