My Therapist Says
My Therapist Says It’s Okay to Stew in Sadness
Sometimes it’s helpful to become enveloped in your depression; to face it head-on and try to understand it
The second I feel the symptoms, I have to start moving. I am up, out of bed, running thoughtless errands — I’ll buy two cartons of eggs even though I already have one in the fridge, I’ll drop off $60 worth of dry cleaning when I could just toss the shirts in with the rest of the wash. I speed through a to-do list, and the adult-like nature of these chores makes me feel productive. Instead of 10,000 steps, I’ll hit 20,000. When I am physically sick, and when I am mentally sick, I push myself to my absolute limit.
Productivity, I believe, is a cure for my illness.
I’ve struggled with depression for most of my life, and I’ve been in therapy for most of that time, too. My mom would drive me to my therapist a few towns over until I was old enough to drive myself. I got my first speeding ticket at 16-years-old, racing to therapy after spending too much time flirting with some senior boy outside the deli near school and losing track of the hours. When I moved to Western Massachusetts for college I had a new therapist. When I moved to the city after college I tried three new therapists before…
