Your Therapist Is Not God

When I was sent to a mental institution during my freshman year of college, I found myself having to explain over and over again to interns in white coats with notepads in hand that I wasn’t depressed, nor was I “considering ending my life.” I attempted, in vain, to express that I felt spiritually lost, as they continued to scribble their notes on their pads, making me feel less like a person with genuine questions about life’s meaning and more like a specimen under a microscope.