PHQ-9

I know it’s intense self sabotage to even consider it, but I always have a crisis when they hand me that form.

Over the last two weeks, how often have you…

More than I want you to know. A lot more.

The near invisibility of most mental illness is a mixed blessing. Most of the time, I ache for outward signs. I want people to see I’m sick so they’ll forgive me for not showing up again or believe that I’m not being lazy and entitled because I’ve spent most of my day in bed. But suddenly I’m at the doctor with that form is staring me in the face and I cannot ignore my desire to lie.

I make up excuses for my score every time, but the medical records don’t lie. And now my doctor is concerned.

And I feel like a failure.

I think that’s what makes me want to lie on that stupid STUPID form. I want to believe I have this under control. I want to believe if they just give me another 6 or 9 months I can figure this out. I have plans that don’t involve you changing up my treatment regimen. And maybe I’ve read too many Gothic Horror Romances where insanity is used to drag the innocent away from their freedom and family. It’s my mind. I can figure this out.

I swear, if this was just about will power I would be a super hero. I would be a stellar, if emotional, housewife and mother, and the people who shaped my brain with trauma would be welcome to wander in and out of my front door. I’d just shrug and nod and tell them to leave their heretical tracts at the front door please.

But it’s not about will power. And I know I’m stuck in the cycle again. And the holidays are coming and Christmas is always hell for me.

So it’s time to pick up the pen and fill in the right bubbles. It’s time to pick up the phone and call my therapist. Because I can smile and laugh and putter along, but the truth is I’m not okay.