The Truth shall set you free...from yourself.
I'm going to see a shrink tomorrow.
The part of myself that is still incredulous about this fact depends on such an informal term to make herself feel better. For years I'd planned on going, but could never quite bite the bullet. "The Counseling Center's for crazy people. You're not crazy, you're just busy. You're a student leader, for Pete's sake. Everyone has bad days, especially with so much on your plate." And yet, honesty gnawed at the back of my mind like a rabid monkey: There are more to your bad days than most, kiddo.
I had finally convinced myself I'd go last year, but my mind was having difficulty communicating that decision to my feet. Day after day, I'd walk past it with a small sense of guilt that grew with each passing day. But, alas, summer arrived and I left a place in which psychoanalysis is replaced with hiking, and any 12-step program is laughed at outright. So, in came the Lake Michigan breezes, and out went all desires of help.
From there, I steeled my mind once more, persuading myself into believing I was invincible, or at least supposed to be. This facade sufficed...until I returned to school, to my usual trek back and forth past what intimidated me most, and back to my old mantra: You don't need it. You don't need it. You don't need it.
Then I started reading the book Eat, Pray, Love. Elizabeth Gilbert, the book's author and protagonist, also dealt with depression.
"I tried so hard to fight the endless sobbing. I remember asking myself one night, while I was curled up in the same old corner of my same old couch in tears yet again over the same old repetition of sorrowful thoughts, "Is there anything about this scene you can change, Liz?" And all I could think to do was stand up, while still sobbing, and try to balance on one foot in the middle of my living room. Just to prove that--while I couldn't stop the tears or change my dismal interior dialogue--I was not yet totally out of control: at least I could cry hysterically while balanced on one foot. Hey, it was a start."
Now, my situation is nothing like Gilbert's. For one, I don't bother going to the couch, as our's is right by our window. I prefer wallowing in my personal doom by grabbing my pillow, lying in the bathtub, and drawing the curtain until B finds me. Secondly, I'm not a critically-acclaimed author being payed to jet-set across the world. What I could resonate with, however, was that desire to control something, anything, even if it were something so ridiculous as posing like an emo flamingo for a couple minutes.
But I've come to realize this is out of my control. As much as this could depress me further, it doesn't, because I'm not alone. The center isn't for crazy people, it's for healthy people. The book's central quote by Sheryl Louise Moller, "Tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth," has become my new mantra.
Because really, what's worse than lying to yourself about yourself?
I'm going to see a shrink tomorrow.
The part of myself that is still incredulous about this fact depends on such an informal term to make herself feel better. For years I'd planned on going, but could never quite bite the bullet. "The Counseling Center's for crazy people. You're not crazy, you're just busy. You're a student leader, for Pete's sake. Everyone has bad days, especially with so much on your plate." And yet, honesty gnawed at the back of my mind like a rabid monkey: There are more to your bad days than most, kiddo.
I had finally convinced myself I'd go last year, but my mind was having difficulty communicating that decision to my feet. Day after day, I'd walk past it with a small sense of guilt that grew with each passing day. But, alas, summer arrived and I left a place in which psychoanalysis is replaced with hiking, and any 12-step program is laughed at outright. So, in came the Lake Michigan breezes, and out went all desires of help.
From there, I steeled my mind once more, persuading myself into believing I was invincible, or at least supposed to be. This facade sufficed...until I returned to school, to my usual trek back and forth past what intimidated me most, and back to my old mantra: You don't need it. You don't need it. You don't need it.
Then I started reading the book Eat, Pray, Love. Elizabeth Gilbert, the book's author and protagonist, also dealt with depression.
"I tried so hard to fight the endless sobbing. I remember asking myself one night, while I was curled up in the same old corner of my same old couch in tears yet again over the same old repetition of sorrowful thoughts, "Is there anything about this scene you can change, Liz?" And all I could think to do was stand up, while still sobbing, and try to balance on one foot in the middle of my living room. Just to prove that--while I couldn't stop the tears or change my dismal interior dialogue--I was not yet totally out of control: at least I could cry hysterically while balanced on one foot. Hey, it was a start."
Now, my situation is nothing like Gilbert's. For one, I don't bother going to the couch, as our's is right by our window. I prefer wallowing in my personal doom by grabbing my pillow, lying in the bathtub, and drawing the curtain until B finds me. Secondly, I'm not a critically-acclaimed author being payed to jet-set across the world. What I could resonate with, however, was that desire to control something, anything, even if it were something so ridiculous as posing like an emo flamingo for a couple minutes.
But I've come to realize this is out of my control. As much as this could depress me further, it doesn't, because I'm not alone. The center isn't for crazy people, it's for healthy people. The book's central quote by Sheryl Louise Moller, "Tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth," has become my new mantra.
Because really, what's worse than lying to yourself about yourself?
