"Your case isn't even that bad."

When I was about 14, my mom made me see a therapist, even though I never told her that I was depressed and haven't told her to this day. 

Based on the way my mom and step dad treated me, I learned from a young age not to trust adults. So I only gave the therapist limited information.

One day the therapist said to me, "Don't worry, your case isn't even that bad. I've seen so many kids who have way worse cases." 

In reality, I had a verbally and emotionally abusive home. I had depression from the huge expectations my parents had for no one but me, and I have a crippling fear of failure from the punishment I got for my best simply not being good enough. 

But yeah, my case "isn't even that bad." You're right. What was I thinking?

"At least one of them will turn out normal."

After years of abuse, a group home, and an abusive foster mother, my life finally settled down. I went to therapy, got diagnosed with depression and PTSD, and received the help I needed. I became happier, more confident, more in control of my life than I have ever been. I felt like for the first time, my life was going in the right direction.

One day I was talking to my adoptive mother about how my little brother might be too young for therapy because he wasn't talking much in his sessions. The she told me what his therapist said to her:

"At least one of them will turn out normal." 

I had always felt judged for what my birth parents did, but hearing that a professional believed that I would forever be tainted because of my past sticks with me. 

I may have issues, but I am not broken. I am not destined to follow in my parents' footsteps and I'm not destined to lose my battle with my illnesses. 

I understand all of this on a logical level, but there's still that intrusive voice telling me that I will fail, I'm sick, I'm not normal, and I never will be.

"Sometimes I think he did too good a job."

At some point early in our marriage, I happened to mention to my ex-husband that my dad had made a point to raise independent daughters, and something in regards to the benefits of this. My husband replied, "Yeah, I know. But sometimes I think he did too good a job." 

At the time I brushed this comment off, but looking back now (and after a great deal of therapy), I can see this as a portent of things to come. 

Throughout our marriage, my independence increasingly became an issue for him. It meant that he and his wants couldn't always come first in our relationship, or that sometimes he might have to take someone else into consideration when making decisions about something.  When we got into arguments, my ability to stand up for myself became a tool he used against me. When I would bring up something he'd said in the past, he would either deny having said it, or accuse me of twisting his words. Throughout all of this, he cast himself as the innocent bystander, or even the victim, making me feel guiltier and guiltier. 

I eventually started to doubt myself, all the time, about everything. Rather than reaching a mutually satisfying compromise over an issue, I found myself just giving in to his demands, or letting him talk me around to his point of view. I began to view my independence as a negative trait and a selfish behavior. I remember telling my therapist I felt like I was going crazy because I was never sure about anything anymore and didn't feel like myself. 

Thank goodness my independence never fully left me, because I never stopped fighting, and finally asked for a divorce after about 3 years. I have a wonderful new partner in life who loves me as I am, and sincerely appreciates my independence and self sufficiency. He never questions my desire or need to do something on my own, but gently lets me know he's there if I need him. I revel in the life I have built for myself. 

But there are times, in my most anxiety ridden moments, when I hear my ex-husband's voice in the back of my head and start to doubt myself again, and just for a second I wonder if my independence won't also be my downfall. Then I remember how f*cking amazing I am, and that he is just a selfish narcissist who doesn't believe that white, male privilege exists.
 

"Just a phase."

Sophomore year of high school, I was well into my depression and struggling to find a reason to keep going. The first person I confided in was my dad, and he assured me that he'd help me find a therapist. 

Fast forward to a few months later, and my mom and stepdad were the ones who were helping me to find the help I so desperately needed. 

My dad finally attended a session with me, and afterwards he admitted to me in the car that he thought that my depression was "just a phase," and that he had never actually looked for help for me. 

It's been nearly 6 years, and I still don't think he takes me seriously.
 

"Get a life!"

In the past I've struggled a lot with anxiety, depression, PTSD, and bipolar. Lately I've been struggling with agoraphobia, or the fear of going outside. I've been indoors 90% of the time for a number of years, and I'm trying to work through it now.

I stopped going to public school sophomore year. I can't handle the environment, with timed expectations and feeling like people have their eyes on me when I mess up, so I take classes at home through the school. Every so often I have to go to the high school to do paperwork or something. My anxiety gets to me pretty often, but I try my hardest to relax and keep my head up. Keeping happy is my way of getting back at all the misfortune in my life, even if it's difficult. 

One day as I was getting ready to go to the high school to do some errands, I decided for the first time in forever that I wanted to dress up a little. Feeling confident makes it easier for me to go outside. It makes me feel like if people look at me, they won't judge what they see. 

As I was getting ready to cross the street to go home, someone sped by in a car and screamed at me, "GET A LIFE!" 

I stood and stared at the street for a moment. I felt like a paper thin glass bottle getting dropped on the ground. I wanted to sit down and cry, but I wanted even more desperately to just go back home and be inside. Indoors, nobody would call me names or tell me what to do with my life. 

