I’ve been going to therapy recently.

Actually, that’s not entirely true.

I’ve been back in therapy recently.

The first time I was in therapy was in eighth grade. School-provided therapy, which sounds a lot more wholesome than it actually was. Why was I in therapy at thirteen? Well, because at the ripe old age of thirteen I decided that living seemed incredibly optional and attempted to solve the problem by taking a handful of pills.

To be clear, it wasn’t some dramatic movie scene.

I took a fuck ton of Tylenol.

Mostly it just made my stomach hurt.

Not enough to destroy my liver. Not enough for a hospitalization. Not enough to become one of those tragic cautionary tales adults tell teenagers. Just enough to scare everyone around me and get me sent to therapy once a week during fourth period on Wednesdays.

Then I moved to Washington. Life happened. Therapy disappeared.

I wouldn’t end up back there until my senior year of high school.

High School absolutely destroyed me, but that’s a different blog post.

At seventeen, I told my doctor I needed therapy again because my life felt like it was being held together with duct tape and spite. My relationships were falling apart. My family relationships were difficult. My relationship with myself was even worse.

And now, here I am again at twenty-one.

Third time’s the charm, I guess.

When I first started seeing my current therapist, she asked the standard question:

“Why do you want to start therapy?”

I told her it was because my cat died. Which was true. My cat died suddenly and tragically on my twenty-first birthday, and I was struggling with the grief. That was the reason I gave.

Unfortunately, therapists are professionally trained to notice when you’re lying.

Not lying, exactly.

Just… strategically omitting information.

It didn’t take long for her to realize that my dead cat was less of the problem and more of the final domino. The thing that finally knocked over everything else. So now I go every week. Usually Tuesdays. Unless school decides to reorganize my schedule for fun.

And somewhere between all these sessions, we’ve arrived at a conclusion.

A conclusion my therapist has reached repeatedly.

A conclusion she delivers almost every session.

A conclusion that makes me want to crawl under the couch and never emerge again.

“It sounds to me like you’re insecure.”

Every. Single. Time.

And the worst part is that she says it like she’s telling me the weather. No judgment. No cruelty. No dramatic revelation. Just an observation. Like she’s pointing out that the sky is blue. And every time she says it, I tear up.

Because she’s right.

I am insecure.

Not in the way people usually mean it, either. It’s not that I’m constantly worried my boyfriend is going to leave me. It’s not that I’m jealous or controlling or possessive. It’s bigger than that. More exhausting than that. It’s like I fundamentally distrust my own existence.

I’m insecure about my appearance. My personality. My intelligence. My job. My future. My relationships. My interests. The books I read. The clothes I wear. The way I do my makeup. The way I style my hair. The things I eat. The things I don’t eat. The conversations I have. The conversations I don’t have.

I can walk away from a perfectly normal interaction and spend the next three hours dissecting it like a crime scene.

I question everything. Constantly. Chronically. Relentlessly.

It seeps into every corner of my life. And I think that’s why hearing her say it hurts so much. Because insecurity always felt like a temporary condition. Something you’re supposed to grow out of. Like acne, or awkward phases, or braces.

The insecure girl in movies eventually becomes confident. The insecure main character learns some life lesson and suddenly walks into a room differently.

But what if you’re not that character?

What if insecurity isn’t a chapter?

What if it’s the narrator?

That’s what scares me.

Not that I’m insecure.

But that I’ve been insecure for so long I don’t know who I’d be without it.

Sometimes it feels less like a flaw and more like a permanent personality trait. Like it’s woven into my DNA. Like every version of myself has carried it. And if that’s true, then what am I supposed to do?

The idea that I could spend the rest of my life feeling this way terrifies me. It makes me feel trapped. It makes me feel guilty.

It makes me feel bad for my boyfriend, even though I know he’d be annoyed that I’m feeling bad for him in the first place.

Mostly, though, it just makes me feel tired. Because living inside your own head when you don’t trust yourself is exhausting. Every decision becomes a debate. Every mistake becomes evidence. Every compliment becomes suspicious. Every success feels temporary. And then I go to therapy. I tell my therapist all of this. And she nods. And then, with the confidence of someone who has spent years getting paid to ruin my day, she says:

“It sounds to me like you’re insecure.”

And I cry.

Because she’s right.