What is wrong with me?

I found myself in my counselor’s office, tears streaming down my cheeks while my voice trembled as I tried to share everything I could recall about my life. She listened intently from across the room, her silence a comforting presence throughout the entire hour of our first meeting. There were no interruptions, no visible emotions—at least none that I could perceive as I pressed the damp tissues against my eyes. Although I wasn’t eager to be there that day, I knew deep down that it was essential. I had finally reached rock bottom, and I was earnestly reaching out for help…