What kind of help did Julie get after the situations in her story?

Choices:
A. not enough information
B. Her husband and her went to couple's therapy.
C. She received professional mental help .
D. She got a tummy tuck.
She received professional mental help .
“Please remember me to myself!”
When sliding toward mania in 2016, I begged this of my therapist. He cocked his head.
“What do you mean?”
I had no idea—on a conscious level—what I was asking for, just that I felt in a desperate sense that the self I knew was slipping away. An inability to recognize myself either in my writing or in reflecting upon my own actions was taking over.
And then…? I didn't care.
I wanted to kiss girls.
Which is fine—just not something I ordinarily do.
I wanted to drink, smoke.
Again, fine—but not something I ordinarily do.
“Do I seem…okay?” I asked a colleague at work. A woman I barely knew. Insanely, I thought that since she worked with disabled students, many of whom struggled with mental illness, she would know mania when she saw it.
This was a rather foolish assumption—especially since she's an educator, not a psychiatrist, especially with how skilled I am at wearing the mask of calm, the face of sanity.
“You seem great, Julie. Cheery. Professional as always.”
I let her reassurance placate me. Wanted to be placated.
Yet, within months I lost my job. And not only that, but a chance at a scholarship, two really important long term friendships—relationships I'd enjoyed since high school. I was hospitalized three times between September and February. I lost my ability to trust myself, lost my mind.
It is now a little over two years since I first felt that sliding. Twenty-six months since I knew that somewhere in the deepest parts of who I am, I was slipping. Nine seasons since I begged Dr. Poe, “Remember me to myself!”
I'm still recuperating.
Yes.
I have felt like I wasn't me.