December 07, 20xx
Earlier this year, I reached out to the school counselor, Mr. Davis. I told him about my anxiety and how it’s been ruining my life, and he’s been working with me since. He suggested I try a group counseling he hosts every Friday, and even though I’ve been attending for a few months now, it doesn’t feel like enough. It’s easy to listen but it’s harder to talk. Everyone’s attention turns to me and I freeze. Mr. Davis reminds us that it’s normal to feel this way at first, and reassures me that I’ll open up in my own time. If I wasn’t graduating this year, maybe I’d believe him.
Last week I pulled Mr. Davis aside and told him about my anxiety getting worse. I told him that sometimes it gets so bad that I want to stop existing—just long enough to catch my breath. I don’t know how else to describe it, but I told him it feels a lot like I’m falling into myself. Or like I’m watching things happen from a massive window across a dark room. That isn’t anything new to me; in fact, I’ve been doing that since I was twelve. But I told him that lately, I can’t ‘put myself back in.’ It feels like I’m not in control anymore, and maybe I sound crazy but it makes sense to me.
Mr. Davis suggested I tell my dad, and was surprised to learn I’ve tried. Saying dad doesn’t listen is easier but the truth is: he lectures me. Dad criticizes me for not putting enough faith in God and thinks I’m just anxious about college. He doesn’t believe me when I tell him I think I’m losing my grip on reality, and says I’m just being dramatic. The last time I tried opening up about this, dad told me I didn’t know what I was talking about—and the time before that, he said I wanted to grow up too fast. I know he’ll never try to hear me out or understand, but I still get upset. I feel alone.
I explained this to Mr. Davis, and he seemed concerned. He seemed even more disheartened when I described how dad laughs at me, or finds it endearing I’m being “too serious.” He never fails to make me feel worse. Mr. Davis seemed so concerned that he gave me a business card for a local therapist. Apparently they work with low-income families, and he encouraged me to take my time to think things over. I’m grateful he’s been advocating I get ‘real’ help, even if I am a bit nervous to ask about it. He said when I’m ready, I can let him know and he’ll take care of the rest.
I never thought I didn’t need help, but convincing dad is the biggest reason why I haven’t tried. Mr. Davis knows now, and reassured me I wouldn’t have to ask for that by myself. I thought maybe after the holiday break, I’d let him know I want to look into things and he could help me. What I wasn’t expecting was for dad to go through my backpack. He found the card and confronted me about it earlier this morning, and honestly, I think I was right to wait.
Dad went on about how therapy is a bottomless pit that idiots throw money into, and scolded me for buying into “one of America’s greatest scams”—among other things. He made comments at me like, “you’re too smart for that,” and “whoever is filling your head with this crap needs to stop.” He made it seem like asking for this kind of help was like admitting he’s a bad parent, and acted almost hurt. Dad continued to berate me while he drove me to school. I tried my best to ignore him, but couldn’t help myself when he started accusing mom of being behind it.
To my surprise, when I got home today dad said he would let me go. Even if it is only for a few months or even for a session, I think that’s all I need. As much as I want to be optimistic, I have a feeling dad is going to make this difficult for me. He always does. But I hope this therapist can give me something more than saying what I feel right now is just ‘growing pains’ or ‘teenage angst.’
Next Wednesday, I meet with the family therapist named L.C. Morningstar.
—Alli Mae
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