This past semester at school started off just like any other semester. I had morning soccer practices, a full day of classes, and hours of homework to do when I was done with class. I went through the motions that I was familiar with. I grabbed coffee, walked to class, and talked with my roommates. However, unlike most days previously, after my last class, I didn’t walk back to my dorm room with my roommate. Instead, I ventured in the complete opposite direction. As expected, my roommate asked me where I was going, and if I wanted her to go with me. I kindly thanked her for the offer, but chose to go by myself. At the same time, I gave her a look that told her not to ask questions, but that she already knew where I was going, as I had told her the night before.

At the beginning of this semester in particular, I faced a lot more challenges than I had originally anticipated, with the main challenge being that for the first time in my life, I had a time where I could say that I was generally unhappy and I didn’t know why. I think that was the scariest part. I felt as though I could not do anything right, and all I did was upset the people around me. Looking back now, I was WAY too hard on myself, but that was very hard to see at the time.

To put it nicely, I was lost. My first week back at school, I must’ve called my dad multiple times each day for no less than twenty minutes each time. The person who I was at this time was not the person I KNEW I was, but I didn’t know how to get back to where I needed to be.

So, on the cold winter day, as I left my roommate after class, I walked across campus to my “secret” doctor’s appointment. Why secret? Because other than my roommates, I didn’t tell anyone where I was going, not even my parents.

This was the first day that I went to meet with one of our school psychologists.

The “secret” doctor’s appointments started as a suggestion. When everything was happening, one of my close friends had suggested I go and talk to someone about everything that happened, and even gave me the name of a psychologist specifically that she thought that I should talk to.

The first time I went, I think I cried the entire time. I was upset that I had gotten to a point in my life where I needed to get outside help, and I was upset about being upset when I actually had to talk about it. Looking back, I think I was embarrassed that I had to go in the first place. I thought that me needing to go and talk to someone, even if it was just to get a few things off my chest in a safe environment, was something to be ashamed of. I thought it was something that made me weird, or crazy, or any other number of things that just set me apart in the worst way possible. After the first time, I didn’t go back for quite a while. In fact, I don’t think that I would’ve gone back if something else hadn’t happened. After I had talked with the psychologist the first time, I thought I had pretty much cleared things up for myself and that I was going to be okay.

Some time passed, and I was doing much better. I still had a few moments here or there where I wouldn’t exactly feel like myself, but the number of times that happened was much, much less than it had been previously. I did my best to push aside everything that wasn’t positively impacting my life in hopes that that would help me figure out again how I could make myself happy. For those first few weeks, everything was going great.

The reason for my second trip to my secret doctor was simple, and much more my ideal this time. Over spring break, I had my first panic attack of my life. To put it nicely, it scared the crap out of me. I had no idea so many of the things that I had thrown onto my emotional backburner could still haunt me, especially since I was on my way to a tropical island when the panic attack happened.

Apart from my roommates and my friend that had told me to go in the first place, no one knew I had seen a psychologist. I thought that if I told people, people would begin to see me differently. Not even my parents knew I had seen a psychologist, and they knew most things about my life.

I was afraid. I was afraid that me needing to get help outside of myself made me weak, or undesirable. I was afraid that if I told those around me that I was doing this, they would not want to be associated with me anymore and I would lose all the friends I had just worked so hard to gain. Some people around me that knew me well had little inklings, and I would get asked every once in a while by different people what was going on and if I was okay. Every time, though, I answered the same. I tried to never give any sort of hint that anything wasn’t okay.

So what was the point of me telling this story? I am saying all this for one main reason: I thought that me needing to go talk to someone made me crazy and that as soon as I told anyone else, that is exactly what he or she would think.

That is not the case in any way, shape, or form.

At the end of the semester, I finally told a few people, my parents included. While it was no ones business, and I could have easily chosen not to tell anyone, I had gotten to a point where I was no longer afraid. While me seeing a psychologist was originally a suggestion, it was never a requirement. I was the one who had to make the conscious choice to go the first time, and was the one who made the choice to go back after spring break. It took a while for me to realize, but me going in the first place didn’t make me crazy or weird, but just allowed me to figure out how to be myself. Was I struggling? Yes. Am I still struggling? Not in the slightest, and I’m thrilled to be able to say that. Once I started to realize that not only was I getting something out of the hour I was spending each week talking about my life, but that I was no longer afraid, I started to be more open about what I had been doing this whole time. I was being myself, and that is not something that I was ashamed of, or scared about. This was when I finally told my parents and many of my other friends that I had not told previously. This was also the time that, when I did finally go back and see the psychologist, I actually had nothing to talk about with her.

Me going didn’t make me crazy, it made courageous. This took me quite a while to finally realize, but once I did, I was proud that I had the initiative to go in the first place. Me stepping out of my comfort zone and going was what made me better. For now, I’m done with my “secret” doctor’s appointments, but I will never look back and regret the fact that I went. Or be scared to go again.