I felt weird about it. Forget the fact that this is the first time I have ever chosen to see my therapist. The reality that I needed help seemed to be an admission of defeat. After all, aren't I supposed to be "healthy" and "recovered" in terms of my disordered eating? And I felt afraid. I thought my therapist would be disappointed in me.
I was so wrong. Seeing my therapist was refreshing, and she wasn't at all disappointed or sad to see me. In fact, we were both glad to see each other, although it felt kind of odd to say so since seeing each other meant that something wasn't quite right inside of me. But it was still good to talk, to listen, to be heard, to be understood. Not that I don't feel those things off of a psychologist's couch, but they were magnified during the session.
And I didn't walk into or out of her office with a trudge of defeat. Quite the opposite. I felt brave, victorious, and mature. I needed help, and I acknowledged it and acted on it. Instead of feeling like a failure, I felt proud and alive.
(On a side note -- I took the above photo inside my therapist's building with my camera phone. Again, it turns out a super shot! I'm amazed.)