Therapy and Recovery

After that super depressing post yesterday, I’m going to write something that is hopefully much more lighthearted. Just so you know, I made it through another day and that is all I can ask God for.

Today I went to see my therapist for the first time in over a month. Between me being sick, my twenty second birthday, and me straight up not wanting to be an active participant in my own life, I have blown off my therapist… until today.

You see? My therapist and I have a love hate relationship. I have known her since I was fourteen years old when I first started experincing slight bouts of depression and suicidal thoughts. Two years prior, my mother had started drinking heavily. She has been an alcoholic all of my life, but was sober for ten years; from ages 2-12. Once she started drinking and my childhood had then collapsed around me, I asked my parents if I could seek help. They didn’t understand the depth of my feelings or what I was thinking. I did exceptionally well in school, I had a tight knit group of friends, I got bullied, but it was under control. I said I needed help dealing with my mom’s drinking. I went to several different therapists, but none ever quite fit. They never thought anything was wrong either, just as my parents suspected. I was very quiet and didn’t want to share my true thoughts with anyone who wouldn’t give me the time of day or the respect that I deserved.

Then I met Kelley. Well, my mom first had to have a therapy session with her before she would even see me. My mom showed up drunk to her therapy session with my futhre therapist and stated she had a drinking problem. Kelley had then shared that she too, was an alcoholic but had been sober for many years and as a member of AA and Al-Anon, felt as she could help me and my family through this time.

I first met Kelley and the first impression I got was that she was an old hippy. Which is still true. We bonded almost immediately and she often shared her insights on alcohol and alcohol consumption, trying to in some cases defend my mom and her actions, but also showed sympathy and conpassion to me for dealing with the consequences of my mother’s actions. As time progressed, she had diagnosed me with depression, anxiety, panic disorder, and PTSD. I soon began anti depressants at the tender age of fifteen in order to regulate my bouts of suicidal tendencies.

Talking helped put into words the actions that were happening around me. Later that year, I found Jesus and started attending youth group and church. My sister was always one to believe in God and stated it was unholy to be taking medicine for an illness that a) didn’t exist or b) God didn’t create antidepressants so I shouldn’t be taking it either. So out of respect for the church and my sister, I stopped taking my meds for about three years and soon after stopped seeking therapy. I thought either God had cured me or I had gained enough coping skills to no longer need therapy. I was happy… or so I thought, for a little while.

I always resented my sister for making me feel as though it was wrong to take antidepressants and get help when it no where says in the Bible that seeking help is wrong. Regardless, when I was almost eighteen, I found myself to be unhappy and discontent. Even believing in God, it didn’t help with the depression or anxiety. God wasn’t in control of it, I was. I may not have control over how I felt, but I had control over what I did about it. So once I turned eighteen, I started getting back on my medication and started seeing Kelley again.

She welcomed me back with open arms and I caught her up on my life. She ended up diagnosing me with bipolar disorder and I ended up changing my medication to suit my new diagnosis. Four years later, here I sit in Kelley’s office. We reminisced the “anniversaries” of my mother’s sobriety and relapse dates, the times where she almost died (it happened more than once). We discussed my most recent flame, the man I will make a post about someday and will dub him the love of my life. We discussed my new flame and my cycling. I should probably describe cycling for those who don’t know what that is. Cycling is a name that mental health professionals use to describe the constant mood fluctuations that bipolar people have; similar to that of the wheels of a bicycle, when they move the faster you pedal. Same with the mind, the faster you pedal, the cycling progresses and so do your moods from manic to depressed to anything inbetween.

Currently I am in a depressive state. Despite my lack of consistency taking my meds, I am fairly stable. I’m not sleeping around with random guys, I’m not out all hours of the night, not excessively drinking or using any drugs at all. It could be worse. I am in a place now that I can accept my past decisions, work on myself, and move forward, preparing my heart for the new self that is to come with the changes that I am making in my life.

I will leave you all with my favorite bible verse that you can use regardless of your beliefs to renew your spirit for the moments that lay ahead.

Til next time,


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