“I’m scared that I’m so crazy.”
“Oh, we’re all crazy, honey. But most of us don’t have your style.”
— Elizabeth and Rae, in Crooked Little Heart, by Anne Lamott

So . . . I started counseling again tonight. Yeah, on a Friday night. Obviously, one of my issues is that I have no life. Anyway, I don’t mind telling you this because I’ve always said that I think everyone should be in therapy: Where else can you spend an hour (and $100+, but who’s counting?) talking about yourself to someone who has to listen to you and isn’t allowed to talk about themselves in return?

I don’t know if I dig my counselor, though. I kind of hit the counselor jackpot with my last two – the one I saw for two years after I first lost my hearing and the one I saw during my last year in law school – so I’m a bit spoiled. This one was a bit quick to hit the “you’re clearly depressed maybe you need medication” button, and that always makes me wary. (I don’t dispute that anti-depressants are helpful for some people, but I generally think people (and doctors) in the U.S. today are too quick to medicate problems instead of trying to reach the root of them.) Plus, she’s significantly older than I am, which makes it feel a little like I’m talking to my mom. My last counselor was actually younger than I am – she was a 4th-year doctoral student – and we completely clicked, which made counseling much easier than it might otherwise have been. Also, this having a full-time job thing really makes it difficult to find time to go once a week. Friday nights are the only time she has evening hours, which kind of bites: “No, sorry, I can’t have drinks after work tonight; gotta rush home to meet my shrink.” That’s totally cool.

So I’m debating going back. I know I need to – if not with her, then with someone else – and I have an appointment for two weeks from tonight, but I’m not sold. Mostly I feel like I’m cruising along ok, but then some little thing happens and it knocks me on my ass, then I get up and start cruising along ok again, but then something else happens . . . you get the idea. What I’m trying to say, I suppose, is that I seem ok on the outside, even to myself, but the inside is actually a giant mess, and I can’t keep trying to hide it or pretend it’s not like that. And I don’t think I can fix it alone.