Returning to me (pt. 2)

After feeling this way for a week, I decided this would take more than love.  An outsider. Someone I can unload to without concern for their feelings.  Without having to worry about worrying them. 

I trust my process but I know how terrifying it can look to someone that cares about me.  

I know I’m ok. 

I don’t want to have to worry about making sure everyone else knows it too. 

So today, I made the call to my employee assistance program for counselling.  It’s not the first time I’ve deemed it necessary, it likely won’t be the last. I’m familiar with the intake process.  

A series of questions to find out who I am, where I’m at and what is happening.

She gathers the basics.

Name

Number

Address

Blah blah blah. 

Next is the confidentiality clause…We won’t tell unless you’re at risk of hurting yourself and/or others.  Got it.  Cool. 

Then we get to the heart of the matter…tell me a little bit about what’s going on. 

I start with, I just got back from an Ebola mission in West Africa. 

She interrupts.  That’s so wonderful. Good for you. 

 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

 

I keep going. 

My marriage is falling apart.

There is a lot happening in my personal life.  I’m coming up on the anniversary of my suicide attempt and I’m surrounded by death.  

My family and friends are going through a lot right now.

I’m going back to work in a week and a half and I know there will not be a smooth transition.

She’s gathered enough. 

After you said Ebola mission, I can completely understand why you called. 

 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

 

I am so much more then my career in disaster response. There is so much more to my life.  This is part of what makes coming back so difficult.  Everyone wants to hear about your mission, your deployment, the horrors you’ve seen and heard.  All to satisfy their own curiosities.  It’s such a lonely feeling to return to that. To be surrounded by that. To lock yourself away because you know this is what you will have to face.  Every. Single. Time. You. Walk. Out. That. Door. 

My mission is a fraction of what I’m experiencing.  I’m trying to figure out how my life will function if my marriage ends.  The thought of not being with my husband, having to move, struggling financially, maintaining my very demanding career as a single mother and not having my kids full time.  I’m struggling with the fact that my life has been plagued with death. How my first 17 years and my last 17 years started and ended with it.  So much more. So much fucking more. 

I don’t say any of this. 

Next question. 

Do you have a history of drug or alcohol abuse?

Yes, but I’ve been sober for over 16 years. 

Are you on any medications for depression right now?

No, but I’m considering it temporarily while I access supports. 

Have you been on medication before?

Yes, at various stages in my life. Temporarily, while accessing supports.  

You said you were married, does your husband work?

Yes. 

So, obviously you don’t have any children so I can skip that. 

 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

 

I have three kids. 

Ohhhh. 

But now I’m pissed. 

What the fuck about my life led you to make an assumption like that?  

Is it that I can have a successful  international career?

A successful full time career?

My past addiction?

My mental health history?

I don’t say anything. I’m not in a good place for that. I get through the intake and just sit with it. 

 

I’m 34 years old. 

A woman. 

A mother. 

A daughter. 

A sister. 

A queer woman. 

A woman who was homeless. 

A recovering addict. 

A former drug dealer. 

A street involved youth. 

A runaway. 

A survivor of an eating disorder. 

A survivor of suicide. 

A god damn fucking success story. 

I am what mental health looks like. 

I am what drug addiction looks like. 

I am what a good mother looks like. 

I am so proud of everything I am. 

Fuck your labels.

Fuck your assumptions. 

 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

 

My appointment is next Tuesday. 

I’m getting back to me.