I Don't Look Crazy (Crazy Isn't a Look)

Hi. It me.

You’d think I’d procured an invisibility cloak with how often my state-run mental health facility forgets I’m breathing and 10 minutes early to every appointment. (I'd like a gold star or something at this point. Kidding....sort of.) I know. I know. The system is overwhelmed. It is. I see it every time I walk into the public health building after seeking a parking space in the overcrowded lot. I see it in the exhausted but determined faces of every healthcare worker as they call back another group class for the cluster of gathered souls in recovery from heroin and other substances.

(My cat Angus is currently peering over my shoulder as I write this. Pretty sure he’s internally judging me.)

You see, I looked in the mirror today and chose to wear a striped tee, corduroy dungarees, vans slip-ons, and throw on a bit of mascara. My denim-blue hair contrasts with my gold glasses and I felt pretty cute. But walking into a mental health facility such as the one I’m describing makes me feel like I'm in full on GLAMOUR MODE. (I am not glamorous.)

I want to feel normal.

Or maybe, I want to look normal.

The clock keeps ticking past the time I was scheduled for what was supposed to be my yearly psych evaluation. I look around. Check the group text I’m in with two of my best baes. Look up. Check back in. Have to pee desperately. And I know. I just KNOW that if I get up to pee then I’ll be absent when they call my name. Sure enough. As the time keeps passing (50 minutes late, now), I jet to the bathroom. Then jet back to hear my name being called down the hall. I proceed to another room where I answer a few medical questions. Then another 15 minutes crawls by. Finally, I’m called into the psychiatrist’s office. He asks me a few questions. Things like “What are you like if you aren’t on your medication?” “Any side effects you’re experiencing?” I answer what I need to. And I’m done. I check my phone as I thank him and exit his office. The time it took to talk to him was 3 minutes. Yep. Three. Freaking. Minutes. Never mind the fact that I had finally (after 40 minutes)  kind of illegally parallel parked my car in front of an empty staff spot in the back lot, had almost run over a human completely fritzing out in the street. I spent over an hour waiting past my scheduled appointment time. For a 3-minute chat to make sure I wasn’t needing to be locked up or restrained or have CPS called. (okay, it's for more than that, but it feels like what I'm describing.  And I'm probably not that far off.)

So right now I’m pretty stable. I’m not "well."  I’m still living with bipolar disorder. This medicine I take to literally stay alive doesn’t cure me, but I have to take it. For me and for the people around me. I don’t have the pock-marked face and missing teeth of a heroin addict, or the often ruddy face of an alcoholic in recovery. I’m not yelling down the hallway completely unaware of the fact that maybe not EVERYBODY should know about my personal hygiene routine. Today, I was privileged to shower and put clean clothes on, to eat breakfast and have a car with just enough money to put 20 bucks of gas in the tank. I was privileged to choose a time to come into the overcrowded state facility and get the treatment and care that I need.

But it’s just that.

I don’t look like the person who needs medication and a psychiatrist to stay alive.
I don’t look like a person who would have taken her own life were it not for mental health services and some amazing support people. But I have four children. I have a husband. Who desperately love me. Who want me around. Even when I don’t always feel I should be around. And that makes all of the hassle and parking woes and uncomfortable wait times a little more worth it.

And no. I didn’t wash my hair today.

-kileah

P.S. I have to receive mental health services through the state because right now we can only afford state-run insurance. I’m thankful for it. But it’s a system so overwhelmed by need right now that us “mostly stable/mostly less crazy” people can slip through the cracks easily. We aren’t in obvious critical need/emergency. But there is room at the table for all of us. There has to be. No matter what we look like or our advantages or disadvantages. Equal access to quality mental health services is something that should be available to everyone.