*Warning: Trigger sensitive material involving depression and suicide.*

“That’s why...(heavy sigh)…I’m so tired. So stressed out. I’m a mess. It’s very hard, and I’m trying, but I’m slipping.”

…

Then I sobbed uncontrollably.

It felt strange crying in front of a stranger, but the sweet relief of vomiting anxiety, sorrow, and maddening anger was so good that I couldn’t help myself. It is normal to feel mad and nervous time to time, but it’s not healthy when those feelings consume you, which indeed happened to me. I took deep breaths in hopes that I’d calm down, but I still feared that I messed up and that everything was off the rails. I put in earbuds and drowned my ears with mournful indie songs, but I still heard my name shouted out in rage and disgust. I constantly asked myself why I messed up so badly and why I am so useless. I stared at the wall and wondered if I finally cracked.

My feelings were so strong that they were interfering with my studying and personal relationships. The lack of control I had over myself was frightening, and I realized that I wouldn’t last long if I didn't seek help. I searched for possible therapists and saw that my college had a center that oversaw the mental wellness of students. I went to the Wellness Being Center on my college campus, and I met a therapist. I didn’t know what quite to expect—I just wanted to be better. I filled out the paperwork and finally sat in a chair in front of her. Then came this question: "Why are you here?"

I didn’t know what to say. I knew what was tormenting me, but how do I delineate this mess of my mind into tidy, logical sentences? I stammered, trying to find the right words to say, but then gave up. “(Sigh) I think I’ll start from the beginning.” Thus starts a 10-minute story that chronicles everything that I found important: How I felt about myself, my religious beliefs, and where my stress was coming from. Not completely clear, but as connected as I could get it to be. Finally I finished and choked out, “That’s why...(heavy sigh)…I’m so tired. So stressed out. I’m a mess. It’s very hard, and I’m trying, but I’m slipping.”

For months after that we talked every week.

We talked about what was causing me damage, went back to exploring what I hated about my past, and conversed about what might help me the most. I am grateful to my therapist. I was scared of judgment. I was afraid that I wouldn’t be understood. I feared that I wouldn’t be happy again. My therapist proved me wrong. She assured me that I wasn’t being irrational, spoiled, and weak. She patiently asked me questions to know exactly what I was feeling. She also helped me make progress. It was gradual (I barely noticed it at first), but I was healing. Yeah, I was still angry, but I was also calm and maybe closer to being happy.

Talking to a therapist was probably one of the best things I could have done for myself. Before I walked into the center, I wanted to die. I wasn’t actively looking for it, but I wished for it. I constantly thought that the world would be better off without me and that I had no reason to put up with anything anymore. I slowly let go of that. Gone are the days when I would cross the street and hope that the bus would veer towards me. I have let go of beating myself up and and thrashing myself down. So if you are wondering why I emphatically recommend talking to a therapist, the reason is simple: It’s because it saved my life.