I'm mentally quite well, which is a nice change from, say, the beginning of the month.  I am not so great, physically.  In fact, I'm in a fair amount of pain.  But after the initial E.R. diagnoses of "ruptured ovarian cyst" about a year and a half ago, I'd always thought that the mild to downright knife-like stabbing pain was, I dunno, scar tissue?  Lucky for me, I live with my best friend of twenty years, Cricket.

Now, she may present as a well balanced, well adjusted woman of the world, but there are some tell-tale signs that may give a hint to the twisted, I'm Not A Normal:  Piss Off Ya Mainstream Twit woman that has saved my arse, my life, my sanity and often, my cats.  She is whom I learned the ability to speak honestly with about my feelings, (with the help of my Cognitive Therapist Doctor Ruth Greenberg), because she has always been able to handle me at my most psychotic, depraved, self-mutilating, depressed and self-loathing self.  She has also rejoiced in my small steps toward mental health and well-being, without any pressure on me, except that I try.  Sometimes, that meant that she asked me to get out of bed, for just one hour of the day.

But.  She's got four tattoos, which include one on the back of each hand.  A nose piercing, smallish ear-plugs and a seriously funky sense of fashion.  Her pick-up, which I'll be driving at the end of the month, as she has a new Prius, has a sticker on the side window, which is shaped in a black heart, with the legend (same script as the "I Love Lucy" show), stating "I Love Lucifer."  Some people fail to see the humour in it.  What's most telling, is her choice of best friends.  There's me.  And then there's Betty the Siggi who is a brilliant, but seriously crazy woman in her own right.

Betty is who you want on your side.   A Social Worker, with degrees in everything from psychiatry, EMDS, massage and the application of paranormal insight, she is a bloody terrier.  When I had flown the mental coop, back at the end of the last century, she was the one who moved my SSDI file from the wrong desk, to the top of the right desk.  By phone.  And think how hard it is for you to get anyone on the phone.  She's a formidable advocate of the children driven to psychotic states by their fuck-wit families.

But.  She was actually able to tell me how to make Shit Soup.  Yep.  She's a "Siggi"!  Now that's a word that I'd never heard, but from her.  She grew up in Trenton, in a rough neighbourhood.  Apparently, it's in reference to her Scicilian parents. I digress. She was pissed off at her neighbours in the lovely suburb where she lives, whom she thought had wronged her. Her idea of a good return on that, was to make Shit Soup and pour it all over their yard.

She'd kind of lost me here, on a couple of points, like how she knew which neighbour did what and why she wouldn't just talk to them, (after all, she's got degrees in that kind of stuff)! But what confused me the most, was why on earth would you wreck a good pot, stink up your kitchen and concoct Shit Soup on your stove, just for the sake of revenge? So, naturally, I had to ask, "How do you make this Shit Soup?"

I won't give you the knowledge, but it doesn't involve bringing loads of crap into your kitchen. You may wreck a garbage can, but hey, a small price to pay compared to scatting up your La Creuset copper bottomed soup pot. She never got out of bed long enough to do it though, which worked out. About a month or so later, she ended up chit-chatting over vin rose with the evil neighbours. They made great friends, and she discovered that they weren't the folks who'd done her wrong!

Where's this going? Beats me. My father, Snidley Senior once remarked that trying to get me together, was like trying to herd cats. Silly man! Herding's for cattle and pride is for cats. Anyway, Cricket and Betty persuaded me to get the consistent pain checked out. I think maybe when you're used to so much mental pain, the physical stuff seems like just one more thing that you have to live with. Which right now, after many tests, may be right.

Except. Cricket doesn't believe that I should give up.

Mental illness. Those two words conjure up many powerful images for us, thanks to our not so distant historical treatment of the insane and the portrayal of the mentally ill in movies and television. For those of us living with a diagnoses of mental illness, it can range from a minor bother to a life-threatening struggle involving frequent or even long-term hospital stays. Me, I tend toward the latter.

My parents weren't keen on my school's recommendation that I see a psychologist when I was ten so that I could remain in enrolled. They offered me the option of a boarding school, which I stupidly thought would be fun, and chose instead. As a teenager, I realized something was seriously wrong and found myself a therapist. Due to the laws, he had to disclose our relationship to my parents, because I'd shown him some cuts on my wrists. Neither my parents or I were pleased about that development. I stopped going shortly after.

The internet has made things a lot more accessible these days. There is an amazing site called PsychCentral, which I wish had been available when I was first looking for help. It has resources, loads of information, quizzes you can take to see if you may be suffering from an illness, blogs, support groups and lots more. Go and see!

What caught my eye was a piece by John Grohol, Psy.D referring back to an earlier article he had written, "10 Common Reasons to Lie to Your Therapist".

To anyone who has not been in therapy or fails to see the point of therapy, the title probably says to them that A) people who pay to lie to therapists must be coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs and B) therapy cannot work. Either of these statements may be true; Cocoa Puffs can be quite enjoyable for some and therapy will not work if certain conditions are not met. If there is not a feeling of mutual respect, then there is little hope. Trust has to be gained for a client to be able to explore their issues.

For myself, one of my biggest problems had been worrying that I was letting my therapist or psychiatrist down in some way. I try to hide when I feel depressed, fearing that my mood is somehow going to wreak havoc on others. My therapist is a Cognitive Behaviorist, and I used to fret that she'd think I hadn't been doing my "homework". Also, she so clearly was concerned for my well-being that it upset me to come in when I was feeling lousy!

As to my psychiatrist, I know that he's great in the field of medicine, but I happen to be one of those that gets tolerant to drugs quickly. I definitely had some transference going on there. He's the warm, caring father-figure that I need so badly in my life. When I'm feeling low, it's hard to pick up the phone and tell him I need help, because in my real life my father has rejected me.

But I know that the cost of not calling will get me another two or three months on a psyche ward. I just did a rough tally of the time I've spent in hospitals over the past eight years and it's at least two years altogether. Best for me to tell the truth.