I didn’t think I would have such anxiety over starting therapy.

Last Thursday, I finally made the decision to see a professional. My first session is tomorrow—Monday. I thought maybe if I unloaded everything at the start of the week, I’d have a better shot at making it through the rest of it. I don’t know. We’ll have to see.

Since a few days ago, I began rewatching an HBO series called In Treatment. It’s centered on a therapist’s life and his patient interactions and relationships. Normally, I wouldn’t think it strange the way therapy patients behave in a show—which they usually are so brazen, so stubborn, so wilful. That’s just how Western media tends to depict them. 

But it made me wonder how I would behave when it finally became my turn to be in the patient’s seat. I don’t know if I could be as forthcoming. As I watched these patients unearth their deep-seated memories, daring to challenge what the professional surmises about them, I began to worry that I wouldn’t be able to do the same. How does one be good at being treated?

For example, I don’t remember how I felt toward my mother when I was still living with her. I never thought to ask myself this question until now—I just assumed I must have been angry all the time. It would be natural to assume so. She was horrible—beyond horrible—to me. But when I try to conjure up these “moments of anger,” I just could not.

Was I maybe afraid? Sad? Needy? I don’t remember. Why don’t I remember?? I worry that the doctor won’t be able to help me if I can’t paint a picture for him… when he inevitably digs through my past to figure out why I am what I am.

I have too much going on right now and I feel like I am at a tipping point. I’m reeling from a relationship heartbreak still. My youngest is being bullied at school by her own teachers!!! None of my clothes fit! My body keeps failing me with one illness after another. My work visa application is in limbo, and for the next six months, my future is anchored on my job performance. I don’t like to ask for help or favours, but in this case, I have little choice. And now I feel like I have a target on my back just for admitting that I need something from them. I worry they’ll try to get rid of me for some random reason before it even gets to six months. I am counting on therapy to help me get my shit together until then… and hopefully, once and for all.

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Then there’s my 17-year-old daughter. She has autism and just told me—again—that she hates her new school. If you can even call it a school. Like every other one before it, they treat her like a five-year-old, teaching nothing that could prepare her for an adult life. She lamented, in her broken words, how she watches people her age making friends, falling in love, having a life—while she feels stuck, alone. I try to mend her heart by telling her that we often only see the best parts of people’s lives. That they feel lonely too. And that she has me, as if that were enough.

I began to write this post to expel the heaviness that had been building up inside of me. Yet here I am again—on another hopeless pursuit to find a good private teacher for her, all the while preparing to pull her out of yet another entirely unhelpful school. P200,000 and a year squandered away talking about nothing but the weekend and “their feelings,” and making meaningless arts and crafts. I thought having money could finally fix things… She deserves so much better.

How many times have I tried to seek help for her, only to end up disappointed? I feel so helpless, so overwhelmed by the lack of real options. I’m terrified for her future—what kind of life will she have if I can’t prepare her well enough? I keep telling myself the West is the greener pasture that will give my daughter a better chance at life, but I sometimes fear that may not even be true. I don’t even know if my company will grant me a visa. I have to wait six agonising months to find out if they think I’m deserving of it or not.

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I’m so tired from carrying this shit alone. But I don’t have anyone. I try to think if there was ever someone I could really rely on. There is not. I wince every time I have to write my mother’s name for my emergency contact. I write her name because there is no one else. I can’t bring myself to list my sister; I don’t want to burden her. None of the men that passed through my life could ever have the strength to care for me, and I’ve stopped believing I’ll ever meet someone who will. Not now. Not at this stage of my life. Not with my so-called baggage.

I have no one and yet that’s exactly why I keep going. Because my daughters, they have to have someone.