Will the real therapist please stand?

So back when I was a big fat Liar, I claimed to be a therapist. Heh. It's not something I'm particularly proud of, and sometimes I'm tempted to just delete all evidence that I was ever that stupid.

Turns out I wasn't lying. I was just confused. When I said I was a therapist, what I really meant to say was, I need to see a therapist.

Funny, right?

I didn't think so either.

Turns out I'm stupid because I'm depressed. And I'm depressed because I'm emotionally damaged. Maybe. Or it could just be that my brain is broken. Whatever the cause (yet to be determined), I'm now taking two different antidepressants and going to therapy once a week.

It's expensive and time consuming. Self discovery isn't the most pleasant thing, I've decided. I'm so consumed with all the crap I'm learning that it's hard to concentrate on anything else. I'm having trouble sleeping and eating, I'm so tied up in knots over all of it.

It feels kind of like when you clean out a long neglected closet. There's stuff in there that really needs to be thrown out, but you just keep the door shut and try to ignore it. But every time the door is opened to put something away, other stuff falls out and it's a challenge to get it pushed back in again. Finally you decide you really need to take care of the mess, so you open the door and start pulling things out. And before you know it, you have a huge mess all over the floor that you have to live in until you can haul off all the trash and put everything worth keeping back in order again. The mess gets worse for awhile before it gets better. And when it's done, you're glad.

At least I hope I'll be done someday. Right now I can't see the end and I'm a little worried that I'll be stuck here forever. That's when I remember something I read somewhere: "When you find yourself walking through hell, whatever you do, Don't Stop." So I keep slogging through.

Wish me luck.