When I was sixteen, Vermont’s Social & Rehabilitative Services (SRS, as it was called then) ordered my parents to find counselors for my brother and me. We had just reported my uncle to the authorities for sexual abuse. Not surprisingly, I was exhibiting behaviors that were concerning – I was drinking heavily, self-harming, and setting fires, for example.

My parents wouldn’t have allowed me to see a counselor – what happened at home stayed at home. But at the SRS worker’s insistence, my mother grudgingly made an appointment for me to start therapy with a woman also named Karen.

My first therapist had her hands full. I would occasionally complain at length about the crazy violence in my family situation, but more often I would sit quietly. While mental health professionals are taught to wait out a pregnant pause in session, these were stubborn silences, in which I was waiting for our hour to be over. But I kept going – mainly because my parents didn’t want me to. Being in therapy was an act of rebellion, even if I didn’t want to talk about myself.

Then I started writing. It began in a blackout, when I followed up a session with a lot of rum and putting pen to paper. I put that letter in the mail, and the next week Karen had me read it to her in session. I poured out the pain I’d previously been afraid to speak, that alcohol had loosened. While not typical therapy, it became our way – fear to say aloud what was inside of me, followed by somehow finding the courage to put the words on the page and mailing the letter, only to read those words allowed the following week.

It was Karen I called when I was finally ready to accept help for my alcoholism, and who made the arrangements for me to go to rehab. She actually worked in two cities, so when I left rehab and started college I was still able to work with her.

By then I’d started talking, and we started working on expressing my anger. Oh baby, did I have a lot of that. One day she helped me roll a newspaper lengthwise and wrap it in duct tape, creating a bat that made a satisfying “THWOMP!” when you banged it on the floor. I thwomped a lot, with and without loud curse words The bat helped me get that anger out without resulting in assault charges, of which I’d had a little experience.

After a decade in the Burlington area, Ed and I moved to New Hampshire. At first I thought I could do without therapy, but inside things began to unravel. I found myself again contemplating suicide. After a few different therapists, I settled with Carol, who I saw for seventeen years. She had a long history of working with trauma survivors, and introduced me to energy psychology, including Emotional Freedom Technique (EFT), aka tapping.

In EFT you tap a series of your meridian points while speaking aloud an affirmation, including acknowledging your resistance or fears. Part of it might sound like this, “Even though I feel shame and think this is pointless, I deeply and completely love and accept myself.” Tapping is a powerful way of letting go of some of my emotional blocks. Of course, I don’t do particularly well with emotions, so I found it best to do the heaviest work in session with Carol as my guide.

However, when my depression worsened I needed more support than I could get out of our weekly therapy. I had been reintroduced to Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT) and was finding it helpful. Carol was not a DBT provider; for that, I needed to go to my local community mental health center. So I made the leap. For the last four years I’ve seen therapists there and been part of a DBT class. DBT is a skills-based therapy, originally created for patients with borderline personality disorder (BPD). Along with C-PTSD and major depression, I also am diagnosed with BPD.

I was familiar with many of the DBT concepts, such as wise mind (the place where rational and emotional minds overlap, helping one make good decisions), many of the skills (mindfulness, interpersonal, emotional regulation and distress tolerance), and daily diary cards. Yet I didn’t have much practice in applying those concepts. Today I do, and the difference has been dramatic. I’m much more stable than I was five years ago.

I’ve skipped over a lot of therapeutic experiences – group therapy, CBT, art therapy, music therapy – there are so many things that have helped me over the years. Therapy has been lifesaving. Learning to trust, learning to open up about things I don’t like talking about – these experiences have helped me grow, and I’m grateful to everyone who has helped me along the way.

This post is part 2 of a four-part series on my mental health journey. May is Mental Health Awareness Month. If you or someone you know is struggling, it is ok to seek help. We don’t have to do it alone.