“Minimally Depressed” is My Biggest Win Yet

Finding hope where it’s least expected

Life Lately by Cina Greeves

I’ve been filling out therapy questionnaires since I was 16 years old. In detail, I can describe and quantify every aspect of my personality and dysfunction.

Tomorrow, I have therapy for the first time in almost two months, and I have naturally saved all of my questionnaires for today. As a psychology major and former professional, I understand the purpose, but I hate them nonetheless. I always struggle to fit the intricacies of living as a mentally ill human being on a Likert Scale.

It’s the beginning of the year, so I had to inventory my trauma again. No matter how many times I do it, I am always surprised by how many of those boxes I check.

I casually mention how my brother slit his wrist in front of me on Christmas Day before moving on to listing all of the ages I got jumped. Black mold poisoning, parental imprisonment, emotional abuse, the usual. None of these are new to my therapist, but it still feels like I’m confessing my darkest secrets.

There’s nothing quite like listing out all the ways I was irrevocably damaged before I could legally drink.