I would think it'd be difficult to diagnose yourself. So I don't. And ergo, I have not made an appointment with anyone who might dare use those words with me.
I don't have an official mental disease and those that do have my empathy. Seriously.
But there are days that I take a minute or several and ponder my mental health. Often, I'm not that impressed. If you need an example, let me tell you about last night.
I made homemade potato soup and we ate it for dinner and it was delicious. The three of us watched "Kung Fu Panda" and laughed. A nice evening. Between 8:30 and 9:00 John and Noah went to bed, leaving me to watch my DVRed "Dancing with the Stars." They refuse to be in the same room when it's on.
So there I was, me, alone with myself watching dancing. I was happy. But then the voices started.
"I wonder if I should have eaten that soup. Way too many carbs."
"I don't feel really well."
"Am I dying?"
"What if I have a horrible disease?"
"I don't want to leave John and Noah."
Variations continued until 11 p.m. at which point I woke up John, crying.
"Please pray for me. I don't want to die."
John can be a saint, as he was at that moment. He woke up and said in that husband voice of his, "Ooooookay."
He prayed and made me laugh, bringing a little reality back into my world. And then he went back to sleep. Within seconds.
I woke up this morning and I was alive.
No voices today. At least not yet.
