By Jessica T., Possibly Emotionally French.
After six months of therapy and hundreds of dollars in co-pays, my therapist insists I only suffer from “mild anxiety.” Mild. Like a salsa. I didn’t start this healing journey to be told I’m basically fine. I wanted a rare, sexy affliction that could explain why I cry during mattress commercials.
Every week I show up ready to uncover generational trauma or at least unlock repressed memories from a past life. Instead, I’m told to “breathe through it” and “try journaling.” Journaling? I already do that, but in Courier font and with curated lighting. What I need is a condition worthy of a docuseries voiceover.
I’ve gently floated several more compelling options during sessions. High-functioning something. Internalized existential detachment syndrome. Emotionally displaced Renaissance syndrome. She just smiles and reminds me I’m not broken. How is anyone supposed to build a personality out of that? My trauma has no brand power.
Without a diagnosis that sounds at least vaguely European or possibly Victorian, how will anyone take my suffering seriously? I can’t post a soft-focus carousel with a caption about “surviving” if the worst thing I have is an occasional heart flutter during tax season. I need letters. Acronyms. A mood disorder that gets its own ribbon.
I didn’t enter therapy to be told I have “good insight.” That’s like getting an award for being emotionally mid. I want something poetic, inconvenient, and ideally medication-adjacent. Until then, I’ll continue scrolling mental health TikTok, waiting to stumble on a niche, untranslated diagnosis that finally describes me. When it happens, I’ll know.
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