I am a righteous advocate for self-love: meditating or quiet time, getting your nails done, splurging on some cute shoes because baby, you're worth it. Whatever your ritual or routine may be, I support it.
Myself? I love a rocket-hot bath, a sultry bath bomb, a fresh set of claws and a cocktail in my hand. Lighting candles and anointing them with whatever oils I deem necessary for me to realign with myself. It reminds me of how much of a goddess I am.
I don't always feel that way, though. Often it's the opposite, but that's another story for another blog. What I'm here to talk about is mental health. Self-love practices are supposed to elevate you and bring you back to a pleasant head space.
I'm here to tell you it's not always about pretty shit.
Sometimes practicing self-love means doing things you're uncomfortable with for the sake of your body and mind.
Two weeks ago, I went against every fighting warning in my body and had a tele-visit with a psychiatrist. I put aside all my ego - which was ridiculously difficult- and told her exactly how I've been feeling; feelings that have been here long before the pandemic. And after two hours of what felt like a sinner in church, the weight on my shoulders had been lifted. My follow up options are limited due to the current global situation (there are a lot of people in rough spots right now and it's sad), but my only goal was to achieve some sort of knowledge about what could be going through my head.
I've been to therapy before, but that was to try and decipher my night terrors and attempt to stop my episodes of sleep paralysis. This visit was to get off my chest how I feel on a day-to-day basis. If I understand what it is, perhaps I can control it.
"It is obvious to me that you suffer a mental disorder. My preliminary diagnosis is Bi-polar II."
Ah. There it is. A name for it.
I believe in baby-steps. I'm not in any immediate rush to begin the next stage of exploring my mental health: thyroid tests, group counseling with others who have the same, possible medication, etc.
I've been suspended in funky state ever since those words fell off her lips. So afterwards I drove home, I had drawn a bath and was crafting a "Dark & Stormy" in my cup (if you are not familiar with what that is, it's a beautiful concoction of dark spiced rum, spicy ginger beer, and a hint of lime). I selected a bath bomb that fit the mood and proceeded to marinate myself. At first the diagnosis felt very heavy, but it gradually made sense and I have come to terms with it.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that self-love is more than our rituals. Even if you hate it, even if every cell in your body is waging war against the thought, go see someone. Get answers. Fight the stigma. You are worth the process, as painful as it might be. If you struggle with your feelings (hello, hi, me too 🖤), what helped me was to imagine this process as clinical as possible.
Remember you are brave for stepping out of your comfort-zone, and a warrior for normalizing the talk about mental health and the disorders that are common amongst us.
Don't stop your fight, and don't forget to diligently practice all forms of self-love.
