You used to tell me a therapist was a great idea. That you saw one and that she really helped you. That she was someone you trusted. At this time in our friendship, I believed you, but knew I didn’t have the money or resources to see someone.
I didn’t know how.
I didn’t think it was normal.
I didn’t want to have to see someone to talk about my problems. But I never saw you as crazy for needing one. I just saw you as you.
It was a year or so later when our friendship unraveled due to college and stress, that you mentioned therapy again. In a way that left me cold. This time you told me I needed to see a therapist, that you were not my therapist and you couldn’t help me. That really stung. I wish you had slapped me instead. Suffocated me. Told me our friendship had been a lie. Told me I was crazy. I felt insulted. That me specifically needing a therapist was crazy and out of this world.
I don’t blame you. I was in a bad place, I was difficult. But us cutting each other off was so easy. I don’t know why.
We don’t talk anymore. You’re not someone I would reach out to, I’ve come to accept this. But you are someone to whom I would proudly tell I’ve been in therapy for about three years now and I’m doing fucking great.
Though, I’d then walk away with my head held high, I would still not be at peace. I don’t know why I sometimes relate you, our failed friendship, and my therapy journey to one another – but there’s a thread there I tug on from time to time.
I guess I come back to you in my mind when I do feel “crazy.” Crazy for being nostalgic over a bad friend, for me being a bad friend, and for our messed up friendship.
Here’s the catch, though. I’ve been doing great lately, but only when I’m in my therapist’s office. When I exit her safe space I seem to fall back into this pattern I have created for myself.
I feel numb a lot of the time. Perhaps that’s because the anti-depressant I’ve been on for the past three years really isn’t the one for me but now I’m struggling to get in to see the woman who prescribed them to me. My therapist doesn’t work where I’m covered for prescriptions anymore which means I have to jump through hoops to be able to pay $10 instead of god knows how much to go find someone new.
Maybe soon I’ll get prescribed medicine that won’t make me not feel anything (even the good things, the marvelous things). And I want to scream this at you and tell you that I am in therapy and I am so deeply thankful for my therapist and the people that got me into therapy the healthy way. I want to scream all these things I’ve learned about myself at you. I want to scream at you that just because I’m in therapy working on myself doesn’t mean I’m somehow fucking fixed. Because I’m not. And I bet therapy didn’t fix you either.