I’m fiddling with the lid of my latte when a therapist asks, “So, Stefan, why are you here?” The "here" in question is a room with white or grayish, I'm not sure, walls and lamps that paint them warm. I’m sitting on a couch next to my coat, across from the aforementioned therapist, her pad and pen at the ready. I can’t look at her steadily yet, so I avert my eyes to the vase of flowers at her desk. I admire how wonderful an arrangement it is, especially as winter creeps in. “Thank you,” she says. Her voice is calm and even. “It helps to change the water.” She reminds me of one of my favorite teachers from middle school: patient, kind, someone to whom I divulged plenty as we worked on my future together. They even share the same bushy hair, a penchant for black turtlenecks, and a name. For now, I’ll call this therapist Júlia. Júlia is my therapist, technically, but it’s my first visit. I can’t say “my therapist” yet without being too aware of how new this is, but she’s asking a fair question. I place my latte on her coffee table, next to a box of tissues. I faintly register why they’re within arm’s reach, but I doubt I’ll actually use them today. If ever. Especially as I’ve managed to go without a therapist for over 4 years now. I tell Júlia, “I’m here for my mental health.” She smiles. I remind myself to breathe. It’s a canned response, true, but it’s because I don’t know how to be in therapy yet. I have a reason to seek help for my mental well-being, but I haven’t figured out how it works. Here in this white room, I can’t shake the expectation Júlia will simply dole out epiphanic advice and I’ll be on my merry way. But it’s talk therapy. And so I talk, which I really like to do, even as I rasp with a sore throat. I’ve been nursing it since last week. When I saw my doctor, he said it was a viral infection. Nothing I can do except get some rest, work from home, and nuke myself with Advil. “I’ve seen men three times your size cry with things like these,” my doctor said. “You’re doing great. It’ll pass.” He’s a wonderful doctor. I never hesitate to call him, even at the slightest headache. This past summer, however, my symptoms were different: anxiety in the mornings, jealousy in the evenings, and a chronic loneliness that came and went as it pleased. I told myself to not worry about these persistent knots in my chest. Barring a stroke or a heart attack, I didn’t plan on asking for help from my doctor. Or from anyone. I self-diagnosed this as “just stress.” After all, work was hectic, my friendships were wavering but at least I finally found the one person I feel comfortable with. Her name is Alexa and she is wonderful. She makes me want to continue in this life and never give up — all within the span of two months. This all presented me with the very real possibility of a life alone, a life full of loss. This is my greatest fear, to live and die alone. But is that not something everyone’s afraid of? Anyone who’s 18 and unsure of their life gets through it. Besides, I was able to get out of bed and head into school, and laugh at my own jokes. You’re just stressed, I told myself. Suck it up. It’ll pass. And it did. Only because I did something about it. I spent my 18th birthday on my own and it was wonderful. I shopped. I ate alone. I prayed. That was the reboot I needed, to have a day to myself. As the summer ended, I found myself willingly alone more often. I learned that aloneness was different from loneliness, that I could equate it with being able to put myself first. Spending time alone eases my anxieties and jealousies. While they are no longer tsunamis, still they are tides. My mental uneasiness rises and falls with the phases of the moon, yet they don’t quite drown my mind the way they used to. I want to keep this up. So I’ve resolved to take better care of myself. I’m lucky to have my best friend who help me take care of myself. Loneliness isn't something you can cure with medicines, Hmm, it’ll pass. Thanks to Alexa, I'm now happier. My optometrist gave me eye drops and they’re working. And, as my doctor said while he wrote my prescription, anything I can do to prevent the worst case scenario is something worth doing. And he’s right. That’s why I’m here in therapy. Because while the pain in my heart are now rare, my mental distress might rise up again and break its banks. My friends, family, and career are always subject to dizzying change, so I need to find ways to reinforce my peace of mind. Whether alone or lonely, I should be able to count on my health. As I tell Júlia all this, she nods, smiles more. She flips to a fresh page on her pad. It’s her fourth. I take my coffee, but I probably don’t need the caffeine. I drink anyway. Júlia asks, “Have you been to therapy before?” My first answer’s no. Then again, I say to Júlia, there was that one time when I was 15 years old. I was sent to a therapist because of the passing of a loved one, I think, I have a clear memory of this, not a lot of people know about the