Therapy Didn’t Rid Me Of My Depression. But It Helped Me Understand It

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It’s true when they say pains that don’t get discussed aren’t perceived as important or even real to the rest of the world.


You’re scaring me,” my sister said quietly as I sobbed into the phone. Her voice was steady, unlike mine. It was September 2015 — not the first time I’d called her during one of my episodes. I’d learned in college that a wandering mind and alcohol don’t go well together; whenever I drank too much, it became difficult for me to process anxiety and sadness, usually culminating in drunken, frenzied calls to my sister. But that day, I was wide-awake and sober, balled up on my couch in the middle of the afternoon, wailing for no apparent reason.

Thousands of miles away from home and having exhausted the patience of my friends in Los Angeles, I felt completely and utterly alone with no idea how to make the pain I felt go away. As much as I didn’t want to alarm my younger sibling, I didn’t know what else to do or what I might have done had she not answered.

“Some days you’re up, some days you’re down,” she told me gently. “I think you need help.”

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