I Wrote An Entire Book About How Therapy Changed My Life But Didn’t Want To Admit My Story Is About Mental Health 

OCTOBER 10, 2024

“What’s your book about?” is a question authors expect to be asked. I always try to answer the question honestly and succinctly, because that is what memoir writers are supposed to do. We’re supposed to tell the truth. It’s the story about how I learned to stop chasing gold stars to make more room for joy in my life is one of my answers. It’s the story about my return to the family farm to take care of my dying mother is another answer. 

I read the Kirkus Review on my laptop through squinted eyes, anticipating potential criticism or at least the particular balance Kirkus is known for. Instead, the review was entirely positive, a “Get It” recommendation with this one-line summation at the top:

“A distinctive voice delivers an entertaining and insightful look at family and mental health.”

Mental health? In the Kirkus review? About my book? My head tilted sideways like a dog who’s confused by a high pitch noise when I read the line. I knew what my book was about; I’d spent nearly four years of my life writing and editing the damn thing, so of course, I knew what the book was about. The Order of Things is the story of how my life changed pretty radically after I returned to Ohio to take care of my dying mother. And, in made-for-Hallmark short order, I dropped out of the corporate world, fell madly in love with the kindest man I’ve ever known and opened an art gallery in Columbus, Ohio. Certain things happened in a certain order, but there was also much more going on. Creative writing instructors would say that the story beneath the story is one about my emotional journey, and the years of therapy that made such change possible. 

I intentionally organized the book around scenes with my therapist, David, with the intent that somebody who isn’t familiar with therapy could be brought into a session and understand what it feels like to “do the work” I’ve now been doing for twelve years. I wanted to show people how messy the process can be and titled one chapter “Therapy Is Not Like Hiking the Appalachian Trail” to drive home the idea that the path to emotional health is not a straight line. I wanted to remove some of the mystery around what therapy feels like and share my experience so that maybe even one reader  would see that real change is possible and feel hope for their own lives. 

I know with certainty that the most fulfilling elements of my life - a creative profession, lasting friendships, real family connection and a fantastic romantic partner - would not be possible without therapy. Therapy allowed me to understand why I was so hard on myself for so long and finally learn to like myself. My experience is that when you improve the relationship with yourself, every relationship in your life improves. Full stop. Without therapy, there would be no joy. Without therapy, there would be no book. I’m a certified therapy head if there ever was one.

And yet: never, not once in the lead up to publication day, did I think to describe my book as about “mental health,” which is why I’m writing this essay now, for World Mental Health Day. I’m ashamed that I, too, have been influenced by the very real stigma and confusion about mental health that unfortunately still exists today. How is it possible that even after writing a book about the topic, I’m still somehow reluctant to name my struggle as one of mental health? 

My best answer is that I wasn’t sure I was suffering enough for my pain to count. I wasn’t suicidal or depressed, didn’t check myself into an institution, and even though a thick layer of self-loathing accompanied me through every moment of my days, my life still looked great on the surface. How bad could my pain be if I managed to hold it all together? How many of us are walking around in a facade of happiness when the cracks are forming just below the surface? 

According to the Office on Women’s Health, more than one in five women in the U.S. experienced a mental health condition in the last year, and certain mental health conditions, like depression and bipolar disorder, affect more women than men. 

One in five?! More than one in five?! Countless women have sent me emails and direct messages on social media after reading The Order Things, sharing that they related to the self-loathing that plagued me most of my adult life, that they too have woken up day after day not feeling like the best version of themselves. This consistent refrain from women in pain that they haven’t yet addressed frustrates me, because I now know that the emotional burdens we secretly carry are not necessary. 

Healing begins by talking about the very thing we are reluctant to name, and we can only talk about such things when we can admit that we are in pain. That’s the first step. You don’t have to use the exact right term or turn of phrase. You simply have to acknowledge that you’re hurting with whatever words work for you to open up the possibility for change. You can simply admit to yourself and then say aloud for the first time “I don’t want to feel this way any longer,” which is what I said to David in our first meeting twelve years ago. 

And when I tell him about this essay and my reluctance to embrace my mental health story during our session at 11:00 am next Tuesday, David will likely say, “Looks like we have more work to do, Sarah.”