“I’m not supposed to give advice but you should really think about doing stand-up comedy or something. It just seems unfair to humanity that I’m the only one who gets to enjoy your effortless wit.”
— Someone’s therapist, but not mine
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Things I should talk to my therapist about vs things I do talk to my therapist about.
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It’s hard to tell my family that I’m in therapy. These are men and women who grew up in old-school Mexico. For decades, my relatives haven’t spoken of mental illness. I’m pretty sure food allergies are not even a thing in modern-day Mexico. Your throat closes up after eating peanut butter for the first time over there, all Mexicans’ gut-driven answer is making you chug Sprite. Anyways, seeing a shrink is so far beyond what my immediate family considers sane. They’re skeptical. They don’t believe in this shit.
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“What is your goal for therapy?” asks Connie. “Write it down and we will discuss it next week.”
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This is a story about sober Christian—about the non-sober life that has led me here, about the sober life I live 6 months a year, and about the random series of events that made me start to think about my mental health. While the particulars of this post are specific to me, wider predicaments and decisions and insecurities confront us all. No matter the choices I’ve made while hacking through the undergrowth to the future, no matter how unlike your life is to mine, I think you will find plenty to relate to or, at least, empathize with.
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This piece is the first in an ongoing series about mental health, my experiences seeking professional help, and the process of getting better.
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