Going Back

Today, I had my first therapist appointment in approximately eight months. I really didn't mean to go that long without one, but issues with insurance [those issues being that my insurance company blows] and time [those issues being that I have none] have forced my hand. I'm not saying that it's not my fault--I'm sure I could have made time, and I could have probably worked harder on my insurance problems. But, no matter whose fault or the causes, the fact is: I haven't gone.

As I mentioned previously, the director of my program suggested that I visit CAPS for maintenance of my bipolar disorder. I've toyed with the idea of going to CAPS before. I do need to have someone to touch base with, and I do need someone on board to give pharmacological advice [basically, management of any contraindications, such as the birth control pills I am wanting to take again].

So. I went. And was there for two and a half hours, getting everything set up. Two full pages of information, front and back. My bipolar life in script.

I had forgotten how exhausting that first meeting can be, how exhausting it is to talk about yourself for an hour, to analyze all the words and movements that you made for four years. I had forgotten how exhausting navel gazing can be, how hard it can be to talk about how you feel now, about how you felt a long time ago. How exhausting it is to recount how you would think about jumping off of bridges and drawing razors across your wrist, in a serious way. How much it hurts to talk about how your friends stopped believing in you because you hurt them too much. How much it hurts to remember that you tried to fix this all before, but people weren't supportive. How people said you couldn't be bipolar, over and over again. How they made you believe it yourself. And then, even though you think you're over it now, you think it can never make you hurt again, you start crying anyway. And you're embarrassed, although you know you shouldn't be. You're embarrassed because you want to think that someday you can be completely healed. And you are worried that day will never come.

But then, you make your next appointment. You make it even though you know it may hurt. You make it because you need it to hurt, because if it hurts now and you do something about it, maybe it won't hurt later. You want to believe, and so you do. So you stay. So you fight every urge to run out of the room and pretend like you can handle everything on your own. You fight every twitching muscle, every agitated nerve. You fidget, move your feet up and down the table, you break eye contact when you talk about the things that hurt you the most. You keep coming back. You keep talking. You push through all the hurt until you find the things that make you smile. You remember, twenty or thirty minutes in, to laugh. You talk about the people you love and the reasons you love them. You talk about the things that make your life worth living. You talk about the things that kept you here in the worst of days, the things that prevented you from turning to bridges or razors.

You talk about loving someone who wants to be a zoo keeper. You smile when you think about him, when you answer questions about him. You recount how you met [high school academic team] and you can't stop from grinning.

You leave. Remembering why you came here in the first place and sure that you will return, you walk out the door. The conditions outside--whether they are darker or lighter than you expected--surprise you. The wind is colder, or the day is warmer. Something is different.

And maybe, just maybe, some of the time, you realize that the change is in you.