I am finally going back to therapy. Yay me! Sorry, I know sarcasm doesn’t translate to text very well. I should be more excited that in a little less than two weeks I’ll be getting on a treatment schedule again. I should be more relieved that the place I’m going has access to grant money to help pay for the treatment, at least for the first little while.
There are a lot of things I should be, but there’s only one thing I am feeling right now, and that is selfish. I’ve been looking into getting disability benefits so that I can at least make sure that this time when I get back on my meds I can stay on them, and I know that bipolar is one of the few mental health conditions that qualifies as a disability, but I just can’t help feeling like I should be boot-strapping my way through, rather than trying to get government assistance. I’m not saying that people with bipolar should not get disability benefits, they absolutely should. I have a bipolar friend whom I just found out has been denied several times, even though her therapist straight up told her she should not be working, and I think that is just wrong. She deserves the benefits, absolutely she does. I just can’t stop feeling like I don’t.
I feel like I don’t deserve the help. What have I ever done for my government that they should pay to keep me stable? I mean, I guess you could consider me a public health risk, since my suicidal fantasies often involve throwing myself out of a moving vehicle on the freeway, but I mean really, why should I get help when there are homeless people out there who need the money more than I do?
Another reason I feel selfish is that my husband isn’t the one in therapy, and he needs it as bad, or possibly more than I do. He lost both of his parents last year, his dad to cancer, and his mom by her own hand, but instead of getting him counseling to get through his grief and depression, we’re shelling out money for me to treat an on going condition that can never be cured. He’s even trying to find work again so that we can keep me in therapy after the grant money stops covering most of it.
I know I shouldn’t feel so guilty about needing help, but I do. I’m so ashamed of not being able to support myself and my husband. I wish things were different. I wish I could just pick myself up, dust myself off, and force myself to go find another job. I wish that the thought of going back to work didn’t fill me with loathing and self pity. I wish that I could be satisfied working a dead end job with no benefits for not enough pay. I wish thinking about these things didn’t make me feel like I’d be better off dead.
I have so much regret in my life. I try really hard to live without regrets, but there are so many things that I’ve done that I’m ashamed of. The longest amount of time that I held down a job was two years. Two. I am thirty two, so that’s only 6.25% of my life. I flunked out of my high school, so I had to attend “adult education” to get my diploma, and then the only college degree program I ever started, I dropped out of. My resume is littered with two to three month stints at this or that fast food place or retail store, and even if I wanted to get a job at another of those places, I almost always quit without notice, so nobody wants to hire me.
Anyway, this is turning into a pity party, so I’m going to shut up and get off the internet now. Hopefully tomorrow I’ll have something more interesting to say than, “Why me?”