Roses are red, violets are blue. I love my shrink and my xanax too.

I see a shrink. Shocker! Yep for the last ten years or so I have gifted myself the pleasure of plopping my ass down on a couch and spilling the beans. I did not come to this decision on my own. I started running a low grade fever one day. Unfortunately, a low grade fever after having my toe amputated due to a malignant melanoma is not what I needed to deal with. I went to the ER, an internal medicine doctor, and a walk in clinic doctor all in ONE day. I was at bat shit crazy level. I mean openly crying in the waiting room. The ER blew me off. Looking back, I can see how my fever did not equate to a real emergency. So, I begged my internal medicine doctor to work me in. I remember looking at his red ass beard and him saying "Why are you here? You've been to the ER. What do you want me to do?" I screamed "fix me! something is wrong!!" So, Dr. Ronald McDonald prescribed me a lecture me on my admission that I still smoked cigarettes. I hung my head in shame and walked out the office and drove my ass right across the street to a walk in clinic. By this time, I am incoherent. I suffer from nosebleeds. I have had that vein in my nose burnt to stop the bleeding. It helps most of the time unless I'm on my fifth hour of crying. So, I had a nosebleed and mentally I was beyond the 18th page of google type of crazy. I had blood drawn, urine samples, a wad of gauze shoved up my nose, my blood pressure checked, and lectures, but no answer for what was wrong with me. So my final destination, an after hour clinic, was going to exorcise the demon inside of me.

I recall laying on the white tissue paper that was beginning to stick to the side of my face because the tears kept flowing and I no longer gave a shit about wiping them away. My bloody nose made me look like I had gone on a cocaine binge with El Chapo. I gave 0 fucks at that time. When the doctor entered the room, all I could manage to get out is that I had a low grade fever and I had my toe chopped off. He stood there puzzled for a second because I forgot to give him the details of why I was missing a big toe. He sat down on the stool across from me, rolled himself over, and said "you're going to be okay!" He said this in the most sincere and kindest tone ever "I don't know what all is going on, but you are overwhelmed. Let's get something to calm you down and then you go see your oncologist." I remember laying back on what was left of my tissue blanket and staring into the florescent light above me. I felt a calmness come over me as I kept saying "I'm going to be okay. I'm going to be okay." I got in my car and looked in the rear view mirror like a scene from a movie. I tried to clear up my face. Wipe the blood off my shirt? Fix my hair and go home as if I had not had a nervous breakdown. I think back now and I'm pretty sure every doctor I visited that day tested me for drugs. I looked like I had just licked cocaine off a table, snorted a line of bath salts and chased it down with meth and Mountain Dew. I made it home with Valium in my hand and went to bed. 

When I saw my oncologist, I was still battling a low grade fever. He suggested a PET scan and blood work. I remember crying through the entire procedure. Crying had become "my thing" now. He called me in to go over the results and said "Timeka. Every lymph node in your body came back swollen. Not one, but every lymph node." I almost fucking fainted. He said "I think the test is wrong. I'm not going to do it again. He said I would not be functioning and alive if this scan was accurate." My ear started this high pitched ringing and he started to sound like the Charlie Brown teacher. My eyes rolled back in my head and I was pretty sure that shitting myself would be acceptable in this instance. He handed me a card and said "You need to see a psychiatrist." I looked at him with my head tilted like a dog and muttered "a shrink." In my head, I was saying "BITCH. I NEED KRYPTONITE". I left the office confused and frustrated. I glanced at the women and men waiting to be seen. The waiting room of an oncology office is hard to describe. There is a fog of hope, despair, sadness, laughter, life, death, and fear. I held my card in my hand and decided to be thankful for what I walked away with. My prescription could have been much worse. 

