My freshman year of high school, I would have done anything to erase pain totally. People would look at me and think I had the perfect life "looks, money, intelligence, a perfect family "but I knew different. Each day I would get home from school, walk to my room, curl up in my bed, and block out everything. My mom would come into my room and ask me what was wrong. Through tears, I would always give her one of two answers: "I don't know,"" or the much-hated, "Nothing, leave me alone."" When my parents didn't know what to do any longer, they called my school counselor who gave them some names of psychologists and psychiatrists. I was pissed because I knew I was not crazy; I was just sad. We went to the psychologist's office, and I sat there mute. I wasn't insane "I didn't need to be counseled. Needless to say, my first session with my psychologist, Becky, was less than helpful.
The next step on my parents' agenda was to see the psychiatrist. This experience was even worse than my first meeting with Becky. I sat in the waiting room filling out Dr. Kerns's psychiatric self-evaluation sheet. Among the intelligent questions I was asked were, "Do you hear voices that tell you what to do?- and my personal favorite, "Do you believe that you travel back and forth to New York City more than eight times in one day?- I didn't know what the hell my parents thought was wrong with me. I could not tell them enough times that I did not belong in a room with padded walls; I was simply sad. In Dr. Kerns's office, the interrogation continued. "Why are you sad?- he asked me. "What do you think should be done about this?- The answer to which I replied, "How in the hell am I supposed to know? If I knew, I'd figure it out myself!- I didn't mean to be belligerent or embarrass my mom and dad, but I could not believe how ignorant this man seemed to me. Nevertheless, I was diagnosed with borderline major depression and given Effexor, an anti-depressant that was intended to begin working in two weeks.