I quickly fall down the search engine rabbit hole.
I find numerous articles on relationship health, dozens of YouTube videos on loneliness. What anxiety feels like. As I read, the same phrase appears in a million different variations. Depression is normal, normal, normal.
It’s funny, but not funny ha-ha. Because it’s not what I’ve been told all my life.
Terms like depression and anxiety weren’t permitted in our house. Whenever I talked about how I felt, instead of what I thought or did, my father would leave the room. And when I had that brief episode that ended with me in hospital, he wasn’t there. Only Eleanor was. I still remember her hand patting mine, chalking the situation down to fatigue. I’d be better tomorrow, she’d said, and I just needed time to lick my wounds.
But we’re not going down that road. The wedding, my red dress. You in your tux, rigid and shocked at the sight of me there.
I think back to school and uni. How the topic of mental health was largely talked away. There were conversations about it. But I never took part in any of it, because why would I have? I was surrounded by lively, high-on-life people who were drunk on life and love, and had the education and money to carry them. As Eleanor kept telling me, I had everything to be grateful for, and nothing to be sad about.
And yet, I keep scrolling. Googling symptoms. Everything feels so … me. Lost. Alienated. Self-harming (can’t deny that one). Self-loathing. Stressed. Tired.
All of it is me.
You should seek help, they say. Talk to someone. But who would I speak to?
A friend, they say. A family member, a lover. So I take inventory of the people in my life. Eleanor, the mother who I’ve disappointed time and time again. Ruth, the best friend who I keep bothering with my problems. Seb, who I’ve hurt. Deb, who drinks her problems away, just like me. Greg, who’s off-limits. And Ana, a friendly face, but one that makes me hesitate.
No, talking to anyone in my immediate circle wouldn’t work.
I type in find someone to talk to, and watch the results flood in. I avoid the ads, and find an article linking to a directory for counsellors and therapists in Spain. The more I see, the more lost I feel.
There must be a better way.
I settle on a woman therapist in Bilbao with experience in self-esteem and depression. But when I look at her profile, the logistics of my expedition become clear.
How would I get to her office? What would I tell Seb?
I type online therapist into the search bar.
The headline jumps out at me. Start Being Happy Today.
I keep reading. Speak to a licensed counsellor anytime, anywhere. What are you waiting for?
I never click on ads, but this one pulls me in. When I land on the page, the banner reads InCheck—confidential and convenient therapy.
I scroll down the page, ignoring a prompt to take InCheck’s starter quiz. There’s an animated section that tells you how easy it is to sign up, find a therapist, and start communication. I find the reviews next, each more positive than the first.
It’s been a long journey, but with Sarah’s help, I’ve started taking the necessary steps to achieve self-love. It’s brought me out of a dark place and shown me how differently I can see the world, says Hannah from Boise, Idaho.
Then there’s Jonah in Doha, Qatar: Stress has always been part of my life. But with the help of my counsellor, I’ve found my balance and have learned that I’m stronger than I ever thought.
My curiosity piqued, I decide to take the quiz. It’s supposed to help assess your needs and match you with a counsellor. The quiz starts out easily with a list of demographic questions. Gender. Relationship status. Age. I select from the multiple-choice options, and when it comes to religious beliefs, I hesitate. It’s strange, answering a question you’ve never considered.
Religious, no. Spiritual, maybe.
The quiz presents a series of symptoms for me to choose from. I click on depression, anxiety and self-esteem. It asks about my eating and sleeping habits, how I feel most days and if I have problems with intimacy. As I click the relevant answers, images bubble up in my mind. The food binging, the drinking, the cutting, the self-loathing.
One question catches me off guard. Have you ever considered suicide?
The wedding comes into focus again, and I shake my head. No, surely that’s not what it was.
I select Never.
When I’m asked how I’d like to communicate with my counsellor, I select text and phone calls only. My stomach turns at the thought of someone looking at me, analysing me across a screen on a video call. I want to stay as private as possible.
I’m prompted to create an account. I use a fake name. Rachel MacMillan. I quickly take out my card and pay the monthly subscription. A small price to pay for a friend.
Once I’m signed up, I stare at the welcome screen. I’m nervous, still feeling exposed. I take my old phone out of the suitcase and switch it on, fiddling in my handbag for my old sim card. Thank God I kept it. I log out of InCheck on the laptop and download the app on my old phone. The last thing I want is Seb or anyone else finding this.
I sit back on my bed, eyeing the welcome message from InCheck. Are you ready to meet your counsellor?
I’m buzzing with adrenaline as I click through. I think of how I’ll introduce myself, what I’ll say when they ask me the inevitable question. Why are you here?
I barely know how to begin.
But I’m strangely excited.