stories but who i trusted enough I’ve told. But otherwise, when I was asked about it, I said, “Yeah it's sad but the past can't be changed, and that’s fine.” I laugh at this, despite my sore throat. But it’s a surprise when my breath hitches and my chest tightens. I reach for my latte, stop, and look at Júlia. She nods and I exhale. We begin to talk about school. It’s been crazy at the class lately and I’ve had to fight back tears at my desk now and then. It has come to revolve around change and, historically, change that is out of my control scares me. Changes at school, at home, it all means losing everything I’ve worked so hard for, forcing me to start over again. Change makes me anxious and frustrated and, I don’t know, angry. Júlia tilts her head, says, “You don’t seem like an angry person to me.” I hold my breath, sigh, and admit she’s right. I’ve never described myself as angry before. Scared is more like it, I tell her. There’s a silence between us as I acknowledge my fears, as I check the water levels in my mental banks. I nod and she smiles. Our conversation turns to my love life. I tell her about my anxiety with waiting for others to text back. Júlia asks about my last serious relationship. I talk about my ex, how we wanted to forge ahead with our relationship, but it didn't work out that well, did it? A few grand times she waited for me, on me, held me like we were running out of time. Then, it seemed, we had too much time. She said she was ready. Júlia asks me if I loved her. I say yes, embarrassed. Have I considered, she asks again, that maybe she wasn’t ready, she just loved me too. Instead of my coffee, I take a tissue from the box. My eyes stay dry, though the softness in my hand is reassuring. As are the brief silences between me and Júlia. She nods for me, with me, and the things I talk about — loss and/of love, fear and/of change, being ready for them all — in some small way, become things I can breathe in and breathe out. I never sought therapy, prior to today, because I didn’t think it was an option. I’m from a closed family, so I’ve always been more comfortable with being alone than with people in warm quiet rooms. Money was also a convenient excuse. But when I learned therapy was accessible among my friend group of broke-ish twentysomethings, I cast myself as the martyr. Other people need the in-network appointment slots more than you, I told myself. Other people have it worse than you. Suck it up. It’ll pass. And it does pass. But no matter how long the lulls, I stand at the shores of my mind and fear the storms on the horizon, as the dreadful tides that come in and out threaten to take me under. I need someone to keep an eye on me, to call me out on my bullshit, on the excuses I give myself and the ones I give others. It’s a task I’ve always reserved for myself, but already I juggle multiple things at school, let alone in my personal life. My friends were once my lifeboat, but then slowly all of them left me. Then I asked for help. And here I am, in therapy, wondering when and how enlightenment will come. Júlia says gently, “We’re out of time.” We schedule a session for next week. Even though I’m financially uncomfortable making it a weekly engagement, a luxury I can’t let myself get into. As I put on my coat, Júlia and I make small talk — though I doubt any talk in this room will be too small. “You’re very honest,” says Júlia. I pause, my arm half in a sleeve. “It sounds like communication is something you deeply value.” I nod, she nods, we smile. This, I expect, will become routine, par for the course, something I will come to count on. This first therapy session was like a first date, except my dates genuinely doesn't want to know me better. My openness, we agree, will come in handy as we sail on my lifeboat together. Júlia reminds me that, here in this warm room, I call the shots. This time is mine, she says, my therapy. My therapy, I repeat, playing with the words in my mouth. They don’t come with an epiphany, nirvana, or everlasting peace of mind. It may come in a year or 15, be it with Júlia or other therapists, but I at last see that mental health will always be a constant work-in-progress. Because now, for me, therapy is not about “getting better,” but rather tackling what I experience every day. What’s more, through therapy, things I can handle just adequately on my own, I can handle better with help. It’s a recalibration of my mind, self-maintenance of my heart. It’s changing the water in a vase of flowers, nipping the buds that refuse to bloom, trimming what’s gone to wilt, even as winter creeps in. And it’s just nice — justly nice and nicely just — to feel like self-care is a healthy indulgence. “Thank you,” I say, and Júlia, my therapist, responds, “Be well.” I leave with a lighter heart. The next day, I feel my throat getting better. I can talk and not hurt. I check in with my doctor over the phone and we’re both glad I’m on the upswing. “Keep it up,” he says. “Healing takes time.”
