It's time to admit that I need professional help.
Do I have to?
::balls up fists and stomps foot::
I should be strong enough to handle my life, dammit! I'm not the only person in the world with problems. I'm not the only one carrying a heavy load.
I deal. I cope. I cry and laugh. I find the good and positive amidst the crap.
I get a little bit stronger with each passing crisis.
Or do I?
Maybe I get stronger with each crisis, but they break me a little too. Like one step forward, two steps back.....
I have diagnosed myself with PTSD and anxiety. I don't know anyone who would disagree with those presumptions. I have flashbacks to the nights Mark's heart stopped, and my breathing catches and tears sting my eyes. What is minor to someone else is difficult for me because my emotions are constantly raw and at the surface.
I think, time will heal. It does some, but not entirely. The nerves and fear are still there.
I'm strong yet sensitive. Courageous yet afraid. Positive yet cynical. I am a walking contradiction.
The contradictions are hard to reconcile.
It's time for me to accept some help figuring all this out. As much as my friends and family love me and blogging is free therapy, neither holds the understanding I long for.
I'm not sure why I find this so hard to do. I have pushed and pushed the idea of therapy away for a long time. I do know I worry it will only serve to muddy the waters more.
But it's my children, although they don't know it, who are inspiring me to give in. If and when we lose their dad, I will need all the help I can get to be everything they need me to be.
Not like Scarlett O'Hara's "I'll think about that tomorrow", although I admit I have done plenty of that.
No. I will begin seeing a therapist first thing tomorrow morning.