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I went to the doctors the other day. Did you know that they screen teenagers for depression and anxiety? They have a list of questions on a computer that you answer: not at all, sometimes, or all the time. But the thing is that I felt relieved. Relieved that someone might notice how I feel, Yet somehow I knew that I would hesitate on some questions and not answer honestly. I know that I would try and make it better than it was.

My doctor wasn’t the best at talking. She wasn’t calm or charismatic, she didn’t get my feelings out, and I hated listening to her. She starts to ramble on about how my body is changing. Hormones and chemicals being under and over produced seemed to be her favorite phrase. If I told her I felt stressed, chemicals in my brain were unbalanced. If I felt sad, unbalanced. I was sick and tired of it.

Then she asked if I told anyone I felt this way. I said no. I don’t want to burden anyone, especially my parents since they already have their own issues. The next words she says has me groaning and my heart stop at the same time. “Let me talk to your mom about this. We’ll see if she can take you to a psychologist.” Now I know this doesn’t seem bad. And honestly it isn’t. But I’d rather tell my mom than have a stranger tell her for me. I also know my mom. She wouldn’t care. Whenever I brought up the topic she brushes me off saying that it was something that people need to get over in life. If depression and anxiety and wanting to die was normal to her, what else could I say. “Everyone feels this way, you aren’t special. Get over it and grow up. People just overreact.” Oh really. Being scared of people and messing up so much that you can have panic attacks is overreacting? Wanting to die and hurt myself is overreacting? Not telling anyone because they’re insensitive and not supportive is overreacting? Because the reason I don’t tell you my feelings is because I don’t want to seem like a drama queen. I don’t want to be weak. Yet you sit there before me, telling me all of these things.

I felt relieved that my mom might be concerned for me. But as soon as we left the building I turned to her and said, “The doctor was just overreacting. You don’t need to take me to therapy” She just nodded and we went home. No questions asked.

What am I supposed to expect? When all I do is reject any chance at help. I don’t talk to people, I don’t mention anything, I deny and hide my feelings. So why should I expect help? Why do I hope for people to notice and ask if I’m fine? After all, I’m close. Close to bubbling over and exploding. Close to help and freedom.

But not close enough.