>For the first time ever I went to therapy (my parents think I’m crazy). It wasn’t anything like I thought it would be. There was no sterotypical couch to lay on. There was a couch but it was just like the one you might expect to find in your grandmother’s living room. My therapist was a short portly lady that I swear would have made an awesome kindergarten teacher! I found it hard to talk but apparently she has dealt with people like me before. Instead of waiting for me to start she asked questions that led to me giving full on biography-style answers. It feels weird knowing I have a therapist because it is like I am acknowledging the fact that I am crazy. Therapist are for people that can’t handle their own problems, or so I thought. Looks like my idea of “handling” my issues was to just act like it wasn’t even there. Yeah, that doesn’t work after a while. It’s like that hallway closet, you know the one. It’s the one where you keep piling things in but never clean it out? It gets harder and harder to close the door and then it becomes impossible and everything spills out. I am that closet and I am about to explode into the hallway. That’s probably not the best way to express yourself now is it?…


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