Nothing is wrong with me.

"There isn't anything wrong with me," I told a friend, when he recommended that I see a therapist. “I don't need to see a therapist!” “T,” he said, “you don't know how to extract yourself from street-work – drive-by shootings, gang wars, homicides, and funerals. You are going to break down physically, psychologically, and emotionally. “I won't,” I answered. Then I remembered the dizziness and fog that clouded my eyes as I passed out and urinated on myself at the mall. “You have symptoms of exhaustion – sleep problems, and constant headaches,” the doctor said. “Are you stressed?" “No,” I said. But yesterday I sat at my desk with the phone in my hand, contemplating. I hesitated. Then I dialed the numbers. "Hello," the receptionist said. “Could I schedule an appointment with a therapist?” I asked.