It's mother's day

And I'm researching infertility counselors. I'm finally ready to get help.

I NEED help.

Your arm breaks, you go to the doctor. Your heart breaks, and who the fuck do you call? I was telling S the other night that, when I first got the call about the prolactinoma, I wanted to call the police. After all, something was majorly wrong and totally out of my control. I just wanted someone to come and fix it; write up a report and tell us who to call in the morning. But no one would have come.

I tell others all the time to be their own advocate for their health. I show up at doctors' appointments armed with an arsenal of paperwork, charts, and questions I've pre-written, typed out and numbered, perfectly double-spaced. Yet, when it comes to my own mental health, I've completely dropped the ball, ignoring the glaring facts for far too long.

I would've recognized the need for help in anyone else, yet I've allowed myself to be trapped in this spiral of sadness. I have reached a point where I don't know how to get out anymore. I feel like I'm drowning all the time. That if I could just get my head above water, I'd be okay. I could float for a bit. But I can't.

So I'm getting help.

I mean, it's not like it could hurt, right?