Sometimes I forget. I go about my daily life, shopping at the grocery store, cooking for myself and my roommates, and going to work. I take my medication methodically, not pausing to think about what each tiny pill really means.
Sometimes I forget.
I forget that I have a mental illness, and that my mental illness can pop up and remind me of its existence at any time.
Last monday, on my way home from running an errand I accidentally cut a guy off when getting on the highway. He beeped his horn at me, understandably, but as I got on the highway he continued to beep at me. I froze. I’m already a nervous driver, but something flared up inside of me. I felt like I was in danger, like I had to run. So I took the next exit ramp off the highway and parked at a grocery store. I needed to pick up iced tea anyway, right? Routine things can be therapeutic sometimes.
When I got back to my car, I sat behind the wheel. I listened to the sound of people pulling out of spots, and parking. I looked at the woman across from me, loading groceries into her car. Was she looking at me? What was she thinking? I grabbed a box of cookies from my bag and started eating them. Then I started crying. I felt immobilized. In that moment, there was absolutely no way that I could drive home. I was stuck.
I didn’t know what it was. Could this be a return of my more serious symptoms? I know now not to be scared of good moods, or happiness, they do not always indicate a return to mania. Yet in moments when I feel so scared, when I feel like my anxiety has consumed me, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to breathe again.
In that moment I did something that I’ve never done before in a situation like that. I reached out to a friend for help. In the past I have been hesitant to call anyone when I have felt vulnerable. Letting someone see you sit and cry in a parking lot while eating cookies is not an easy feat, at least not for me. My friend did come, she drove me home and we picked up my car later. I am so grateful. Knowing that I have people in the world who support me and care about me, makes the unpredictableness of my illness and of life much less frightening. It’s okay to ask for help, people will not think of you any differently because of it.
So I don’t know, maybe tomorrow I’ll forget again. I won’t feel the painful anxiety, and underlying fear of losing myself. That is okay. I know that when I remember, I’ll have people there with me, to help me through.