My aversion to psychiatrists started in my early twenties. I briefly sought help for a stint with depression. It was not a positive experience. I was there of my own accord but soon realized it was not something I wanted to spend my free time doing. My doctor was a couple of generations ahead of me. We did not have anything in common other than the air we breathed in her stuffy office. She would ask about my life then yawn and look at her watch before I even had time to begin speaking. The only thing she told me was that I had a chemical imbalance in my brain. That was after a simple one-hour session of talking and zero blood work. She gave me a prescription. The pills made things a lot worse. I went to my weekly appointments for less than a month. If seeking help was going to make me feel worse, then I would deal with things on my own.

That initial experience really put a damper on future attempts at seeking help for my mental health. What I did not realize at the time is that it is common not to hit it off with the first therapist you see. Sometimes people switch until they find someone they are comfortable with.

My primary care physician had been gently coaxing me toward therapy. From the moment of my diagnosis, she started urging me to get help. We finally settled on a plan. After nearly a year of appointments with me sitting in her office and crying, she wrote a prescription for an anti-anxiety medication. We would give that three months. If, after three months, I was still struggling I would speak with a therapist. The idea was that the medication would stop, or at least help me through my anxiety attacks. If we could control my panic, then maybe I would be able to see clearly enough to cope with my diagnosis and eventually come off the medicine. If the medication did not help, then I would seek additional psychiatric help.

It took me nearly a month to actually make the appointment once I was referred to psychiatry. I procrastinated and stalled until I ran out of excuses. On the phone, I learned there was a waitlist for new patients. I took the next available appointment. It was four months away. I still was not excited about seeing a therapist. I would not have cared if they had told me it would be a year long wait.

Needless to say, I spent the next four months wallowing in anxiety over the impending appointment. I nearly canceled several times. My biggest fear was actually sitting across from someone and being expected to talk about what was happening to me. I could not fathom how that would even be possible. Talking about my diagnosis always left me in panic mode and in tears. I did not see any way this would physically work.

I managed to keep the appointment. I sat in the waiting area staring at the wall. I brought a book. I had my phone. There was nothing I was able to focus on. I simply stared at the wall and tried not to think about where I was or why I was there. I would feel my face flush and tears well in my eyes. I was feeling even more confident this was going to be a disaster.

After an agonizing ten minutes, a gentleman about my own age called my name. He introduced himself as Kelly. This was my new therapist. He led me into the office and shut the door behind us. I quickly scanned the room. It was typical. There was an office chair for him and a black leather couch with a single throw pillow for me. It was warmer than I like, but there was a fan humming in the corner. As I sat down, I noticed a yoga mat beside the fan. It was gently tossed out of the way instead of rolled up. I assumed it got plenty of use.

Kelly was everything my first therapist was not. I quickly ascertained that my initial experience with therapy years ago was actually atypical. He made me feel comfortable. I felt like he wanted me there and he wanted to help me. That feeling did nothing to get me through the next hour, though.

It went pretty much as I had expected. We had small talk for about five minutes. I handled that okay. Then, he asked me why I was there. Again, I stared at the wall. I was trying so hard to clear my mind. I knew why I was there. All I had to do was say it. It was just words. I knew what would happen if I said those words, though. I felt my face reddening and the tears building. I was only five minutes into a sixty-minute session and was already losing it. I could feel my breath change and my heart start to flutter. How was I supposed to be able to talk about this for an hour?

I am not sure how long we sat there like that until Kelly’s voice broke the silence. He simply told me to take as much time as I needed. He did not volunteer to say it for me. I figured out that was solely on me to say and if it took the entire hour for me to get it out, then so be it.

I finally told him I was there because I had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. I mustered a small laugh through the tears as I told him I was apparently having trouble coping with it. He smiled back. It did nothing to stop the onslaught of tears and emotions, but it did make me want his help.

So began my venture into getting my mental health back on track. Speaking with a therapist should be something you actually want to do and not something you spend the entire week or month dreading until your next appointment. My appointments are proving helpful and therapeutic. I will continue to write about my therapy as we try new techniques and discuss new topics. I hate that I let one bad experience so long ago deter me from seeking help sooner.