Therapy Told Me I Was Broken

Navigating honesty that feels brutal no matter how many times the truth reappears.

Cool metal rings rolled between my fingers. Flowing in and out, up and down, their improvised cadence soothed over me. As the interlocked metal danced in my hands, my attention focused on the window next to me. I gazed out the clear glass, looking at everything, focusing on nothing.

The day was a photographer’s dream. Deep blue brushed evenly along the sky over a bustling city that flowed more smoothly than a silent river. The sun reigned over center stage in its full white glory. Birds perched on rooftops, basking in the bright rays as if using their lunch break to get some fresh air and engage in idle gossip.

A soft cough broke my thoughts. I didn’t move. I couldn’t have.

“Are you still with me?” the voice asked with gentleness that did nothing to ease the tightness in my skin. Metal glided against my fingertips as a heavy sigh escaped me. I dragged my gaze away from the blue skies and gossiping birds to stare at the woman in front of me. She sat on a couch the color of mop water. Next to it loomed a tall, thin lamp with a shade whose color mimicked dirty eggshells. The walls were a spotless gray, contrasted by a large, too-green unrecognizable plant slouched in the corner.

The woman watched me with patient eyes, her hands folded professionally in her lap. Beside her sat a pad covered in hieroglyphic scratches that mocked me since I sat down.

“I can imagine how hard it is to have a name for something that’s felt nameless for so long, but I assure you,” she continued, “it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

I blinked. Metal rings stopped dancing. “You called me broken,” I retorted. Shame pinched at my gut as the curt tone left me without permission.

She smiled. “I said you have anxiety.”

“Same thing,” I muttered. The empathetic smile grew wider as irritation collected more aggressively in my chest. She scanned my face before leaning back in her chair, the way that people do when they’ve just received clarity on something.

“Generalized anxiety disorder is incredibly common,” the therapist said. I turned back to the window as the empty reassurances fell by my feet. Cold metal resumed its performance. The barely audible clink growing hypnotic, pulling my feet from the ground and my body from the couch. The walls around me blurred as the present morphed and shifted into the past.

I was eleven, huddled alongside my dad in a stale, cold, and too-white doctor’s office when my pediatrician suggested something similar. Same furrowed brows. Same look of patience. My father just laughed and told the licensed practitioner to go fuck himself in the most professional way.

We left the office after my dad promised that his daughter’s head was fine. Not even bothering to check out at the front desk, he huffed and puffed on the way back to the car. His long strides forced me to skip along to keep up. Frustrated grunts left his mouth, but I couldn’t make out much of what he was saying. Most of what I caught was “fraud-ass doctor” and “made up.” Wordlessly, we got in the car and he asked me what I wanted for lunch, his eyes keeping straight ahead.

I never saw that pediatrician again.