I guess there was always something about the idea of therapy that made me apprehensive—maybe it was the fact that someone would be picking through my brain, my memories, my ideas. Maybe it was just that I didn’t like to talk about myself (I still don’t). I think it was probably the thought of sitting in a room with a complete stranger who knew so much about me while I knew so little about them. This was so unbalanced, so wrong. I’ve always been a proponent of a balanced life, a life full of balanced meals, balanced schedules, balanced everythings, and balanced nothings. My life was predictable to the milligram.  Going into an uncontrolled environment where I was completely and utterly defenseless was about as appealing as showing up to school naked. I’m writing like the mental tortures of therapy are passed, never to be experienced again. That is a wishful lie. I sometimes feel like I was born going to the psychiatrist’s office. I’ve been going for as long as I remember, and I’ll probably have to keep going for a long time. I don’t have anything that can’t be fixed by the chemical concoctions pharmacists create to stimulate the brain in different ways. I know, however, that I am dependent on the medication that I take.  Without it, the world is unbearable. The sounds, the people, the smells, the filth. Anyways, the reason I have to take my medication is because I have an anxiety disorder that sometimes aggravates my chronic depression. My medicine helps counteract the part of my brain that is messed up. Medicine can’t do everything. It leaves you in this weird neutral state that is kind of like a no man’s land. Therapy is awful. It brings up doubts that you never knew you had, it makes you see how singular events have shaped your life, it shows you that the people you care about are often the ones that hurt you the most. There is a genetic link between anxiety and depressions disorders. I did a lot of research a few years ago, when I finally admitted to myself that something was wrong. My father, my grandmother, and my sister all have similar issues. I learned that at one point in their lives, one in five people will suffer from anxiety. Not the oh-my-gosh-I-didn’t-study-for-that-test anxiety, but the debilitating, crushing sensation that comes from inside your head. For anyone that hasn’t experienced an anxiety attack, it looks quite similar to an asthma attack. People’s heart rates speed up, they hyperventilate, they shake, and they get light headed. It feels quite different. When I experience one, it is like every sound is completely magnified. The attacks also overwhelm you with a sense of hopeless helplessness (what a mouthful). Back to therapy and why it sucks but why it needs to exist. Whether I like to admit it or not, psychiatrists help. Talking about problems may make things seem unbearable, but it actually has a profound healing affect. That is, after the pain. I guess it’s kind of like ripping off a band aid. For a moment, life is nothing but pain. Maybe the band aid is a bit of a stretch, but it fits with the situation. Anyway, therapy helps, but it hurts; it leaves bruises but it heals wounds. To this day, even after experiencing countless doctor’s appointments, I still dread walking into that room, knowing I have to talk about myself. It is one of the worst feelings in the world. Another thing I hate about therapy is that I feel like I have no right to be depressed. I mean, I’m not excessively poor, hungry, or tired; I don’t live an overall terrible life, I’m not abused. I feel bad, thinking about all these other people who aren’t sad, even though they were dealt bad cards in life. There are people who face atrocities every day, and yet they don’t slip into depression. They have more right than I do, anyway. Then I start thinking about how they don’t have to deal with depression, and I start feeling bad for myself, and then I feel awful because I’ve just belittled a terrible situation for someone else. This continues in a vicious cycle that stops only when I distract myself. I know, logically, that even though someone may be hurting more than I, it does not make my pain any less acute. But my thoughts on this subject are anything but rational.