By Angie Dyer

October 28, 2015

It all started on my 26th birthday. I was at my parents’ home on a beautiful October afternoon having a dream brunch day party with all my friends and family. I wore a pair of leather tights and my favorite black Timberland boots that made me look like the black girl from Brooklyn I had always dreamt of being. The food was delicious and the drinks flowed and at the end of the party, I had shown my friends and my family just what my life was like when they weren’t around:

A hot mess. 

I was holed up in my childhood bathroom, throwing up in the toilet because I couldn’t stop drinking to hide the fact that, even though I was celebrating another year, it was also another year I had to endure painful anxiety and breathless depression. I didn’t want to do it anymore. I wanted out. God had gotten me this far but I was tired, and I’m sure She was tired, and right there, on the floor, I said to my best friend:

“If I die right now, it would be okay.” 

As the words came out my mouth, I know it scared her. Because it scared me. I began to cry, my tears mixed with vomit, and I somehow got transported to a bed where I threw up more and screamed and cried because I couldn’t take it anymore. I could hear my closest friends and my parents talking outside my room, and that made me feel even more of a failure. My aunt, a registered nurse, was called in to consult and that’s when she found out that I had an anxiety disorder that I was officially diagnosed with in 2009. It was 2016 and she had no clue. She talked me off the ledge as best as she could, listening to me talk about fear and terror and the unknown and shame. And then she told me I needed to call a therapist ASAP. Her eyes were ignited with compassion and care, and I knew that extended beyond being her niece.  

The next day, I took the day off from my job as a copywriter and found a list of therapists covered by my insurance. I looked down the list, anxious about picking the right one, and anxious about having to call, and anxious about how much it would cost, and anxious about the fact that now the closest people in my life see me as a fragile champagne flute that could break at any moment. I managed to push it all aside as I struggled to sober up, and found a therapist who turned out to be an art therapist. I figured she would understand how my problems affect my art as a writer, so I sent her an email and waited for a response.  

The next day at work, I decided to take a walk around campus to clear my head, because it was hard to work, think, smile, laugh. And then I got an email. It was her - the art therapist. I held my breath as I opened the email. It read: 

Hi Angelique!

I have a 12 p.m. slot available on Wednesdays. That slot would be yours until the time no longer works for you or if you no longer need to come in. Sessions are usually scheduled weekly, but they can also be done every other week, or monthly, depending on what your needs are and what works best for you.

And just like that, my first therapy appointment in almost six years was scheduled for October 28, 2016 – ten days after my birthday. 

The first session is pretty fuzzy. I remember parking and sitting in the car for about five minutes, giving myself a pep talk. This is good. It’s all good. I noticed a Burger King next door to her office, and I made a note that no matter what happened, I would get some onion rings and a strawberry shake after this. I sat in the lobby of her office, legs shaking, until she poked her head around the corner and greeted me with joy. We shook hands, and I walked into her office that was filled with puzzles and art supplies, a couch and an essential oil diffuser, a mini-fridge and several college degrees, one of which was from my alma mater. There was a box of tissues on the table, and she saw my eyes dart to them. 

“Just in case, you know?” She said. She sat in her chair and pushed her blonde hair behind her ear. “So, how are you?” 

 It was a strange question to start with, almost like we were at a damn cocktail party or something. I thought about that part in Broad City with Ilana asked with air quotes “how AM I?” I chuckled at her questions and probably said something slick like, “That’s a loaded question.” She laughed (over the years, she has told me that I am really funny) and I continued telling her about my birthday fiasco and the shame I was feeling. We talked about my life, what was happening, what wasn’t happening, what happened in the past, and what I wanted to happen in the future. After our hour session, she sent me home with homework. It was to get myself a cupcake and have a redo celebration of my birthday. I rolled my eyes, unsure of what good that would do, but obliged. You don’t have to tell me twice about getting a cupcake. 

So, I went home, baked cupcakes with pink frosting (my favorite) and plopped a candle in there. I sang the Stevie Wonder version of “Happy Birthday” to myself and blew out the candle, manifesting a second chance.

And I like to think my birthday wish came true. I like to think I got a second chance.

It will soon be four years since I started therapy, and, in fact, I have my October session one day before my 30th birthday this year. With each new birthday I celebrate, I celebrate harder and stronger because of therapy. We have seen a lot over the years – work problems; falling in love; getting my heart broken; working on my novel; travel plans; new discoveries. Going to therapy every third Thursday of the month is a joyful part of my daily routine. Since I started therapy, I have developed rituals to calm my anxiety and replace it with gratitude. I’ve stopped drinking to hide my problems, and I even gave up liquor for Lent this past March! I’ve been more open about my anxiety disorder – communicating that it’s my superpower, not my shame. I’m grateful for the chance to have my therapist in my life, even when she makes me draw my feelings using stick figures. I might hate the drawing, but it works. Somehow, some way – it all works.