The day I was forced to seek professional help

I can't remember the date or even the year. I want to say it was about 8 years ago. But truly so much of my life is a blur. I never was good at keeping track of time.

But even though I can't remember the date, I remember the details of that day so well.

I was in an abusive relationship with a guy who I should've left long before I did. I wasted 3 years with him. I hate to say it, but the bipolar me loved me the drama. And yet, there was a sane part of me that hated every minute of it. It was a toxic relationship with lots of fighting, breaking up, getting back together.

He and I were arguing on the phone one day. One of the many arguments over something dumb that I can't remember. At this time, I was a cutter. I had actually started cutting around 14 and it continued until only about 3 years ago. But that's a story for another time.

Whatever my asshole boyfriend at the time was saying to me that day gave me a panic attack. Back then I didn't know that's what it was. But looking back, it was clearly a panic attack. And cutting quickly eased those attacks by giving me something to concentrate on, and by lowering my blood pressure. Yes, I did have a ritual and yes I did make sure my tools were always clean.

Sadly, on this particular day, I cut too deep by mistake.  There wasn't a lot of blood, but the wound opened up a lot and I could see muscle and fat beneath my skin. I guess I managed to just cut through the skin, but nothing below that.

It was vanity that led me to tell my mom. The wound was wide open and I was pretty sure it would leave a horrible scar. Yes, I was a cutter, but I was also self conscious about my scars. I'm not anymore, but again that's another story. So, yes I admit, vanity led me to tell my mother.

There wasn't an easy way to say it. She knew I had cut before so I merely showed her. I was still on the phone with the asshole. And he was yelling at me. Telling me I was stupid and he couldn't believe how dumb and selfish I was. Yep. I hung up when my mom gasped at my arm.

She called my dad, who was no longer living with us. He rushed over and tried to place me into a 51/50 hold. That's when they deem a person a danger to themselves or others and lock them into the psych ward for at least 24 hours. Thing was, I wasn't suicidal. I wasn't even hysterical or upset. I wasn't even crying anymore. I was however embarrassed.

My father called some place to have them take me away, but since I was an adult, they asked to talk to me. After a 5 minute conversation, they decided I was of sound mind and weren't going to lock me up in some padded cell. Dad was pissed. He never understood my issues. Even once I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, he still considered me just a "drama queen."

Anyway, it was suggest by this family crisis center that I at least seek mental help. So I was given references to some therapists and psychiatrists. My mom also made an appointment with my general physician to stitch me up. Dad left angry. Mom took me to the doctor. I agreed to see the mental health specialists for my mom. Because of the pain in her eyes when she took in my gaping wound.

I remember the sad look in the doctor's eyes when he saw not only my gash, but the scars around it. It took 13 stitches. He said the skin was too ragged from multiple cuts and scars that it just kept falling apart as he tried to stitch it. So I was still left with an ugly scar.

I have to look at that scar everyday. Have to remember how it happened and what it led to. In the end, it was sort of a good thing. I found a great therapist and a good psychiatrist. I was properly diagnosed with bipolar disorder and anxiety and started getting meds and help on a weekly basis.

That day had been life changing for me. And even though I'm not anywhere near cured (there really is no cure for these things) I was given tools to help me cope. And for 2 years, my therapist was my lifeline. Sadly, my health insurance changed after that, and I had to stop seeing her. But I still have my psych. Even tho she's less of a "let's talk this out" and more of a "here's some pills" type of help. It's still help.

I'm lucky I didn't have to hit rock bottom and wind up in a hospital, getting my stomach pumped due to an overdose. Lucky that I didn't sever an artery or something. Lucky that my help came before something much worse happened.

To my readers, you are not alone. Talk to someone. Professional or not. Talk about it. Hopefully before you hit rock bottom. Hopefully before you have to see the disappointment in the eyes of your loved ones as they witness one of your not so shining moments. Start talking. Someone will listen.

I will listen.