I’m a bit lax at maintaining physical health and fitness (a trail of broken gym memberships and failed diet regimes stand testimony to that!) but it never occurred to me that I would suffer from not maintaining my mental health as well.
You can read some of the back story here, but essentially I’ve spent the last few years oscillating between denial and despair. Something had to give. And it did.
I know the exact moment I finally accepted that I was broken. A few weeks before Christmas, I was in the car driving to work and I started crying for absolutely no reason. With the tears came a moment of clarity. I was definitely NOT okay. I could not longer carry on carrying on.
So, I did it. I bit the bullet and went to my GP for help. I accepted the meds and the subsidised psychologist sessions.
And you know what? I feel a damn lot better for it.
And in doing so I’ve learnt a lot about myself. I also can now accept that:
- Asking for help does not mean you are admitting defeat
- Asking for help means you are accepting you are human
- Asking for help can actually be liberating
I now feel better than I have in months, dare I say, years. At the risk of venturing into cliché territory, I feel like me again but a stronger, wiser version. A version of me that excepts that there are things in this world beyond my control, but how I think and feel can only be controlled by me. I must own that.
Stuff I’ve known all along, but just needed a little help to remind me.
Have you ever waited until breaking point until you’ve asked for help?
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PS I’m acutely aware that this post pays no regard to proven mental health benefits of physical activity. Baby steps.