I was nervous to go to counseling, but after having to go to the hospital due to my depression, I knew I had to do it. Talking to family and friends just wasn’t enough anymore because, as reassuring as they tried to be, they really didn’t know what to say to make things better. And at that point in my life, no matter what anyone said, I was never happy.
After “the incident,” I immediately looked into personal counseling. Although I was on medication, I still needed extra help. I needed someone to convince me that I had a reason to continue taking my medication because I couldn’t think of one on my own—at the time.
I took advantage of the university’s resources and booked an appointment with a counselor at the school. At first, I was nervous; I didn’t know what to expect. What if other students judged me? What if I got the time mixed up? Was I even in the right place? And that was just the beginning. Once my name was called, I realized that I had to tell a perfect stranger about my problems. I had to open up to someone I didn’t know just to get better—how did that even work?
My counselor was a young woman. She was incredibly sweet, but she knew what she was doing. She could immediately tell I was nervous and tried to reassure me we would begin with simple introductions, nothing too intense. Her voice was soothing yet confident; her posture relaxed yet professional. She made me feel comfortable, and I quickly decided that I wanted to tell this woman what I was thinking and how I was feeling.
I began by testing the waters. I would tell her something and then assess her reaction. Most of the time I expected judgment, but it never came. When I talked to my family or friends, they would always look at me with pity, but my counselor never did. She saw me as a young woman who was struggling but did not define me by my struggles. She provided an environment in which I could cry openly, admit my darkest secrets, and even laugh uncontrollably for no reason. Whatever I was feeling, she was there to talk me through it, to help me understand what I was feeling when no one—not even myself—could.
Sometimes I would spend an entire session crying. Words sometimes never came. But no matter what, I always left the room feeling a little lighter and a little happier. By the end of each session, I could think of another reason why I wanted to live. I could think of another person worth living for. And eventually, I realized that I wanted to live for myself. In so many ways, counseling saved my life.
I don’t go to counseling anymore, but quite often, I wish I still did. Having someone to confide in made all the difference for me. Talking through everything changed the way I viewed myself and my life. I never thought I would be where I am today—although quite often stressed, I am happy. While medication does help, I owe my counselor everything for helping me get back on my feet.
For those of you who are struggling, and feeling as though you don’t have someone to talk to, I encourage you to consider counseling. It may change your entire world—it did for me.