I wanted to stop that car and shriek into his ears, "Do you know what you've just done to me? Do you know what I am going through? It took every single ounce of my energy to get out of bed today, and you have the audacity to tell me to get a life. I'm trying. I'm TRYING to get a life and I'm TRYING to maintain it. You don't know what it's like to get up with the intentions of going outside, look at the front door for fifteen minutes, undo the deadbolt, and then start crying and go back to bed because people like you make me wish I had never been born. I hope you're happy with yourself. I worked up every last bit of courage I had to walk out the front door today and you shattered it. You took it and threw it in a trash compactor." 

The three words he screamed at me made me feel empty and alone. It kept me wondering what I did wrong. What did I do to deserve that scream? What did I do to make you hate me? Just exist? 

Since then I've been working on going outside more. It isn't as scary now as it was then. I went out all on my own today and applied for a number of jobs. It feels good to smile and look people in the eyes, shake their hands and introduce myself. Even if I don't get the job(s), I'm happy with myself because I tried. 

I have a life. I'm doing all I can with it. With what I've been through in my life, trying and succeeding even at little tasks is more than just "enough." 

I'm excelling in places I never thought I would, and that is what makes me happy.

Supporting Character

I started seeing a therapist about a year ago. One of the main issues we talked about was how I felt like the supporting character in everyone's life, and how I sacrifice my own needs to make others happy. 

At one point, she accidentally called me by the name of a friend of mine who we had been discussing. The therapist didn't catch her mistake, so I corrected her. Instead of apologizing for her own mindless slip and moving on, she said, "It's so interesting how you seem to be fading into the background in relationships and having your friends overpower you, even in our session."

It made me so angry that this therapist used her own absentminded word mixup as some sort of brilliant revelation of how I am inherently someone who is less important and prominent in relationships. I could tell that she was so pleased with herself for making this connection. 

Of course, knowing what you already know about me, it took me six months to finally stand up for myself and leave this therapist for good. 

"Incessant piece of crap."

When I was a sophomore I had a horrible, horrible breakup with a guy I dated for a little over a year. He ended up leaving me for the girl he had told me for months was "just a friend". 

After he left, I tried to at least salvage my friendship with him since we had once been very close friends, only to get a reply from his new girlfriend telling me I was an "incessant piece of crap" and that, the universe would be better off if trash like me killed themselves. 

This put me in a really dark place, and it just got worse after my emotional support (my dog I had since I was a toddler) died in my arms, and two puppies I adopted after her death died weeks after their adoption. 

After that, I began to believe what she had told me. I began blaming myself for the deaths of my pets and began wishing I was just dead so no other creature would have to suffer my existence. 

It took a long time and a lot of therapy before I was finally pulled out of the dark place her words had sent me to, but even to this day if something goes wrong her words echo in the back of my mind and linger like a shadow following me.
 

"I'm sick to death of you!"

I was maybe five years old, and my grandparents had been upset with me every day that summer. I still don't know why. 

I remember sitting on the couch and my grandfather was scolding me for something. 

He said, "I'm sick to death of you!" 

This not only made me feel horrible, but it scared me. As a little kid I thought, "I'm so bad, I'm going to kill my grandfather!" 

This has come up in therapy a few times.
 

"My heart broke for you."

I was 19 years old, and I had completely broken down. Again. The world around me that I thought I knew was crumbling to pieces. 

"You're worthless. You're good for nothing. You're worthless." 

These words rang over and over through my empty mind. 

I had just begun my third semester in college, and in every class, I found myself writing my suicide letter. The date would be the anniversary of my dad's suicide. Halloween. Might as well make it dramatic. 

The week before Halloween, I showed a therapist my letter. I convinced him that I wasn't serious. That it was all a joke.

He let me walk out in this state. 

When Halloween came, I got drunk. I ran up this street, with no shoes, no jacket, no dignity. Three cops stopped and asked me what I was doing, if I'd come off my meds, if I needed to go to the hospital. I walked away. 

A woman got out of her car and asked me if I was all right, asked if I wanted food. I ran away. I was shaking, sweating, biting back my last tears. In my mind, I wasn't allowed to cry. This was what I deserved. 

I started to walk out in front of a car. 

The car came to a stop, and someone got out. It was the same lady from before. She rushed out of the car, threw her jacket on me, and held me as a cried. 

She said, "When I saw you, my heart broke for you." 

She gave me new life. 

She gave me a seed of hope to plant. 

Today, I am 22 years old. After various hospital stays, various treatments, I am still on the path to recovery.

To this very day, I still hold her words close to my heart. Every time I dream about ending the suffering I endure every day, I envision that angel who saved me. 

I remember her holding me as I cried. 

I remember how truly promising life can be even when the room is dim.
 

"Oh well."

My therapist was driving me home after a group session, and there was something I still wanted to get off my chest.

We went to the park and I tried to tell her what I was feeling. It was something I felt for a long time and I never knew how to say it, so I just let it out.
I told her, "Sometimes I just feel stupid, like everything that's easy for everyone else is hard for me. It's like I don't understand the simplest of things and like I'll never catch up with everyone. I want to be smart."

She just looked at me and said, "Oh well."

I told her to take me home. I quit therapy shortly after.