Why does my mind refuse to travel light?

At first, I was scared to see a psychiatrist.

Not because of the stigma.
Not because I thought something was “wrong” with me.

I was scared because I was convinced that once I started talking, everything would come out at once—childhood, culture, ambition, guilt, identity, expectations—like one of those Greek storage closets where you open the door and sixty three unrelated objects fall on your head.

As a kid, I didn’t ask, “Why am I sad?” I was just analytical.
I asked, “What are the contributing factors, who’s responsible, and how do we make sure this never happens again?”

While other kids were playing, I was quietly constructing a backstory.

Eventually, I went.

It was arranged by my mother—lovingly, carefully—because she thought I needed help.
And she may not have been wrong.

I was a teenager.

I showed up completely unprepared.

No notes.
No timelines.
No theory of the case.

When the therapist asked how I felt, I stared at the floor like a defendant who had misunderstood the nature of the proceedings.

“I don’t know,” I said.
Often.

That phase didn’t last.

On the follow-up visits, I started coming better equipped.

A few notes.
A few examples.
A few “just in case I forget” details.

I didn’t call it documentation back then.
I called it survival.

Then, the psychiatrist became scared of me.

Not because I’m dangerous.
Because I showed up prepared.

Years later—after my divorce—I found myself back in therapy, this time with a therapist who worked with families.

And that’s where things really escalated.

I kept expecting therapy to be… softer.
A conversation.
A gentle walk toward clarity.

Instead, I showed up like I was testifying before a congressional committee.

Exhibits A through F.
Timeline discrepancies.
Screenshots from the deep past that “might be relevant.”
Highlighted passages.
A color-coded system that made perfect sense when I created it and absolutely no sense now.

I’d place everything gently on the table like I was submitting a full investigative report titled:

There was a recurring theme called Probably My Childhood, Plus a Deep Need to Over-Explain.

The therapist listened.
Nodded.
Took notes.

Halfway through a sentence, I realized something important.

I wasn’t being therapized.

I was presenting.

I stopped and asked,
“Am I doing this right?”

She smiled and said,
“We’ll get there.”

Which, for someone like me, is both comforting and deeply unsettling—because “we’ll get there” implies patience, and patience has never been my strongest coping mechanism.

Still, I kept going.
Ego slightly bruised.
Self-awareness dangerously high.

Because this didn’t start recently.

I’ve always been the kind of person who doesn’t just feel something—I analyze it.
I audit it.
I interrogate it.

I build a case file and then prosecute myself in my own head.

My wife once observed that I don’t just overthink—I play both sides of the argument. I’m in open court at all times: defense, prosecutor, and finally the judge, delivering a verdict to an empty room that never asked for a ruling.

I’ve been caught many times talking to myself—while cycling, walking, doing chores.

Not muttering.
Arguing.

By the time I get home, the debate is over.
I’ve heard all the testimony.
I’ve weighed the evidence.
I’ve delivered the verdict.

The case is closed, before I’ve even discussed it with my wife or anyone else for that matter.

She’ll say something like, “We should talk about this,”
and I’m already five steps ahead, thinking, We did. You lost. In my head.

She’ll look at me, reading my mumble, and say,
“No. In your head.”

How she has put up with this for twenty-five years, I honestly don’t know.

I imagine it requires patience, selective hearing, and the rare ability to let a man finish an argument with himself without interrupting.

She doesn’t ask, “Who are you talking to?”
She already knows.

Sometimes she just waits.
Sometimes she laughs.
Sometimes she gently reminds me that conversations work better when the other person is actually present.

And on the occasions she decides to interrupt me—mid-argument, mid-verdict—
I get angry.

Which feels unfair, considering I wasn’t speaking to her in the first place.

After all that, there was also one visit to a marriage counselor.

Just one.

For the first time in my life, I showed up completely unprepared.

No notes.
No binder.
No exhibits.

I was already angry when we walked in. My wife had spoken to the therapist before our meeting.

Objection, Your Honor.
This was not disclosed during discovery.

Preparing arguments suddenly felt pointless—if not procedurally unfair.
A waste of energy and time, for everyone involved.

That, too, says something about me.

And somehow, despite the closed cases, the imaginary courts, the verdicts delivered mid-bike ride, she’s still here.

Which may be the strongest evidence yet that love, unlike logic, doesn’t need to win every argument.

Growing up in Greece and then switching cultures in America didn’t help.

Not quite Greek in Greece.
Not quite American in America.
Always translating.
Always explaining.
Always wondering if I was doing life correctly—or just confidently wrong.

So I adapted.

I became observant.
Prepared.
Funny.

The kind of person who could explain himself so well that maybe—just maybe—he wouldn’t have to feel so much.

And slowly, something shifted.

I stopped trying to explain myself into acceptance.
I stopped needing every feeling to make sense immediately.
I started letting things just… exist.

Unfiled.
Unresolved.
Human.

I’m still an over-thinker playing devil’s advocate.
That feature remains fully operational.

But after living in Kalamata for a year and a half, something unexpected happened.

My wife no longer feels she needs a Park Avenue therapist.
And I no longer feel the urge to turn the local kafeneio into a communal therapy session.

If I stumble into an accidental “therapy” moment over coffee in Kalamata, there will be no binder.

I bring myself instead.

And honestly?

That scares me a little more than the psychiatrist ever did.

Siga, siga

Nick in Kalamata