So, I’ve been tasked, for the third time, with filling out an assessment form. This is the kind of thing where you REALLY need to know where you are on these scales. The assessment has a lot of simple questions that have very complex answers.
The questions include things, like :
Do you have problems getting along with other people?
How well do you deal with stress?
Is your memory affected by your mental health issues? How?
I quickly came to a point, where I had to admit, to perfect strangers, that I do certain things. Like, forget conversations, or zone out to the point that I don’t hear my kids when they call my name. Or the part where I have to talk about my problems with personal interactions. I have to write out how I’m inappropriate. I have to tell this random group of counselors that I often grab peoples’ nipples, crotches, asses, the works. I then have to tell them that I hate it when people do it back, and bluntly tell them not to do it to me.
See how this is hard to talk about? I have to paint myself in this terrible light, because it’s all true. I have to talk about the things I never want to say to anyone, even on this blog, because they won’t know unless I tell them. It makes me cry. It makes me want to throw things, and scream. I take a lot of breaks, to lock myself in the bathroom and sob, with loud music playing, so everyone in the house thinks I’m taking a poo. It makes me hate myself. It makes me resent my mental health. It’s just plain hard, and it plain old sucks.
But I have to do it. They have to know, or I’ll never get better. I have to face the monster that I see in myself, and not run away, or make excuses. I have to do it, and that’s the worst part. I have to own those parts of myself that I don’t like. I have to recognize my weaknesses to make myself stronger.
It’s embarrassing and it hurts. I hate every minute of it. But it means that my new doctors and counselors will be able to read it without having to make me say it every single time. It’s to make my treatment easier, and more effective. I just don’t have to like it.
Sorry I got ranty. Carry on, dear reader.