No, I’m Not Crazy and Neither Are You
Let’s normalize mental illness
Standing in the lobby’s door was a young and handsome man calling out my name. He stood at six and a half feet in jeans and subtle brown cowboy boots. Curly brown hair and exuberant brown eyes.
Great. I have to talk about my OCD, depression, and anxiety with a young, hot guy. Wonderful.
I grounded myself into self-advocating mode and got over my middle-aged fluster quickly.
Despite his young, know-a-lot-about-a-lot attitude, he listened to me. When I told him I quit taking Prozac because it made my OCD worse and the previous psychiatrist seemed pissed and disappointed I wouldn’t give it more than three days, which is why I was now consulting him, he was on my side.
“You live with this. I’m here to help you make informed decisions for your best care.” Yes, yes, you are, young cowboy.
He didn’t treat me like I was crazy.
After going to therapists off-and-on from the age of five onward and being diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Bipolar Disorder (misdiagnosis), Depression, and bouts of acute depression, I was coming to terms with my new diagnosis of OCD. I carried around my diagnoses like a heavy burden of multiple labels that meant I must be crazy. The average age…
