Before my first therapy session - the heaviness in my chest weighed down all of my limbs. My muscles were frozen, reaction time in slow-motion.

There was too much I wanted to say, and yet simultaneously, clenched to hold in. I was not ready to allow someone else in.
I had a uniform. For every therapy session - I’d wear a pristine, white, collared shirt. Sometimes tucked in, most of the time tucked out.  

I was desperate to be taken seriously, especially since I was seeing a male therapist. The last thing I needed was to  invite judgment based on what I wore.