I'll start off saying that I stressed a lot over today and I forgot my letter explaining how I felt. But the therapist (a middle aged woman) was patient. The room looked like something you'd treat a child in: stuffed animals, books. But she dealt with teenagers and kids alike. The stuffed animals were pretty cool anyways.
After an hour of nonstop talking, mostly between my mother and the therapist, she told me I do indeed have depression. And anxiety. I'll be going to therapy every week.
She's considering putting me on meds, but we'll see how therapy works. I told her I was fine with pills.
It went a lot better than I anticipated. She was patient and very nice. Didn't make me talk if I didn't want to. She praised me when I opened up, said I was brave for admitting I self-harmed and other things. So I think this will be good. We'll see.
