The last time I saw a therapist, nearly two years ago, I was diagnosed depressed and with general anxiety disorder. After putting it off for what seems like forever, I’ve finally got an upcoming therapy appointment. And I’m terrified.

Terrified because I’ve only gotten worse from the time between my last appointment and the one marked in red on my calendar. Terrified because I’ll have to lay everything on the table for her – tear off the bandages I’ve been trying to cover over wounds, both ones that are scarred and ones that are fresh. Scared to come to terms with my illnesses and the way I anticipate to be treated- with medication.

The last time I was on antidepressants, I didn’t know who I was (nobody did). I felt like my mind and body were separated, in that I was physically present but mentally distant. I had no feelings, no emotions, no nothing. And I’m terrified to potentially lose myself behind a prescription again.

I didn’t like who I was then, but I certainly don’t like who I am now either. I feel everything in the most painful of ways. I probably couldn’t describe the last time I was undeniably happy, without having some dark thought cloud the short moment of joy. My illnesses have taken over my body, and I’ve let it happen over and over until every last piece of me was tainted with sadness.

I wish I was numb to the pain. But in order to be numb to the pain, I have to accept the orange bottle capped in white medically designed to strip me of emotions.

Am I ready for that? Definitely not.

Do I want to change? Absolutely.

Do I need to change? Undoubtably.

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