CN: mental health, trauma . . . . . . When I moved to New York, the first day of 2015, I was on autopilot: I’ve never been without a job or a plan (Saturn in Capricorn), and my work ethic is a huge aspect of my identity. But being in survival mode nonstop for many years took its toll: I was drowning and felt like I couldn’t tell anyone, get help, afford therapy or a hospitalization with my bottom-tier student insurance. Sometimes my mom sends me photos she finds of me in high school and I can’t remember anything about them; Facebook tracks my ~memories~ but I just see skin stretched over a skeleton of panic. I was desperate to disappear, to do whatever it took to break the stranglehold my anger and fear had over every aspect of my life. Self-medicating was my constant preoccupation, and I would take any drug I could get my hands on, hoping something would shut out the hypervigilant mass behind my eyes. My PTSD escalated, and therapy remained out of reach, as I had already gone through the majority of the counseling center staff, my patient record filling with notes of noncompliance. In 2016, my gentle GP suggested a diagnosis, then another. I could name the pain, at least a sliver of it. Pursuing a new psychiatrist and a therapist induced panic, but I knew I couldn’t survive without care for much longer, and I found two millennial women who laughed easily and embraced informality, matching my intuitive communication style. This week marks two years in their care, and the final split from the first mental health practitioners who took my pain seriously (but not too seriously). I’m moving on, into the care of new people who also push me and maybe even like me. Resilient doesn’t even begin to cover it. | #firesignmentalhealth #validateme #butnottoomuch
