Dear T,
There's so many things that I don't tell you, but I can't. You think you've got me figured out, but you don't. The last few times, you said I was a classic case of GAD and didn't really listen to what I was saying. I'm scared to tell you that I self-harm, I don't feel like you take me seriously, I'm spinning out of control and you don't help. I don't want my symptoms to be written off on a catch-all disorder, I want you to talk and listen and help like is your job.
Every time, before an appointment, I write this down. I have a list of my problems and thoughts I want to share. Yet all we talk about it school and my parents. Won't you listen? I'm running out of patience and running out of lies. And every time I see the amount of money it costs, not covered by our insurance, I wince because when my parents ask if it's helping I say yes. Just because I think I might actually be able to share next time.