Individual therapy is a useful way to cope with mental illness, but it isn't for everyone -- and it certainly wasn't for me. I knew that I needed help and that I needed to talk to someone about my anxiety, but I just couldn't get myself to open up. I went through countless therapists, thinking each time that they were the problem.

My mental health wasn't improving at all, so I couldn't just stop going to therapy. Everyone was under the impression that I would be in worse shape on my own, so I dragged myself to those miserable appointments each week.

What did I hate about them most? Good question.

I hated the atmosphere and how it was so artificially comfortable -- how it created the impression that if I sat on this awkwardly-positioned couch then everything would suddenly get better. I remember thinking that I'd rather be on a wooden chair than a lavish couch, just so I wouldn't have to pretend to be comfortable.

I wanted to be in and out as quickly as possible. I wanted to be fixed. I wanted them to have the answer. I didn't want to tell my story for what felt like the thousandth time just to be told to give it time -- to be told that I was going to be okay. I never believed it anyway, so there was no point in telling me.

I hated the silences. Those endlessly awkward moment when I'm waiting for them to speak, and they're waiting for me to speak, but I have nothing else to say because all I have is hopelessness.

I hated the little toys on the tables -- the idea that these little trinkets were supposed to distract me enough that I'd be mentally stable again.

In short, I hated everything about it.

When I came to college, I decided to give it another shot, but I wasn't feeling any differently about it. I had started getting better, so I didn't have as much to talk about, which only created more silences. I didn't feel like therapy was helping at all, and, for the first time in a while, I decided to be honest with my therapist.

As much as it felt like a breakup, I knew that it was a necessary conversation. I told her that I felt uncomfortable discussing my life so intricately with someone I barely knew. I knew that there was supposed to be a sense of connection and trust, but I wasn't feeling it, and I never had.

She mentioned group therapy, which initially sounded even worse, but I decided to give it a shot because I was still trying to remain open-minded.

I went to my first session with the group, and everything I hated about therapy wasn't there. The focus was lifted off of me, and instead of what felt like an intervention,I was having a conversation with people in my same situation. Listening to everyone else's stories made me feel less alone than talking about my own problems ever did, and there were less of those dreaded silences.

It took me a couple weeks to open up to the group, but after the adjustment, I had never felt so comfortable in my life. Instead of dragging myself to appointments, I looked forward to them, and I formed strong connections with everyone in the group.

I felt validated in my struggles, and taking to people my age was a lot easier than talking to a therapist alone. The journey and the transition were difficult, but I finally found a place where I feel safe and hopeful.