Now that I look back on the really low times in my life, I can see how much I’ve grown. I had often put on a façade of being strong, tough, and independent like a man should be. I knew that I wasn’t going down a good path. I knew my depression wasn’t getting any better. But I couldn’t bring myself to get help. Help?? Like see a shrink? Who are you kidding? They are for psychos and crazy people and weak people. “Weak people.” That phrase repeated in my head and I thought to myself that I would never and could never accept that fate. The fate of so many people who can’t even handle life, so they end up crying and whining about their problems to an old guy with glasses.
But during my senior year of high school, my guidance counselor called me into her office because she had heard I had been cutting myself. She told me a story about how she was raped and how she was afraid of what people would think of her if she said something. But she somehow gained the courage to tell her parents what had happened, and had gotten help for herself. She found the courage to speak about one of the worse things that can happen to a person. She was able to break her silence.
It wasn’t until about a year later when I had gone through therapy that I realized how strong she really was. I was doing better and was finally healthy, and realized that I should have asked for help from the start. Because getting help didn’t make me weak, and having an illness that I couldn’t cure myself didn’t make me weak. I would have shown my strength by going up to my parents and asking for help. To submit to someone. To say I am letting you in my life and letting you help me along my journey to become healthy. That is courage. That is strength. That is love.
YES! Well said.
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