Therapist: What brings you here?" Me: *gestures vaguely at everything*

      Dear Diary,

    It happened again. I walked into therapy, sat down, and immediately regretted my life choices. Why? Because the moment my therapist tilted her head, smiled kindly, and said, “So, what brings you here today?”—I short-circuited.

    Like, ma’am.

    What brings me here???

    What doesn’t bring me here? My crippling overthinking? My ability to turn minor inconveniences into full-blown existential crises? The fact that I need a nap that lasts three to five business years?

    So, naturally, I did what any well-adjusted adult would do. I laughed. Like, that weird, nervous, high-pitched giggle that sounds like a deflating balloon.

    She waited.

    I blinked.

    My brain: Say something normal.

    Me: “Um. Vibes?”

    VIBES??

    I just told my licensed therapist that I’m in therapy for vibes.

    At this point, I should just hand her my wallet, sign up for therapy forever, and call it a day.

    But she doesn’t laugh. She just nods thoughtfully, like yes, this is a valid reason to be here, and suddenly I’m spiraling because now I’m questioning what vibes actually means. Am I okay? No. Was I ever? Probably not.

    Eventually, I manage to string together some words about stress and exhaustion, and she scribbles something down, which immediately makes me anxious. What is she writing?? “Patient is deeply unhinged”? “May be beyond saving”?

    The session continues. I say “I’m tired” at least four times. She nods sympathetically. We do this thing where she asks how I’m really feeling, and I pretend not to know. I contemplate throwing myself onto the floor. Instead, I sip my water dramatically like I’m in a sad indie movie.

    By the end, I feel a little lighter, mostly because I’ve just word-vomited every thought I’ve had since childhood. My therapist reminds me to be kind to myself. I nod, even though we both know I will immediately start overanalyzing every single thing I said the moment I step outside.

    I walk out feeling… not necessarily better, but like I might survive another week. And sometimes, that’s enough.

    Until next time, Diary. If anyone needs me, I’ll be lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about my therapist’s scribbles.

    P.S. If my therapist is reading this: I swear I’m doing my homework (probably).