I’m miserable. And that’s okay.

Photo by nikko macaspac on Unsplash

My sob story is not your charity case.

I was 14 when I started on Prozac and regular therapy. I remember the awkward 15-minute drive home with my dad after each family session, feeling guilty for airing my grievances against him in what was supposed to be a safe space. I remember we usually stopped by some greasy fast food joint afterward, as if soggy fries and a large soda would make up for the years of…