i made an appointment today

The last time I was in therapy, I was…14? 15? Something like that. Wait, I was 16, I was driving. 16.

In hindsight, I’m pretty sure I could have been diagnosed with depression younger, around 10 or 12. I was suicidal and miserable, but high functioning to a large degree. I didn’t like turning in homework out of fear of being judged less than perfect, but when I did I usually did well. My parents basically left me alone as long as my bedroom wasn’t too messy (it always was too messy).

I don’t know what changed, but at some point it got better. Truly, I still have no idea. I bloomed – I started actively trying to get good grades, I cut my hair, got contacts and braces, started vaguely taking an interest in how I looked beyond just thinking of myself as fat. I had friends who actually liked me, and I was happy and even kind of outgoing.

Then I fell back in. I had an experience that made me confront that earlier depression, and the realization that I had wanted so deeply to die scared the hell out of me. Life became a slog, made even worse because I didn’t think I had any right to be depressed. Upper middle class kid from suburbia going to the private college prep school, who got good grades and was going to get into a good college and be successful, who had friends, and involved parents who sat down and had dinner at the table together every night. I still got in trouble for not cleaning my room. Pretty idyllic.

I started cutting, and blogging, and eventually got found out. I told my parents, which pretty much derailed our illusion of a close relationship and it still hasn’t recovered 10 years later, particularly after the blow dealt to it when I came out a few months after that.

I liked my psychologist. She reminded me of my mom, if my mom had asked me how I felt and been totally nonchalant about the gay thing. I look back and regret that I didn’t delve deeper with her, didn’t ask her to push me further into self-exploration. Maybe that’s a good thing, maybe I just needed acceptance and a place where it was still ok to hide my dark places behind the happy exterior defense, to chalk it all up to the stress of being a teen in a high pressure, high expectation environment who was dealing with some internalized homophobia.

My psychiatrist, on the other hand, distinctly didn’t seem to like me. It was as though my happy façade bugged the heck out of her, and the $90 check I wrote her after every 50 minute appointment for a med refill made our encounter feel even more like a transaction vs any kind of a therapeutic experience. I didn’t like her, but I suspect if I had actually had counseling sessions with her, she would have broken into that inner sanctum where I hid the places I didn’t want to see of myself.

I stopped therapy when I left for college, at 18. I called my psychologist once or twice to check in, but otherwise launched out into the next phase of life with a minimum of fuss and trauma. I fell back into some bad self-injury habits that first year; cutting, binging and purging. I made a pact with my then-future girlfriend to stop self-injuring. And after that year, things kind of got better. I kept taking the Prozac, and life just generally improved. By the time that same friend (who was now my girlfriend) went into a deep downward spiral in her depression and anxiety, I no longer really got it, I was in a different place that was far removed from the depths of her pain. We broke up, after her 5^th or 6^th ER/inpatient admission, both only 19.

By the time I was 20, I had stopped taking meds. Not purposefully, mostly just forgot from time to time, and at some point I realized that I didn’t even know the last time I’d taken it. I had a relative die (somewhat distant, but one I remembered fondly) and I cried when I got the phone call. That’s when I realized I’d been off the meds for a long time, because for 4 years I hadn’t cried, not once.

The next time I considered therapy was a few years later, when I was 23. I was in Peace Corps and my dad and step-grandfather died within weeks of each other, I had broken up with my girlfriend, my new girlfriend (and major support person) was moving back to America, and the country where I was living had been dealing with ongoing civil unrest for pretty much the whole time I’d been there. Basically, situational life stress was getting me down in a big way. I called the Peace Corps therapy line, to set something up for when I flew back to the country where I was serving. Some guy picked up the call and asked me to tell him what was going on. I had no idea who he was, for all I knew he was a receptionist, but he kept asking me to tell him more details so I finally concluded he must be ok knowing all of the shit that was happening in my life and I told him. His comment was “Wow. That is a lot to deal with.” Uh, yeah, I know, aren’t you supposed to be helping me with that? He told me the medical folks in-country could talk to me, but I could call back if I needed more support. I just left it at that and asked for a bottle of melatonin when I was having trouble sleeping. I liked our medical people, but it was a small community, I didn’t want to use the people who tested my poop for amoebas as my therapists.

Now I’m in grad school. I’ve been feeling like I should talk to someone for a while, pretty much since I got to campus and found out that the counseling center is free to students. My ex (the one from Peace Corps that moved back to America) got me started on a pretty deep path of self-exploration, always pushing me to figure out why I did or thought or said particular things. I’ve missed that push to be more honest with myself, I think I need that kind of push.

School is stressful, but I don’t think it’s that. I finally decided to make an appointment when my relationship (what else?) kept becoming a main feature in my stress. Long distance sucks, and having very different ideas of what makes a happy relationship sucks even more. The anxiety, the hurt over the breaking of nebulous boundaries, and the emotional roller-coaster have been causing me more stress than Professor Wilson’s indecipherable lectures.

I’m trying to figure out what I want out of therapy. This time it really is a focus – I need a reflection of my thoughts and behaviors, in a way that allows me to analyze it and make changes to move me towards getting back to a place that was happier. Right now I feel constrained, uncertain, tentative, isolated. I don’t let myself be open to anyone but her, my recently-maybe-kinda-ex girlfriend. I’m also engaging in some terrible eating habits, becoming increasingly antisocial and unmotivated, and having trouble focusing on school work and studying, which at the price I’m paying for tuition is just not acceptable, even if I am getting A’s. I need someone who will help me parse out what I’m actually trying to get out of kink and poly. Is it something I will probably want in the long term, and how do I build a healthy and respectful relationship around that? Is it something I will grow out of, that I just need to get out of my system, and how do I get that without stepping all over other people’s emotions along the way? How do I set good boundaries with my former GF in a way that is healthiest for both of us? Because right now my desire to avoid hurting her in the short term might be setting her up for worse damage down the road, and I’d like to change that.

The good news – right now in class we’re studying Major Depressive Disorder and its relatives. I can safely say that MDD and I are no longer friends. Even with all the other things that are making me sad and stressed and lethargic and guilty, at least I can say that, which does actually feel like a bit of a victory. Going into therapy with a goal - prevention, improvement - rather than as a last ditch effort to keep from drowning. At least one thing has changed in 10 years.