poor little rich girl

I’ve long felt guilty for having had the indulgence of growing up both depressed and relatively wealthy. Society seems to have this message that “back in my day, we didn’t have time to be depressed! We were too busy walking uphill both ways in snow and we liked it.”

It’s only recently that I’ve realized that the only luxury my family’s money afforded me was that I didn’t die. When I collapsed, I didn’t end up resorting to homelessness or prostitution. There was a safety net. I lived.

The Catholics are going to be subsidizing my mental health care this time around. I’ll still end up paying a bit of money out of pocket, but not nearly as much as I would if I were going it alone. It’s one of the advantages to living in a city, there are programs for the poor and unwell. It’s hard to find, and you have to be patient and persistent and spend a lot of time on the phone, but it can be done.

If you’re dealing with depression, or have in the past, it’s good to do some research on one of your good days to find out where you can get help when one of the bad days rolls around. It’s hard to do the work required to get help when you’re really depressed. So get yourself set up when you’re well.

You’re worth taking care of. I’m worth taking care of. Stay alive.

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