This was written in response to the recent Psychotherapy Networker magazine that focused on the mental health struggles that many therapists are silently facing. (Psychotherapy Networker, “Who Heals The Healers?” September/October 2021)

The yowling of the cat wakes me. It’s 5:32am.  Within seconds of consciousness, my brain fires up.  You know he won’t leave you alone until you feed him.  Now you won’t be able to get back to sleep.  You’ll be sleep deprived and you’ll probably get a migraine. Your day is already ruined. The neurosis of firing neurons is relentless.

 Resigned and bleary-eyed, I trunge downstairs to feed the cat. Pavlovian reinforcement of his behavior has trained me well as I guiltily acknowledge my weakness and pour food into his bowl.  The house is now quiet again as I climb back under the still warm covers, I pop my earbuds in and hope the meditation I’ve chosen will lure me back to sleep.  My body fights the suggestions for relaxation as I lay there judging myself for not being able to catch another hour of slumber.

Once I finally give up on any prospect of sleep, I return to the kitchen and make a pot of coffee. I relish in savoring the caffeinated warmth it brings.  Swallowing down the newest medication that my Psychiatrist gave me, I pray this one will work.  Soon the hollow blob of nausea swims around my stomach and my chest fills with the unwelcome but familiar buzz of anxiety.  Countless side effects have forced me to move from med to med over the past several months.  In the wake of my mental decline, my dopamine and serotonin ebb and flow, leaving me spent and feeling hopeless.

Quietly, I drive my children to school. The pinprick heat wells up behind my eyes as I tell them goodbye, reminding them that I love them.  This could be the last time you ever see them.  My brain screams this at me as images of school shooters fill my mind. I sob all the way home, listening to the lies, convinced I will be planning funerals soon.  By the time I pull into my driveway, I’m in full panic mode.  My heart races and I try to slow down my breathing.  Sitting in the car, I wait until the tears stop.  I desperately tap my meridians and repeat mantras of safety until I’m calm enough to go back inside.

My husband hugs me as he leaves for work. His touch brings more tears that I struggle to hold back.  Kindness hurts. Concern stings and I recoil in an attempt to regain control.

“What can I do to help?” he asks. 

“Nothing. There is nothing to do. I’m sorry I’m crying again.” Guilt consumes me as I bid him farewell and hope that he can focus on his work for a few hours without worrying about me. As he drives away, images of his violent death fill my mind. It’s like a preview for a horror movie that I never want to see. His car is crashing, flipping, bursting into flames. The tears come again. My head throbs. My back aches.  My chest is tight from the breath I can’t help but hold onto.

 Breathe. I remind myself.  Push the thought away.  He is safe. It’s just my brain playing tricks on me. I pull out my invisible tool box of mental health tricks.  The box is empty.

An ice pick stabbing settles behind my right eye.  My shoulders are cement.  I pop a migraine pill before the aura appears making images blur and shift.

I wrap myself in a blanket on the couch, noting the time.  I have three hours before my first client.  You can’t help anyone today.  You’re a mess.  What right do you have to even think you can be useful to anyone? You’re a hypocrite.  How dare you even try to pretend you know how to help people?  You’re an imposter.

I scroll through Facebook, noting that none of my “friends” have messaged me.  You don’t have any friends. My brain scoffs. No one cares about you.  They wouldn’t even miss you if you were gone.  

It’s only 9am, and I’m exhausted by this battle.  Pulling my phone back out, I apologetically text my client to cancel.  I turn the tv on to distract my way through the next few hours.

Today is another bad day.