This is what walking into a psychiatrist’s office feels like.
It’s finally come to this. And the stigma I feel is real. My primary care doctor waived the white flag on managing my psych issues and referred me to the pros. Nothing seals the deal on confirming you are crazy than that. Admitting defeat is humbling. Yay, me.
It’s also super fun to tell once again your story of recent trauma to a mental health professional and be met with a gasp, followed by, “OH MY GOD!!!”
That is how badly your neighbors shooting a bullet through your bedroom is received. My provider’s first instinct was that the gunfire was intentional, just as I felt, especially since I’d yelled at them to stop, which they did, only to continue again about 30 minutes later.
At least she approved of my telling off my neighbor when he came to the house to apologize. She commended my self-control in not escalating it to a physical confrontation. Once again, a healthcare provider approves of my reaction to the trauma.
She asked me why I hadn’t moved. I explained that my husband and I built this house on my in-laws’ land to die in. My husband is an only child and felt he needed to stay close to his parents to care for them as they aged. My husband will never move. And why should I be forced to move from my dream home? That’s not fair.
I simultaneously want to flee from the crime scene and never leave this place where I once found so much peace. The juxtaposition of these feelings is a daily wrestling match in my head. I’m constantly tormented by the feeling that it might happen again.
I can no longer sit in my once favorite chair, the place above which the bullet landed and now rests permanently in my house. An indelible mark of the event, now covered by putty and paint. But I know it’s still there. I force myself to sit in it momentarily, but I look through the window of entry with suspicion and feel on high alert. And yet this very window is right next to where I sleep at night.
I’m supposed to be over this already, right? Except that, I live at the scene of the crime. And this sucks.
It was suggested by my team in rehab that I change the appearance of my home since moving is not a realistic option. Of course, this also takes money. And I need that money to pay for my continuing therapy, especially since my insurance does not cover mental health services in the same way as other types of medical care. I have to pay for all of my therapy and psych visits out of pocket, applying this toward my deductible. And my neighbor thought that the only cost we would incur would be replacing a window.
Nonetheless, I have been busy rearranging furniture, finding new homes for artwork, and thrifting for new, affordable pieces of furniture to change my space. But my bedroom has been the most challenging of rooms to revamp.
My library is now my favorite place to sit and work or read. My cat and dog love to join me in this space.
As I continue to find answers to quell my anxiety, keep my blood pressure under control, and keep my mind out of those dark, enticing places, I will begin three new medications. I’m not happy about this, but I also need to function. And most of all, live my life. I want it back. I want to be in control again. But I’m super frustrated by this process.
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If you got this far, thank you for listening.
As always, I hope you all are safe and healthy.
Anne the Vegan 