I’ve been in various forms of treatment for years now: college counselor; old-school Boston psychiatrist that handed me drugs once a month; confused beach town therapist who had no idea what to do with me; extremely mean suburban therapist; current wonderful resident at a NYC hospital who sees me once a week and functions as both therapist and psychiatrist.While some treatment has been easy to access—namely the college counselor—most required navigating a maze of phone calls, referrals, string-pulling, insurance snafus, and money.
On her blog the Rejectionist, Sarah McCarry is publishing an excellent series of interviews called Working, where she talks to writers about how they live with their depression and the ways they manage to work with/through/around their illness. It's about "finding a balance between the work we have to do, the work we want to do, and taking care of ourselves," which of course is applicable to all kinds of work and all kinds of people.
This month was one of those mentally draining, down-in-the-dumps months. It was full of impulse purchases and lack of any motivation whatsoever to try to cut back or be frugal.
I remember my first winter in New York and seeing those tree mongers, walking through their darkly columned corridors heavy with what can only be called Christmas Tree Smell and realizing that I had really arrived, really lived both in New York and in the province of adult loneliness.