When I was a teenager, I told my parents I wanted to see a psychologist.
At the time, I was dating a guy who lived up the street. We had an exciting relationship but I was holding on too tight. With my shaky self-image, I pictured him breaking up with me and it felt like falling into a dark, bottomless well. I had no identity without him, and I knew the way I was feeling wasn’t healthy or normal.
I wanted help.
But asking for it wasn't easy. I’d come home from school to find either a beautiful, kind woman at the front door or a drunk, disheveled, hateful monster (depending on whether my mom had started drinking vodka during the day). My childhood was filled with unpredictability, drama, screaming, and insults. My dad didn’t protect me — he was also lost in denial. My sister and I lived in fear for years.
But once my dysfunctional parents agreed that I should talk to someone (because I was adopted, they convinced themselves that I had "faulty genes"), I started talk therapy that changed the trajectory of my life.