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HEALING ON HOLD

T he email confirming my health insurance deactivation sends me into immediate panic mode. I’m frantically clicking through endless loops of automated phone prompts. Press 1 for this, press 2 for that, only to be transferred, put on hold, or told to call another number entirely. My anxiety is building—the same kind that makes my heart race and my thoughts spiral into a tangle of worst-case scenarios.

I really need a therapist. I’ve been telling myself this for months, trying to hold it together through the ups and downs with Timmy. He’s got a counselor already—and sure, he needs it—but I need one just as badly—maybe even more. And now, because of some stupid missed piece of mail during the move, I’m stuck without access to professional help.

I feel my hands shaking as I scroll through emails, looking for any shred of information I might have missed. I have to get this resolved—my mental health is slipping, my body is screaming at me for assistance, and I just don’t have the bandwidth to keep managing everything by myself. I need to see a doctor, an OB/GYN. Something is really wrong with me.

The pain from my periods has become unbearable—nauseating, sharp, radiating through my entire body. Every month it’s the same, but it’s getting exponentially worse. I’m doubled over in agony, vomiting from the intensity, stuck in bed for two days each month while the rest of the world goes on without me. I’m convinced it’s my endometriosis spreading, or something in addition to that. I just know this level of pain isn’t normal. And yet, here I am, unable to get checked out, spinning in circles with the insurance company.

I file an appeal. It’s straightforward enough—it turns out that all I need to do is submit the missing documentation. It feels like a minor victory when I finally get an email acknowledging receipt, but then—nothing. No updates. No confirmation that the appeal went through. The days stretch into weeks, and I can’t muster the energy to follow up.

Every day continues to be a battle with Timmy—his unpredictable moods, his endless demands, his passive-aggressive jabs—and my brain is locked in a perpetual fog. I know I need to be persistent, but it’s like all my mental resources are being drained, funneled into managing his emotional chaos.

Eventually, I manage to get the issue escalated. They officially accept the documentation I sent through, and I’m told my ID cards will arrive soon. When they finally do, I hold them in my hand and feel a strange mix of relief and exhaustion.

The first thing I do is log into the local health clinic’s website to make appointments—doctor, OB/GYN, therapist. I feel frantic, like if I don’t schedule everything right now, I’ll lose my chance. I need to get checked out, physically and mentally, and I need it as soon as possible.

I feel like I’m having both a physical and mental breakdown. The stress is beginning to consume me. I feel it in every part of my body—the tightness in my chest, the tension in my shoulders, the exhaustion in my bones. I’m not okay. But I haven’t been okay in a long time. I’m losing myself, piece by piece, and it’s scaring me.

The worst part is the constant rumination. I replay every fight with Timmy, analyzing his words, the way his tone shifts, trying to figure out where things went wrong. It’s like my mind is in a loop of all the things he’s said to hurt me or confuse me, and I can’t escape it.

I’m starting to sound like him in my own thoughts. I can hear myself thinking in the same patterns—second-guessing, doubting, accusing. And that makes me feel crazy, which only makes the anxiety worse.

I’ve basically stopped bringing things up with him altogether. Every time I try to advocate for myself, he gets defensive, turns it around on me, and I just end up feeling worse. So now, I stay quiet. But the quieter I become, the more he pushes, testing my limits, poking at my boundaries to see how much more I’ll let slide.

I’m angry all the time. On edge, waiting for the next argument, the next blow-up. It doesn’t even matter what sparks it anymore—the outcome is always the same. He’ll snap at me, I’ll react, and then somehow it’s my fault. And every time, it chips away at me a little more.

I’m grinding my teeth in my sleep now more than ever, the stress leaking out of my body in ways I can’t control. I feel trapped. I tell myself it’ll get better once we’re fully settled in, once he finds a job, once I get back into my writing routine. But I know, deep down, that the real issue isn’t logistics.

The real issue is that I’m constantly managing his emotions, his behavior, his moods—and it feels like it’s slowly killing me.

With my insurance reactivated, I cling to the hope that therapy might save me—that a professional might help me make sense of all of this, help me navigate the tangled mess of this relationship. Help me find myself again.

But the intake appointment isn’t for a couple of months, and, for now, all I can do is wait.