Quickly, and through tears, a Firefly quote.

“When you can’t run, you crawl, and when you can’t crawl, when you can’t do that…”
“You find someone to carry you.”

Thank you for carrying me.


Today is not a good one.

I woke up at 9, made and ate breakfast (toast), watched an episode of Parks and Recreation which is the fluffiest, feel-goodiest show I know. And I then I had to go lay back down for two hours because I was exhausted from the strain of eating and sitting up and concentrating on the plot of a half hour sitcom.

I had already seen that episode.

I took a shower (crying uncontrollably while washing your hair? Achievement unlocked.) and then sat on the couch for an hour and a half because the act of getting myself clean is tiring. 

I had plans of going to visit friends so I got dressed and brushed my hair and teeth while my legs shook from the strain of standing and then called them. They were taking naps. I started crying on the phone because driving 30 minutes to go see them, spending time talking to people, and then driving 30 minutes back seems absolutely insurmountable and I told him as much.

My friend told me “do what you need to do to make you happy, Kammah” and, I mean, how can I do that?

How can I be happy when it’s taken me six hours to get ready to leave the house and I haven’t even made it to the front door?

Derailed, part 1

Let us begin at the beginning.

I went to the ER on Tuesday because this thought popped into my depressed mind: “I wonder what dying would feel like.”


While I had no plans to kill myself, and I didn’t feel like I was a danger to myself or others, that thought is not good and it came out of nothingness. It is supremely disorienting to have that kind of thought come into your mind unbidden when before that moment you were calmly doing walking around being a sane, if sad, person.

I promptly started googling psychiatrists on my phone and crying uncontrollably and then, when I couldn’t find the kind of help that I needed and was scared about where to turn, I called my mom. She took me to the ER and we waited there a long, long time while I cried because I was scared and I just wanted help. Any kind of help.

The woman who finally visited me in the room assessed me gave me her recommendations: I was suggested to go to group therapy three times a week, see a psychologist one-on-one, and see someone about possibly getting meds.

I felt wildly uncomfortable with the thought of talking about my problems in front of a group, and told the assessor as much, but added the caveat that if she thought it would help, I would certainly give it a try. She affirmed that she thought it would help, said that I could start Wednesday night at 6 PM, and called the facility to give them a heads up that I would be checking in with them to start group therapy.

I was optimistic. I felt like I had been hit by an emotional truck, but I was optimistic.


On Wednesday, I slept in the best I could (which didn’t work out very well) and woke up feeling a little better overall. After I wrote this, I left the house at around 4:30 to get to my appointment but needed to get gas before I could drive the half hour required to get there (they had also asked me to arrive 30 minutes to an hour beforehand to fill out paperwork).

In a fit of brain-murkiness (a not uncommon occurrence these days, unfortunately), I locked my keys in the car at the gas station. Because of course I did. Thankfully, I had my phone on me and was able to call my mom to rescue me (AGAIN) and I was able to get to my appointment with the minimum thirty minutes padding time requested of me.

Of course, the receptionist wasn’t sure if I was being assessed (again) and didn’t know if/that I was starting group that evening. I started crying over her confusion because I just wanted to get started feeling better, you know? I just wanted to START.

She was very kind about it and reassured me gently that it was ok but I’m sure that I looked completely unhinged.

I filled out my paperwork, turned it in, and waited for a while. It was well past 6 when they finally called me back to ask me questions about my medical history and what kinds of things made me angry/made me calm and they told me that they’d get me over to group momentarily.

Then the financial guy came over. And then the floor dropped out from underneath me. You see, my insurance doesn’t cover this sort of intensive outpatient therapy under my deductible. It’s $75 for a copay each visit. At the 3 times per week this facility offers, my total PER WEEK comes out to $225.

Their standard minimum course of treatment is 15 sessions. That comes out to $1,125 for a COPAY for a service that is already inconvenient for me to get to with my work schedule, makes me uncomfortable with the mere thought of, and I can’t even begin to afford. And this $1,125 is for treatment for FIVE WEEKS. God knows how long I’d actually NEED group therapy.

I felt kicked when I was down.

