The Sadness is Sideways

I dreaded going to counseling today. I didn't want to go sit in a quiet, well-decorated room and talk awkwardly with a really nice woman. During the week, I was tempted to call and cancel the individual counseling because I was tired of thinking about everything. I wanted to pretend that it didn't exist and just be a happy little student at Tech and dedicate myself to going to Spanish class (which I did today, by the way), play beautiful music, write about the world... but happy students have to go home.

It's so hard.

It's been a very emotional morning. I read an opinions article today about America's dependency on prescription drugs and tendency toward hypochondria. I think that's a valid concern. America does seem to like her drugs, and I think some of that deserves investigation. For example, I personally don't understand why prescription drugs are advertised on TV. You only get them by prescription, through a doctor, and if you needed a medicine for something like bone loss, I would think your doctor would tell you. But I don't know really. Maybe there are good reasons.

Anyway, what bothered me about the article was some of the aggressive language it used. Most particularly, what bothered me was that the writer made a list of conditions that he believed to be good examples of things that attract hypochondriacs, and among them was ADD and "even anxiety". I immediately thought of a conversation I had with Glen. He told me a lot of things I didn't know, described to me how ADD affects the brain, how different chemicals interact and what they do to the body, explained how much it could vary from person to person and why that makes it so difficult to diagnose and treat.

In that same conversation, we talked about how sad it was that there were so many misconceptions about it and that society held such a negative view of it. The kind of view that says "it's all in your head" and makes people feel hesitant to take medicine for something that is a real physiological condition. The kind of view that says it's just a behavioral problem that can be 'fixed' with self-control. The kind of view that encourages the thought, though perhaps not always intentionally, that there is simply something wrong with you. You as a person, not you physiologically.

This article didn't strive to make points like that. This article was specifically referring to groups who abuse pharmaceutical drugs. Reading it just made me further appreciate the difficulty of that type of writing. The author made a statement midway into the article saying "I am not trying to bash pharmaceuticals.", but ideally that statement wouldn't have been necessary. It's so difficult to find that balance, that turn of phrase that allows you to illuminate one group of a whole without looping them all together and causing offense. I know that article wasn't meant to be offensive, but that's how I felt reading it.

At the time I read it, I was about a half an hour away from going to counseling. I was still dreading it. I had a mantra in my head that went "I don't want to do this." When I left Gordon, I said to myself at the bottom of the staircase, "Grace, can I stay here with you? I don't want to go to counseling. I'm tired of doing scary things. I want to stay here and bake cookies with you..." Staircases echo, like they're listening.

If I know that everyone there is really nice and that they're there to help me, why am I afraid?

I think society tends to treat counseling the way it treats things like ADD. I thought about that on the way over. Even though I know these things aren't true, when I walk into the "mental health" section of the Wellness Center, I feel sick, and I think there's something fundamentally wrong with me and that's why I'm there, I think I'm weak and "messed up", I feel fragile, like I need to be on medication and be supervised when I use scissors.

That is "messed up."

I shouldn't feel that talking to someone is wrong.

I told my counselor that when I was really little, I asked my parents what counseling was. My father said "It's for people with lots of money who can't solve their own problems."

That's simply not true, John.

I'm going to counseling because the way I grew up has hurt me deeply. I'm going to counseling because I want to create positive change. I want to heal my family.

I shouldn't feel stupid for trying to heal my family. I know I'm not likely to succeed. I know it will probably stay the same, and might get worse. But I shouldn't feel stupid for trying.

I didn't want to go today. I'm absolutely terrified of it. It's like a hospital with a painted smile, the sterile scent sprayed with perfume. It's nicely carpeted floors, tidy rooms with comfortable furniture, lively house plants, soft-colored walls, kind receptionists who speak in calm tones and ask me my name. The whispered word "insane" hides in the corners in a sheep's costume. It's women carrying clipboards and air so still I feel that it shatters every time I move.

That's why I look nervous. Because I am absolutely terrified. I am adrenaline. It's that societal pressure--it gives everything a sinister cast because society says this just isn't something normal people do. Something must be wrong with me.

I didn't want to go today. I wanted to forget about everything and pull my blanket over my head. But I went, even though I had that mantra going in my head. I ascended the empty, echoing staircase and walked through the door that said "mental health." Just me and Good Omens walking over plush carpet.

Today my counselor told me that it's really admirable that I'm there and that I'm doing this as a college freshman.

Thank you!

I wanted to hug her! I needed to hear something like that so badly. She needs some kind of award. Counselors are so amazing. That is such an incredible skill, to know just what a person needs to hear, to know what to say. I'm terrified of what I'm doing and I'm sick of thinking about it all, it hurts to think about it, but I'm still doing it. Aren't there a bunch of high-minded quotes that say that's what courage is, doing something you need to do even though you're afraid?

Of course, sitting there, terrified, all I could do was say something like "I really appreciate that." I need to express that better to her. She needs to know how much I appreciate it.

I'm getting so tired of doing scary things, but little things like that help me believe I can make it. I'm going to counseling (something I never thought I'd do), wading through my first year of college, struggling against a history as a failing student, living with strangers, having teachers pay attention to my writing for the first time (caring about my thoughts and ideas... how incredibly strange), trying to assimilate into an ensemble, adjusting to the idea of adulthood, maintaining a long-distance relationship...

I think they call that sort of thing "transition."

That strikes me as silly. It sounds like the movement of gears or a period in history. I don't have a better word for it or anything, but... it just seems so passive. It doesn't sound like the kind of thing that can make you plop down on the sidewalk and cry in public without being sure why.

I'm really glad I went to counseling today.

The first time, every minute was an hour, but this time I was actually surprised when she said we only had a few minutes left. I was still nervous, but much less so.

I told her about my idea to write a letter to my father and possibly implement parables. We talked about that more today, and she helped me see it in new ways and gave me a place to start. She cautioned me that I'm unlikely to get my father to change his behavior, but encouraged the effort. I almost cried when she said that. It sounded almost exactly like my mom saying "I can't change him." I don't want him to change, I want his actions to change. Even if he refuses to do that, does that mean she should live with it? I have to try something...

I think I'm going to do it as a series of letters that get deeper as they go. I was initially thinking of just one, but that's too much for one sitting. I may be able to gauge his reaction to them and alter the letters as I go, or stop if it's obvious that I'm failing miserably. I can give him the option to write back.

Even with someone helping me and checking my progress, maybe I'll never finish them. Maybe I'll never send them. Maybe I'll write a novel when I'm 40 about what might have happened if I had. The next several weeks will tell.

All of this has leaked over into songwriting. I was planning on writing a simple happy song about why I love the words "Good morning," so much, but other things happened. Now it's a sort of sad song about this. Professor Wilkinson says you can't write a sad song on ukulele. But I don't think I can write anything else. I think maybe it's possible, but with a ukulele the sadness is sideways, like a sad smile.

It's a sad song, but it's also hopeful. I really hope I finish it. If I do, I want to play it for you, sister.