After bawling my eyes out again at 2 a.m. I found myself looking at pages about depression, anxiety and panic attacks. Three online tests later (hey, don’t judge, I wasn’t in the right state of mind) seemed to confirm that my feelings, mood swings, chest aches and lethargic state might -as feared- fall under the category of “depression”. 4th victim in the family, hurray.
After checking my phone for any new messages for the 20th time or so (it buzzed, 3 times, it even did the Steam “new message” sound, and 3 times it wasn’t him) I googled the nearest psychotherapist. Sounds a bit extreme, but the thought of talking to one has crossed my mind before. So here I was.
€60 for an intake session, €55 per session. Yikes.
€25 per online session. You send an email, they reply in two days. You pay by bank transfer.
Apparently they also cater to the Anonymous I-Need-Help-But-No-Way-I’m-Facing-A-Shrink Club. Sneaky bastards.
…I couldn’t send the email.
Maybe it was because I calmed down enough to realize I was being nothing more than a drama queen.
Maybe it was because I refuse to believe psychiatrists do actually help.
Maybe it’s because I’m a cheapskate and I don’t want to pay €25 for each story I could easily write down somewhere else for free and even delete when I get back at them and nearly die of embarrassment.
So here I am.