well funk.

I saw a therapist for the first time the other day.

Well, I barely saw her since I bawled my eyes out the second I stepped foot in the room. I guess that’s what comes with getting your PhD—you get to deal with hormonal college girls who are all going through it. And that’s exactly what I’d label myself as, especially during that 50-minute session where I may have only gotten in three full sentences.

I can’t really tell you why I’ve been in a funk, but I have been. I guess I saw it coming and planned accordingly (meaning, instead of helping myself, I gave myself a month full of 40-hour work weeks on top of my five classes). So, as you can imagine, my crash-out was uncharitable. It does make for a good blog topic, fortunately.

Being at war with yourself for no specific reason is draining. I’m a month into my 20th year on this planet, and let’s just say there was no angel cake at my birthday party, because DAMN, can a girl not catch a break once in a while? Anyways, instead of sitting on my ass, I took matters into my own hands—by ‘my own hands,’ I mean the hands of a random psychologist that comes free with my university. Through my tears, I did let her know that I wasn’t depressed, just severely going through it. I don’t know what it is about me and labels, but I just can’t stand them. 'You and him are dating?' NO. 'Are these symptoms of anxiety and depr—' ABSOLUTELY NOT."

One thing I hate more than labels is when people pity me. It already felt like my ego was shot down when I realized I couldn’t dig myself out of the hole I’ve been in, so going and crying to a stranger about my problems left me feeling not relieved, but more like, Okay, I just majorly overshared to this woman. She probably thinks I’m crazy and depressed. I’m not someone who talks about my feelings, nor am I great at comforting others. I usually confide in ChatGPT more than I probably should, but at this point, ChatGPT is probably ready to curse me out.

I think therapy is great for people. A lot of people benefit from hearing someone else’s perspective on events and issues, especially those dealing with trauma and mental illness. I’m such an advocate for it, but because of this, I feel like a fraud. I’m so emotionally invested in myself that there’s nothing anyone else can tell me that I probably haven’t already told myself. Amidst all the changes and emotions piling on top of me, I can always tell when I need to step back and breathe. I stopped all my hobbies, including writing. I got my nails done so I would have an excuse to not pick up my guitar, I haven’t had time to read my books, and I keep skipping my classes because I know I want to change the trajectory of my career, but I don’t know how people will react.

I do all this, and then it hits me on a random Monday afternoon that I’m scared. For the first time in my young adult life, I actually have no idea what to even do with myself. Instead of being forced to sit in silence and think about it, I thought it would be better to overload my schedule so that I could convince myself I have my shit together, when in reality, it’s the complete opposite.

I always heard that no 20-year-old knows what they want to do with their life. But I was the exception, because at 16, I had my school, my major, my career, my hobbies, and interests all laid out for me. I always put myself on this pedestal because I expected so much more out of myself than any teenager should. I thought I would never change my mind or fold under pressure, but suddenly, I’m a sophomore in college sitting in a therapist’s office because I don’t even recognize myself anymore.

Very sweet woman she is, you know what she said? She said that it’s okay. I don’t recognize myself or my brain and body because I am no longer 16. I don’t want to be a speech pathologist anymore because I don’t have the same desires and priorities I had at 16. My body looks different because I nourish myself better than I did at 17, and because of that, I have fewer panic attacks. My brain is different because I’m no longer a child who desperately wanted to grow up. I’ve been in a funk because of this, but hearing a complete stranger tell me that this was normal didn’t just make me feel better—it made me feel heard. The most heard I feel is through writing, and even though nobody reads it, it still lets me know that I will always have some control over how I feel and act. I know that no matter what changes or evolves in my life, I can always trust myself to stand back up.

I have faith in better days, but for now, I’m home for the weekend to help ground myself. Thank you to anyone who reads this—it means more than you know.

xo-em