At the age of 8, I never thought now, at 19, I would be struggling to get the help I need. Since I was eight years old, I have been in therapy. My mom first sent me to therapy after she and my father separated as I had severe anger issues and would lash out at the drop of a hat. And genuinely, I liked therapy when I was younger because it was with a life-long family friend. So she knew more reasons for why I acted out than anyone else. Every Tuesday, I’d go to her office after school in one of the more lush places in Oakland. Her office was right on top of this beautiful artisan market that sold live lobster and fresh cheeses. One session she took me to the market since I would always be hungry coming to her office after school, and bought me all my favorite snacks. However, that magical picture of therapy came crashing down over the years.
I stopped seeing that therapist by the time I turned ten. I went on without therapy for about two years until the seventh grade when my parents were in a custody battle over me. Independently my mother found me a therapist, who honestly I liked until I didn’t. Once I started to ask her and tell her about the thoughts and feelings around my mental state and depression, I remember the look on her face when I said it. My heart dropped into my stomach. To have something so dire dismissed instantly made me not trust the process I once found fun. However, I returned to my last session with this therapist as a part of the court-ordered mediation between my father and me. After this appointment, I was told most of my behavior was just teenage angst. Soon after, with a week break, I went to a different therapist. This time I had no choice on who the therapist was as it was my father’s decision. This therapist was one I hated with my whole heart. In the beginning, I felt like she was neutral, but then each session, even the ones I had alone, she would take my father’s side more and more. My breaking point was when I confronted my father about his abuse towards my mother in our second to last session with the therapist. Reminding him of certain moments, he began to gaslight me and call me a liar. My therapist then stepped in and said maybe it was a dream as I was only five and proceeded to tell my father, “you know how kids are.” He smirked when she took his side while my hatred for therapy was solidified. For another two years, I would avoid therapy like the plague, unfortunately getting caught by my high school counselor after filling out a mental health survey too honestly. My mental health began to get worse in terms of my body image and self-esteem. After half a school year of forcible counseling, I decided therapy was not for me as I was just facing regular teenage emotions on top of standard daddy issues. I was also determined the private practice route was not for me.
However, I would be mistaken when all the intense depressive habits that lightly lingered hit me like a mack truck once the lockdown happened. Constantly having to look at myself made this even harder as I began to frequently have panic attacks. Along with the continuation of my suicidal thoughts, which intensified as the months went on, I decided in January of this year to reach out to help. Still, due to the circumstances of the pandemic, my healthcare provider was only taking people who exhibited severe signs of depression for in-house therapy. From there, the relatively easy access I was used to was no longer a thing. Referring to an outside company, I went three months without reaching any access to help as time went on, my need for therapy heightened as my panic attacks manifested into manic episodes. At the same time, my depressive episodes followed suit. Having no clear direction for a diagnosis, I was lost in the sea of my mental health. In the thick of my undiagnosed illnesses, I came to a point where I tried to take my life. This was devastating, considering how hard and evident my spiral had been. After that, I saw an opportunity to get free help using BetterHelp until I heard back from my health insurance. I used BetterHelp for about a month until my counselor stopped working with the program, and I was set adrift again. Finally, at the start of September, I reached out to the outside referral but didn’t hear back until a few weeks ago. However, in those weeks, I reached out to my healthcare provider again but was told my new route of wanting a diagnosis would take until mid-December. Yet, due to the severity of the situation, my mother helped me and was able to get me an appointment for treatment in November. My journey with the mental health system in America often leads me to questions for those who cannot have proper access to care and students who do not know where to go when they don’t feel comfortable reaching out on campus. I realized accessibility and having a clear system are important as everyone deserves treatment.