My First Therapy Session

I remember realizing I'd reached a new low.

I could no longer take care of myself. After months of denying help, it was finally time to go to therapy. A voice in my head told me this could lead to something worse. Maybe talking about my feelings would make my mind more confused than it already was. I was worried I'd be labeled as "borderline psychotic."

The day of my first session, I walked through the door, my face covered by my hoodie and filled with shame. I wondered if anyone saw me walking there. I wondered if they’d thought I was unwell. I wondered if everyone else in that office felt as messed up as I did.

I fixed my hair nervously as I sat down in an uncomfortable leather chair. I gazed into the eyes of the doctor sitting across me. Her pen clicked, and a page on her pad flipped. The subtle sounds that surrounded me made my heart pound. The thought of talking made a rock form in my throat and a knot in my chest. 

She smiled and said let’s begin. She asked me what state I was in, what I struggled with, and why I was there. I thought for a moment, worried about the words that might spill out of my mouth. 

Should I start with my struggle with serendipity? Should I start with my self-doubt?

Should I tell her that in the back of my mind the words aren’t so nice? Should I explain the pain I feel when that voice says my friends are only with me for clout? Should I tell her sometimes I’m in such a fog I forget to eat for an entire day? That I love the stomach pain I feel when I starve myself? That I boil with rage when someone offers help?

I wanted to tell her that I take pills I’m not prescribed, but I didn't want any legal problems. And that my head is never blank unless I drink to the point of seeing double. I wanted to tell her that deep down I don't really know who I am, and that I've been questioning the confines of my sexuality. I considered saying that I've cut myself before, and enjoyed watching the blood stream out of my skin.

But I was worried this was all too much. I should start with something simple and expected.

I sat there frozen, struggling to answer her question. Panic was building in my mind, concerned with what she now thought of me. I felt the tears starting to come. My throat and eyes burned as the heat in my face began to recklessly rise. Why am I here? What do I say? How do I explain my delayed response? I thought I wanted help, but this doesn't feel right.

After way too much thought, I picked up the notes that I'd brought with me and said, “Everything is okay."