Denial Equals Bliss
Denial is a beautiful thing.
With it, life can be just freaking grand. You may not recognize how bad of a spot you’re in. Or how neurotic you actually are. When a counselor at a crisis center asks you if you believe anyone (like the government) is conspiring against you, you can look at her like she just sprouted two heads.
Later, when denial starts to lift its blissful clutches, you realize you answered “no” to that question because you were sure that the people trying to help you just *might* have been conspiring against you. Trying to find some way to lock you up in their mental hospital to pump you full of exploratory drugs and drain your soul.
But no, you’re not crazy.
I thought I was getting better. Then I went to that group last night. And a counseling session with Dee this morning.
The group was horrible. Like a scene out of a nightmare. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I know I was hoping for it to be more than a bunch of grief-stricken moms sobbing into boxes of sandpaper tissue. Why is it they can cry but I can’t? Why don’t I cry over any of this?
I’m the AMAZING UNFEELING SUPERWOMAN!!
The people at the group were suspecting the worst from me. The leader. I could tell. She started telling me that it was normal for women suffering from PPD to be afraid that they might hurt their babies. As if she was certain that was the reason I wouldn’t say anything. And she was nodding and smiling kindly, like she understood or something.
But I was the one who understood, not her. She had already made up her mind about me. I don’t have feelings of hurting my kids like she was thinking. I told her that no one else in my family had ever sought help for their mental issues and that I was trying to break that cycle. A look of relief swept over the group. All those sympathetic eyes. It made me angry. And the leader said, “Well good for you!” while everyone agreed.
Then this morning I went to see Dee by myself. I was afraid I wouldn’t have enough to tell her to talk for an hour straight, but she is very skilled at leading the conversation to sneak out all kinds of interesting tidbits of skeletal dust from my head. At least Dee isn’t scary. She’s really nice.
When I left, though, I didn’t feel any better.
And then about half an hour ago, I started thinking about suicide again. Not like I HAVE TO DO IT RIGHT NOW. It just started nagging at me again. Then I started panicking for a little while that I might do something stupid without realizing it, so I started writing to get my mind off of it. But of course, the thought came full circle.
I’m sick of being crazy.
Tags: Depression, Therapy