Let’s talk mental health, friends. Undeniably, the last two years have been hard for most. For me, personally, I also lost my dad to cancer and turned 50, which surprisingly has been like a physical “off switch.” My eyesight is tanking, mood swings are elevating, and I can’t seem to shake the nagging tendonitis in my right shoulder. Needless to say, I’ve noticed an uptick in irritability and anger, especially when I am around my husband, Doo. From his eating granola to his dishwashing avoidance, his late-night Netflix binges to his early morning interruptions of my sacred bathroom routine, he manages to push every single one of my buttons on a pretty regular basis. This isn’t new, but between the peri-menopausal hormones, the last kiddo getting ready to fly the nest and the events of an almost inconceivable 2020 and 2021, my patience has gone the way of my continence. And I’m really tired of being mean to the ones I love.
So, I’ve started seeing a therapist. Yeah, I said it. I’m in therapy! And it’s glorious! I’m able to share whatever I want without fear of judgement and in return receive new insight and practical feedback. I even have a workbook! I’m finally working on the things I can control and learning how to, if not exactly let go of, then at least obsess less over the things I can’t, like the stupid dishes. I’m not there yet, obviously, but I have noticed an easing of crankiness and resentment towards Doo.
Friends, these are still difficult days. We must prioritize and destigmatize the conversations around mental health. Let’s talk about it!
Peace out.