After my first session with my psychiatrist, I was diagnosed with anxiety, depression, and post traumatic stress disorder. Basically, my series of unfortunate events finally started to effect my emotional and mental well being. I was in flight mode. I responded to a low grade fever just like I responded to the death of my mother. My body could no longer tell the difference. So, I took my meds and started meeting this woman regularly. Many of my friends have asked "How did you end up seeing a psychiatrist?". I tell them "my oncologist". I remember family members finding out and lecturing me on my relationship with God and faith. I was told I didn't go to church enough, I needed to pray more, I should read the bible, etc. I say to all of that BULLSHIT!!! I believe in prayer. Hell, I was praying. I prayed every night not to lose my fucking mind. I read scriptures. I sat in church like a zombie from all of the bullshit going on in my head praying that just by sitting on the church pew would render me "CURED". 

Any type of mental illness should be treated by a professional. I am shocked at how many people will visit a doctor and take medicine for acid reflux, gas, headaches, allergies, and colds, but draw a big ass line in the sand when it comes to medicines that treat anxiety and depression. And God forbid you talk to someone about your problems and not just the Lord. At some point as a society, we must realize you can do both. Taking medicine to cope with your environment has nothing to do with your faith or relationship with God. I love therapy. Therapy is where I go to nurse my mental and emotional health. Church is where I can go to feed my spiritual health. 

I faithfully see a shrink. Everyone needs a safe zone. You may think you're all good, but try walking into a room and being able to confess or say whatever the fuck you want and it not be held against you and no judgement is passed. I know some will say you can do this through prayer or with your minister and preacher. I agree, but I wouldn't go to my dentist for a pap smear. Mental health issues need to be treated by experts in the field. The end. Do I tell my shrink everything? Hell yes! I won't get better by lying. Does my shrink know everything? YES!!! Have family members and friends been written down in my file? YEP! Do I like everything that has been said to me? NOPE! I had to switch psychiatrists around the time I filed for divorce because my shrink was promoted and could no longer see her patients. I freaked. This woman was like a best friend. She knew all of my secrets, thoughts, shit stories, worries, triumphs. She referred me to her colleague. I learned quickly NOT all psychiatrists are the same and I had to find out the hard way. Our second session ended with me screaming "I don't know what is wrong with you, but you are not going to talk to me just any kind of way and I'm not getting off this couch until I stop crying. You are mean. I'm not walking out this office like this. So, you can leave and I'll sit here on this couch until I finish crying." Oh yeah, it went down just like that. I am pretty sure I flipped her off as I walked out of her tiny little office.  I did give her another chance. Why? I was at a pretty sensitive stage of my divorce. She was divorced herself and further on the recovery spectrum than I was. Our second visit went much better, she told me I looked like a beautiful swan. In my head, I was like "did this bitch just call me an ugly duckling before?????" I couldn't help, but giggle. Hell, divorce can bring the ugly shit out of you. If your marriage was not a fairy tale, your divorce won't be either.

In hindsight, I think I needed someone to tell me to "man up" so to speak. I had a good circle of friends around me and I am pretty sure no matter how much they loved me... I had worn them out. You can't dump all of your shit on your friends and family. The burden is too heavy. The best gift you can give yourself, your friends, and your family is to see a therapist. The weight that is lifted by being able to just be selfish and talk about your own shit is healing. I literally sit in the waiting room now like I can't wait to spill all the tea. I have been known to come with a shock factor. She never flinches...no matter how honest I get. I walk out of the majority of sessions more present, more insightful. It's like getting a tune up. I continue to take my medication and try to be at my best. My girls know I see a shrink. They know I take medication for anxiety and depression. My motto: what's good for the goose is good for the gander over in this house. My three girls know therapy is an option for them at any time. No questions asked. We all need to continue to thrive and there are some parts of us that our friends and family can't fix. 

I was told a couple of months ago to stop wasting my money on therapy and learn how to raise my children and to read the bible. Instead of screaming "and this is why I see a psychiatrist because who on Earth would say some twisted shit like that" I politely ended the conversation and got off the phone....NOTE: THERAPY HELPS YOU CHOOSE YOUR BATTLES because back in the day the shit slinging show would have commenced and to the victor go the spoils. But instead, I whispered to myself "Hashtag GROWTH! I can't wait to tell my shrink about this and she knows all about YOU....". So, I welcome you to join me and many others on the therapy train. There is no shame on this train. No true destination just the spirit of the little engine that could....

xoxo

mythreeandme