It's 6AM in the morning and I'm sitting in the Go Train - I'm exhausted because I only had 4-5 hours of sleep, so I close my eyes to catch a snooze on my way to school. The day before, Ryerson mentioned that there were several services available for people with mental illnesses, and that they should try to reach out to someone.
So I'm already exhausted and this thought of getting help pops up in my mind - I close my eyes, trying to sleep, but I can't because my brain decides to think about these things - MENTAL ILLNESS - when my brain is absolutely fried. I've always wanted to reach out to someone for professional help - going to friends is one thing, but maybe professional help is the best route. I just never walked that route because it would require my health card and putting it on my records.
My eyes are closed, my body relaxed, my brain firing away at the POSSIBILITY of seeking professional help, and I try to imagine the experience. I can see myself going into a small office, checking in at the desk, and walking to a room where I will meet my doctor. I can see myself sitting patiently, fiddling with hair, and picking at my nails. The door opens, and a female doctor walks into the room - she introduces herself as Dr. Robbins (idk why that name). I shake her hand, introduce myself, and answer a few of her questions - what mental illness do I have? How long has this been going on? What are my coping methods? Have I told anyone (friends, family, other adults)? Have I taken any medication (sleeping pills), drugs, or alcohol? If so, how often?
I answered each question honestly, and even mentioned the temptations of coping with drugs, but that I never did.
I can imagine telling her my life story - the fact that my grandma is raising my brother and I, that my mother hates me, that my dad has his another family to worry about, that I went through the hardest breakup with my ex this year, that my grades aren't as great as I wish they were, that I've had nights where I just cry and cry and cry and just can't stop, that I can open the medicine cabinet in my kitchen and consider swallowing a whole bottle of pills, that I'm suicidal 99% of the time, that I have to numb myself in order to get through each day, that I always feel lonely, even if I have great friends, that I chose not to commit suicide because I couldn't leave my brother.
I can already see myself bawling as I tell her all these things, things that even my ex or former best friend didn't even know, things that I just didn't want to voice because I knew they would be scared. Just as I'm imagining this emotional scene, tears are really forming in my eyes as I sit in the Go Train, and I struggle to maintain my cool. So I sit there for 10 minutes, eyes closed, hair partially covering my face, trying to breathe, with tears streaming down my face.
So I'm already exhausted and this thought of getting help pops up in my mind - I close my eyes, trying to sleep, but I can't because my brain decides to think about these things - MENTAL ILLNESS - when my brain is absolutely fried. I've always wanted to reach out to someone for professional help - going to friends is one thing, but maybe professional help is the best route. I just never walked that route because it would require my health card and putting it on my records.
My eyes are closed, my body relaxed, my brain firing away at the POSSIBILITY of seeking professional help, and I try to imagine the experience. I can see myself going into a small office, checking in at the desk, and walking to a room where I will meet my doctor. I can see myself sitting patiently, fiddling with hair, and picking at my nails. The door opens, and a female doctor walks into the room - she introduces herself as Dr. Robbins (idk why that name). I shake her hand, introduce myself, and answer a few of her questions - what mental illness do I have? How long has this been going on? What are my coping methods? Have I told anyone (friends, family, other adults)? Have I taken any medication (sleeping pills), drugs, or alcohol? If so, how often?
I answered each question honestly, and even mentioned the temptations of coping with drugs, but that I never did.
I can imagine telling her my life story - the fact that my grandma is raising my brother and I, that my mother hates me, that my dad has his another family to worry about, that I went through the hardest breakup with my ex this year, that my grades aren't as great as I wish they were, that I've had nights where I just cry and cry and cry and just can't stop, that I can open the medicine cabinet in my kitchen and consider swallowing a whole bottle of pills, that I'm suicidal 99% of the time, that I have to numb myself in order to get through each day, that I always feel lonely, even if I have great friends, that I chose not to commit suicide because I couldn't leave my brother.
I can already see myself bawling as I tell her all these things, things that even my ex or former best friend didn't even know, things that I just didn't want to voice because I knew they would be scared. Just as I'm imagining this emotional scene, tears are really forming in my eyes as I sit in the Go Train, and I struggle to maintain my cool. So I sit there for 10 minutes, eyes closed, hair partially covering my face, trying to breathe, with tears streaming down my face.