I was six years old the first time I ever stepped foot into a therapist's office.

The next time I was twelve.

After that, sixteen.

Today, at nineteen.

When I was younger, I didn't really understand what therapy was or why I was there, and it held no real importance in my life. However, fast forward to sixteen: I was having my first real battle with depression, and it was winning. My mom forced me to go to therapy, but I wasn't having it. I literally threw a tantrum and locked myself in her car in the middle of the parking lot.

I was terrified.

Eventually, I calmed down and agreed to go inside, but I made sure that everyone, including my mom, knew that I did NOT belong there. However, when I walked into my room for a group session, I saw someone I recognized. It was one of my teammates from my high school soccer team. Now, that might have made some other people feel uncomfortable or more anxious, but it didn't for me. I don't think I ever told her this, but her being there made it easier for me to be there too. I saw someone who I would see every day acting normal at school and soccer, talking about feelings and thoughts that I was having too.

Something I have never really shared with anyone is that I went into that first group therapy session with every intention of going home and ending my life that night. But I didn't. I sat there and listened to every single one of those girls tell their stories, some of whom have made their own attempts, and when it came time for me to share, I didn't give much beyond my name and what brought me there.

I didn't bare my soul that day, but I did walk out of there a little lighter. In fact, I remember texting my best friend after, “I'm not gonna tell my mom this, but it actually wasn't that bad." We still laugh about that.

So I kept going back, and as I began to open up, I started recognizing the person in the mirror again. I started to like being her again.

I would be in therapy for the next two years until I left the state for college. My therapist at the time thought it would be a good idea for me to get connected with a therapist as soon as I got there, to help with the big transition. However, I had been feeling really good for quite some time at that point and starting over with someone new scared the crap out of me, so I wanted to try going without it. I finished freshman year with the normal highs and lows, but overall felt pretty good.

Sophomore year is a different story. You hear a lot about college burn out, and that is exactly what I was experiencing. I worked so hard that first semester, to keep my head above water and I did, but it took ALL of my physical and mental energy.

When it came time for spring semester, I had not a care in the world for school or anything else so I started slipping into old patterns and toxic behaviors. It was literally the semester from hell. Anything that could go wrong at school or in my personal life did go wrong. I knew I needed to talk to someone, but I just didn't have the energy to rehash my past and go over my present with someone new.

This would go on for about five months, and during this time, I had made several appointments to see a therapist and then immediately canceled them or just didn't show up. Today, however, is different. I've had this appointment for three days now and I was determined to go. I told three people that I was going to go so they could hold me accountable.

I have been in and out of therapy for my entire life, and you would think this would be easier by now. I was having those same feelings as I did in that parking lot at sixteen, however, my mom isn't here to show up for me now or to force me through that door.

I built up just enough courage to walk out the door and go. I came up with what seemed like a thousand justifiable reasons that it would be okay if I turned around right now, but I didn't.

So here I am, showing up for myself. I am sitting in this stranger's office (let's call them N), visibly shaking, a little dizzy, and quite nauseous. As much as I wanted to run out of there, I think if I would've tried to stand up I probably would have fallen over. N sees how uncomfortable I am and she says, “I can see that you are shaking, is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”. I answer this with a “no", because the truth is there isn't anything she could do. N tells me a little bit about her background in psychology, what her job here is, patient rights, and a whole bunch of other stuff I didn't listen to.

N was cool though. She confronted the awkwardness of this whole, “we just met, but tell me all your burdens" situation that I've found myself in, again. She warned me about the intrusive questions she has to ask in order to get my history, figure out why I am here, and how she can best help me.

Here we go. She is asking me a bunch of questions, and I am doing my best to answer them as coherently as possible, but I am stumbling over my words so much that I wouldn't be surprised if she thought I was drunk. N tells me that she understands that we just met, so it's okay if I tell her that I don't want to talk about something or that she is pushing too hard. It got a lot easier after that. I started to find my voice, shook a little less, and shared a little more.

We talked a lot about trauma and what it does to a person. We talked about suicide. N said something that I can't stop thinking about. She said, “Suicide is so powerful, but I think when we talk about it, it takes some of its power away." I think that is why I didn't do it when I was sixteen. Talking about it, took just enough of its power away. We touched on a lot of other things in this first session, and then when it was time for me to leave, I made another appointment and walked out of there a little bit lighter.

Here I am, relearning that therapy isn't something that I should be ashamed of, for the fourth time. It is a place where I can leave some of the shame, sadness, anxiety, or whatever it may be in that room, and walk out with a little more power than it tried to take from me.

If you are in a position like I was, struggling to find the courage to ask for what you need to heal, let me encourage you. Go and talk to someone. Throw a tantrum or shake like a Chihuahua if that is what you have to, but go. Walk through those doors. Show up for yourself, because it is worth it. You are worth the energy it requires to heal. I promise.