If anyone out there still cares, I hope this can serve as an apology.
Or not. Really, the fiction of this thing is that it's all anonymous. It's all a bit silly and coy.
Still.
I have been diagnosed as manic-depressive. No great surprise, I suppose. Not really. But a huge huge leap of faith. So much of who I am for the past 30 years has been based upon my black black dark moods, those moods when I don't want to talk to anyone and my skin feels turned inside out.
The last one I had was last December, and I kept 'soldiering on' for the kids/hub/work until I found myself contemplating jumping in front of a train. When I actually thought my girls would be better off without me. When I was drinking to deaden some pain of which I am so deep in denial over --- that I just kept drinking.
Drinking is a depressant.
Fast forward say, a month. Seriously weeping on side-walks, no sex drive. Lots of staring into space and crying. Not so good for a mum, right?
I love my kids. The one thing that kept me sane was the thought of my kids having to grow up without me.
So I went to my family doctor. Who's female and 10+ years younger and didn't judge this sad weeping fat middle aged woman.
And back we go on the Meds.
And we slip back and forth and the thoughts get scarier and scarier and then we decide that it's all too much for a GP to handle.
Me,  the one who always strove to behave until she cracked --- that one --- I am too much for an ordinary GP!
I strive to be normal; to slip under the radar. To Sublimate.
I have to go to the Mental Intake ward. I don't tell The Boy because inthe part of England he comes from, "Nutters" belong in the Nuthouse. I don't want to be a "Nutter". Mental Intake ward = Nutter, even in my book.
The psychiatrist (who's some bigwig sent up from Sydney) has a chat, I cry, he thinks I need serious therapy, I don't have insurance (because at $165 a month we just don't have it -- with The Boy working for himself and all..)
So I get: some serious Mood Stabilizers, some Valium, and some Anti_depressants that work. Also some schmoo who does Behavioural Therapy, who is an idiot who I see exactly 12 times. He's a MOO, believe me.
Tried some Group Therapy. I spent my time staring at the white board, hoping the Group Facilitator wouldn't pick me.
What's so great about sharing private stuff with complete strangers, anyway?
So here I am.
The only thing I ever felt good about, that felt honest and pure and about me, was here. Maybe this is my therapy.
Whaddya think?