Dear Diary,

Today was Tuesday, which meant more time spent commuting to Toronto Metropolitan University for production at The Eyeopener. I walked into the office with my over-buttered bagel and a ridiculously expensive drink from Tim Hortons—which I’m pretty sure was only half-full. “Damn, Timmies is really playing with my emotions, just like my past situationships,” I thought as I stared at my breakfast.

As I sat down at my desk, I couldn’t help but compare it to the sports editors’ desk—which had a Raptors championship replica ring on it—I thought to myself, “I’m going to steal that ring when they aren’t looking.”

I had to mentally prepare myself for the next few hours. Why, you may ask? Because I knew I was going to cry at some point in the day. I mean, I’ve cried at least once every production day. I could feel the fast clicking of my nails against my keyboard as I put the final touches on my stories for that week’s issue—I needed to kill some time until the day ended.

The first option I considered was blasting some Playboi Carti in my headphones and screaming “ROCKSTAR MADE” in my brain to distract me from crying. The second option was going on YouTube to rewatch some of the Raptors’ championship highlights from 2019 because they probably won’t have a good enough run again for as long as I'm breathing oxygen.

I decided to watch some YouTube videos. However, I didn’t end up watching the highlights. Instead, I was watching some white dude with a weird haircut recap the “kill counts” of different horror movies. It might seem morbid and a little wild, but hey! He makes great jokes to lighten the mood throughout the video and it’s kind of funny, I can’t lie. His channel is almost as hilarious as the idea that I could survive a horror movie myself. God forbid a zombie apocalypse were to happen because I would be dead ASAP, no Rocky. Pun fully intended.

As I watched a recap of It: Chapter 2, I asked one of The Eye ’s sports editors—as well as one of my best friends—Daniella Lopez, if she wanted to watch it with me. “What are you watching exactly?” she asked as she tried to crane her neck to see.

“I’m watching some dude break down murders in horror movies! I laugh whenever someone gets a screwdriver to the eye because the killer really nailed it,” I said as I turned from the screen to face her, laughing a little too loudly.

All I saw was a scared and concerned expression on her face. “Bana, what the hell? Are you okay?” she asked. I felt like she was looking at me as if I had inexplicably turned into a frog before her very eyes.

“It’s funny when they die, I mean, why did they decide to go to an abandoned cabin? I would never! They’re so dumb,” I said, trying to defend myself as if I were defending Drake on Twitter from the haters—like the amazing future wife I am. Daniella then said three words that made me rethink all my life choices leading up to that day. “You need therapy.”

Cue the Michael Myers Halloween theme song as I sat there dumbfounded, just like when I found out I failed my JRN 344 midterm last year. “THERAPY? IS SHE OUT OF HER MIND?” I thought to myself. Hmm. Or is she?

The word therapy itself cuts deeper than that time I stayed up watching an anime to make a boy like me, just for him to dump me afterward. When I got home from The Eye office, I was in a trance, as if my sleep paralysis demon wanted to have tea and gossip about my problems. I thought about it again: “Am I just being silly or should I seek therapy?” I’ve gone to therapy plenty of times before because, well, a girl like me has had some issues.

I remember the first therapist I had when I was 12—a middle-aged white woman. I knew it would be a trainwreck when she put colouring sheets out for me to scribble on while I talked. What made her think colouring would help me if I couldn’t even draw within the lines? I would just sit there giving her one-word responses every time she asked me anything because, frankly, I had had enough and was upset that being there meant I was missing new episodes of Big Time Rush and iCarly.

I remember her asking me this question during a session: “Why do you think you’re always sad?” I couldn’t believe she asked me why I was sad all the time. “Um, I don’t know, lady, maybe that’s what

need to figure out,” I said while contemplating buzz-cutting all my hair and going bald like Steve Harvey.

Each session she would assign me homework like “do one good deed at school” or “build closer relationships with your friends,” which I thought was a bunch of bullshit. After all, that kind of advice is something I already got from my family. I needed some professional advice on how to cope with emotions.

Jokes on her, I got bullied and had no friends. Anyway, enough about my sob story and how I was a victim of bullying in elementary school. It didn’t change in high school either, so that’s a major laugh-out-loud moment.

All I’m saying is that to this day, I’m not really sure if I need to see a therapist or if I'm just silly and quirky. I’m not sure what I want to eat for breakfast or what music I want to listen to. Do I say my impulsive thoughts out loud? Yes, all the time! Does that mean I need some therapy? It might.

Let me email my therapist about an appointment, I’ll keep you updated if anything changes.

Xoxo,

Bana the Banana