I broke down in that tiny room with that nice man who had to give me the bad news. He told me that, yeah. That’s a really high price. Apparently he usually sees copays, if there even is any, of $15-20 per session. I sobbed and wiped away my tears with their scratchy tissues and told him everything about what I was going through, how I’d been in the ER and how uncomfortable talking with people I was, and how depressed I was about this whole thing. He said that he heard me and that if that’s really how I felt? If I thought I’d be unable to open up? I shouldn’t waste my time or my money and I should seek therapy one-on-one. And then he–very gently, very kindly–wished me well.

If I were the hugging type, I would have hugged him. Of all the people I’d talked to, he helped the most by actually listening to what I wanted.

I left the facility disheartened that I hadn’t yet started anything on the path to feeling better after I spent the previous day in the EMERGENCY ROOM (and more than a little bit angry that I’d wasted three hours on nothing) but was, again, optimistic that I’d be on the path to recovery soon.


I’ve been working on this for a couple hours and I’m just beaten after these last couple of days. There’s more to this story (spoiler! I got to feeling so very much worse) but I am in desperate need of rest because hey, apparently I’m tired all the damn time now and today was emotionally taxing.

More later.


I woke up feeling a little bit better. 

I woke up and had the plan of writing here about how everything went down yesterday, how I just broke.

I woke up and I was going to tell you about what my plans are for getting me to start feeling better overall and the steps that I’m going to start taking.

But then I just couldn’t.

Someone said something so nice to me and I just broke all over again.

I want to hole up. I want to cry and cry and cry some more until I wither up. I want to go back to bed and sleep for a decade. I want to eat or not eat and in some way of doing either just fucking feel better. 

I don’t want to go to group therapy in a few hours. I am a shrinking violet in social situations and I don’t like opening up to people that I don’t know very intimately and the thought of telling strangers all about me makes me physically uncomfortable.

I have no idea how they expect me to do this.

I have no idea how they expect me to sit there and talk or not talk and be there and hold it together when all I feel like is laying face down on the floor and crying.

I have no idea how I’m going to do this.

I don’t feel well today.

A Few Good Things

Today I went to the ER for depression (more on that later when I’m less…muddled). But there were some bight spots in what would otherwise been one of the worst days of my life.

  • Elise brought over “get well soon” gifts from her and Linnea of a lily, a bag full of Cadbury Creme eggs (which I’m fairly certain I’d never had before)(it also came with the information that 1) it was chocolate because that helps with the Dementors, and 2) they hoped it would help EGGS-TERMINATE my sads. Which, ok. That is awesome.), and a freaking Doctor Who activity book. It has “void vision” glasses, you guys. Right on the first page. I die.
  • The fact that the nurse who brought in the juice to help terrible thirst and low blood sugar asked me “apple, orange, or both?” and the smile that lit up her face when I told her “THAT ONE”.
  • That I now have a plan of attack to get me better. It’s a step, but as Elise said “it’s a HUGE step! It’s an EVEREST SIZED step!”.
  • That I didn’t pass out when they drew my blood (it’s a 50-50 shot anytime I need blood work done) AND that I don’t seem to be bruised where they drew it. Seriously, when I get stuck by needles, that’s the best I can possibly hope for.
  • Eggs. Holy shit, that omelette I had when I was discharged was exactly what I needed. I feel like Erica would be pleased that eggs were my comfort food today.
  • That I get to go to sleep soon and I have tomorrow off (work release yay!) so I can rest. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. A truck of shitty emotions. It’s not a perfect metaphor, I’ll admit that.
  • How outstandingly kind everyone was to me about everything. I felt over-dramatic (I’m not) and needy (still not) and like a bother (not that either) about how I need help and support because I was scared and overwhelmed and just couldn’t hold it together and I know all of that was the depression lying to me because depression is a lying sack of shit, but oh. Man. You guys. I was blown away with the amount of support that flooded in on Twitter and in text messages, all the people telling me that I was brave and they were thinking of me and that they were supporting me from afar and to contact them if I needed to and that they love, love, loved me. I cried a lot today, A LOT, because of all the kindness that I experienced. I am so grateful to you. So, so grateful.

More later. Thank you all again. I love you too, you know.