I remember the day three years ago now, that I sat in my doctor’s office, exhausted, so close to tears. After several sessions of questions and backtracking the ups and downs of my health, mental and physical, we finally knew what I’d suffered from.
I remember the relief that came with my diagnosis for Early Onset Dysthymic Disorder. The understanding that I wasn’t a horrible human being, awful mom, lazy wife. But a brave someone who happened to have a mood disorder for almost her entire life.
And I remember realizing that for much of my life, it was shame about who I was that kept me from seeking help.
Why is shame our go-to reaction to needing rescued?
Why do we wallow in our suffering while an answer waits?
Because in matters of the obvious, rescue is always the desired option, isn’t it?