Sharing this as a fellow suicide survivor.

Thought Catalog

Within the first three months at college, I found myself slipping into depression.

I made an appointment with the on campus therapist. With the exception of a one-time meeting with a therapist my dad got me in touch with during high school, I’d never sought out professional help. Maybe I can find the courage to tell them, I thought to myself. Maybe there’s something they could do. Maybe there’s a cure.

After waiting for nearly two hours, I was called to the back room, where I waited another 45 minutes for a therapist to greet me. Once inside, I noticed that this room much more resembled doctors’ offices I’d been in than what I imagined a therapist’s office would look like. I sat on the table, paper rolled across, trying to find the words to say. The therapist, a man in his mid-50s with short, salt-and-pepper hair seemed rushed.


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