I have spent a lot of energy in the last few years denying mental illness. Even after being diagnosed. Oh I heard the words and read the reports but to actually accept their truth was another matter. I remember being in a CME during a mental health presentation realizing my mental state was in the “angry red” end of the spectrum. My internal response was to tell myself “you still got this. And once you solve this you’ll stop drinking and things will go back to how they should be”. I had become terrified of having to give needles because I didn’t want people to see my hands shake and get called out for it. I was budgeting unpaid days off into the household finances. My wife and I had our credit debt all but paid off and I ruined that by funding two years of drinking with plastic (I’m humiliated that I did that and I’m grateful every day that she didn’t walk away from me). I barely spoke to anyone I knew, and when I did it was always an Oscar-worthy performance. I knew how to act like myself really well. The anxiety had got so bad that I could spend hours pacing around lost in my head trying to forget what was in there. Between calls I would hide in the truck outside the hospital, at times fighting back the tears with the fear of embarrasment. Whiskey and weed became my brakes, and they did the trick until the day my body stomped on the accelerator while I was at work. 3 years ago.

I am learning to be okay with saying I have PTSD. I’m learning to be who I am and not who I was. Who I am is overwhelmed, anxious and unsettled today. I have trouble regulating my emotions but I’m learning. Who I am is someone who now acknowledges that I have those emotions. Who I am is someone who has learned and been humbled by what all those people who called 911 for mental health problems and had me show up were really going through. Sometimes I felt the patient was just weak-minded about coping with ‘normal’ stress. I was cavalier and didn’t always take all of it entirely seriously. Life has it’s way of teaching you.

This year I decided to appreciate the ways I have changed as growth instead of seeing them as punishment. I decided to celebrate. Celebrate getting out of bed when I don’t want to. Celebrate learning to challenge and tolerate my anxiety even if it means I burst the sensory beanbag squished in my sweaty hand. Celebrate that I’m still here and that I asked for help instead of doing something horrible out of fear and humiliation. Celebrate the love and support of my family and friends. Celebrate trying. Celebrate acceptance. Celebrate still being in the hole but looking up instead of down.

Has it been three years already? Time flies when you’re half asleep but I can hear the alarm clock again.