There's a box of Kleenex, if you need it

The day to sit in front of a therapist had finally come Tuesday. I had been so anxiously excited for this day. The past few months have been rough, to say the least. Well actually, rough might be sugar coating it.

A boundless amount of curiosity ran through my mind for the weeks leading up to my session. Would the therapist be nice? I had been to a therapist once in college, and it was a horrible experience. The office smelled of moth balls and was cramped. Is that how this would be? Would she think I was being irrational like the other therapist?

Tuesday came quickly and slowly. The whole drive there, my skin crawled with anxiety. I was nervous. Really nervous.

"I'm not ready for this. There's nothing wrong with me. I deserve to feel the way I do right now. I'm fine," I told myself as I waited for the therapist to arrive. I got there about 10 minutes early. My heart was racing. There was a knot in my throat. My stomach was churning. I was on the verge of tears. I felt as though I was hundreds of feet up in the air walking on a tight rope made of dental floss. It was just a disaster waiting to happen.

My therapist arrived just a couple minutes before our appointment. Her voice is very calm, soft and welcoming. She instantly smiled, welcomed me in and got me prepared for my session. The calm sound of waves crashing on the shore filled the room where we talked, or at least that's what I remember hearing. It was small, but it was comfortable. I wasn't, though.

I sat stiffly on the couch inside. I was paralyzed by emotions I still can't seem to understand and reason with. I have lived so much of my life keeping all those emotions inside, trying my absolute hardest to not show others how I'm feeling with outward appearances. I have a wall up, I can feel it.

She didn't care, though. She started off asking me questions about my life, my family, my support system. We talked about some potentially traumatic experiences in my life, and the words flowed out of my mouth so seamlessly.

Where was this coming from?

Whether I was ready to admit it to myself, my mind and body were ready for this moment.

"There's a box of Kleenex, if you need it," she said. She proceeded to tell me some people tend to cry, which is perfectly fine. There was a box to my right and one to her left.

"I won't need them," I told myself.

I was wrong.

About 20 minutes in when we got to the root of my struggles, that frog in the throat feeling came instantly, and the tears weren't far behind. It didn't help that I have been incredibly homesick. All I wanted in that moment was a hug from my mom. Tears replaced the hug.

About an hour passed, and before I knew it, the tissue I had to grab was drenched in my salty tears. My eyes were puffy, and I felt raw. My therapist and I discussed her plans for me, one thing she wanted me to work on, and we scheduled another session.

I went straight to work following my time with her, but all day, I felt like an open wound. It was as though my bandaid had been ripped off. I just felt like everything I had tucked away my entire life was at the surface waiting for its turn to make me feel. I've never had this feeling before, and quite frankly, I didn't like it. I was exhausted. My head hurt. My heart throbbed with emotion, and tears flowed like a damn waterfall at the most mundane things.

I thought about my time with the therapist nearly all day. I couldn't get it out of my mind. I wanted to wait to see my husband before telling him what she thought. I had text Daddy about it around 6 p.m. that evening. He was the first person I had told. She told me what she thought was plaguing me, which I relayed to him. My dad agreed with her and that the care I was getting was necessary. He also told me he was proud of me for doing this.

I've been a bit vague with some details, I know. I'm still coming to terms with what my therapist says I'm struggling with. This is the first time my struggles have a name and face, so to speak, I can stare at. It's no longer just emotions. It's real, and it's hard to even tell myself I have it.

I haven't said who my therapist is either, and I won't. Why? Not all therapists are for everyone. I'm starting to think more people should see a therapist, but each therapist specializes in different areas of concern. Me telling you who I see could be pointless to you and what you're going through.

I am constantly asked about my well-being, how I'm doing and feeling. Most days, I feel fine, but there have been more days recently where my emotions sneak up on me. There are days where I'm angry at everything, sad at nothing and tears well up in my eyes for reasons still unknown to me. I'll be honest, I feel it's my cross to bear for living through what I have while others have not been so lucky. I told my therapist this, and it's exactly what I'm working on.

"My mental well-being will help others and will allow me to be better help others," I repeat to myself several times a day.

Slowly, I'm starting to believe myself.