The Appointment

A phone call.

An anxious voice reaching out, finally admitting that it's time to ask for help. A racing heartbeat as that voice whispers the words "mental health issues" to the listening ear on the other end.

Embarrassed.

As if it's something to be shameful about. As if a broken brain is different than a broken arm or broken stomach or broken lungs.

Afraid.

That my doctor would tell me that what I've been experiencing for most of my life is normal. That I'm silly or "making a big deal" out of things and that this is just how life is.

This was me several weeks ago. I finally decided that I needed to talk to my doctor.  Shame flooded my whole body when the nurse asked me the reason for the appointment. Why? Why did I feel the need to whisper, especially since nobody was around me?

When I went into my appointment, my doctor validated everything I have been feeling off about. She gave me a game plan to help offset the damage my brain is trying to cause. She was the first medical professional to ever utter the words "long term depression" to me. That maybe this is more than postpartum depression. I drove home in happy tears feeling like yes, maybe there is something wrong with me, but now, now I can move forward. And it's liberating.

Have you been holding off making that appointment? Stop doing that. Make the call. Don't feel ashamed. Don't feel fucking ashamed. A broken brain is just as important, if not MORE important than a broken arm. Make the call. Please.