I think that there has been only one other time that I started to cry in the waiting room.
It was my first appointment.
I sat in the chair stuffed in the corner by the lamp that never stands straight.
My sweaty hands tucked securely in between my crossed legs that shook uncontrollably.
I could feel the tears clinging to the bottom of my lashes then rolling off effortlessly like dew drops from a petal.
There was simply not enough fight in me to keep what I had hidden for weeks.
Pain exploded out through every breath I took.
It pulled me somewhere foreign where the world’s beauty was muffled by a thick dark veil.
I felt still amongst ugliness and there was no way out for me at that point.
It was either give up entirely or give in to the process.
That day I chose to give in and willingly handed over my soul to a psychiatrist.
I trusted that he would fix what had come undone.
In the waiting room, I cried for my life that day.
4 years later, as I sit in his waiting room chipping away purple polish from my nails, I have those same painful tears held loosely by blinks.
I kept my head tucked down into my neck so the woman with the watermelon boobs and the woman with the beautiful grey sweater wouldn’t see me.
As I finished stripping my thumb nail bare, I contemplated just letting it all out, laying it there on that fucking stained carpet.
Perhaps they would have listened to me and encouraged me and supported me.
Perhaps they wouldn’t.
But I do know that they would have understood.
I walked into his dimly lit office and eased my way onto the couch.
He strolled in shortly after and before he sat he asked how I was.
Words, thoughts and emotions collided and all I could muster up were these simple three words:
“I’m not ok.”
It wasn’t screamed.
It wasn’t explained.
“I’m just not ok.”
With those three uttered words, I knew that the intensity of my internal disaster became invisible.
I gave up trying to verbalize how I truly felt and left his office stepping back into the storm alone.
I just wish that when I say that “I’m not ok” people will know that this is my scream for help.
And sometimes I wish that my psychiatrist could see my fractured mind just like a fractured bone on an x-ray film.
He’d know exactly how to fix it without me having to say a word.
I am crying for my life today.
And I’m giving in.
But I’m not giving up.
*We’re working on medication dose changes. He reminded me to email him when ever I felt that I needed to talk. I know that I should really do that more.