I settled myself onto the couch.

“Well, it’s been another good week,” I said to my therapist last Thursday night. “Things are going pretty well. No big problems, no big issues, no big crisis.”

“Wow,” she said, smiling. “I think that makes three weeks in a row.”

It’s true — life has been Really Not Bad lately. I haven’t been majorly worried or anxious about anything, which could be due to the Celexa. I’ve been enjoying spending time with my boyfriend and with other friends. I seem to have a good handle on my job lately, and I’ve been appreciating the good things about it. I’ve been able to increase my monthly student loan payments and even open a savings account. I’ve made room in my life for one of my old hobbies, the theater: I’ve been regularly seeing shows, listening to cast albums, and reading theater-related books.

Most importantly, I think, I’ve taken the pressure off myself to achieve something.

I had a revelation in therapy a couple of weeks ago. While I’d long ago realized I didn’t have to become a doctor or a money-making lawyer or anything I wasn’t interested in becoming, I’d still kept the pressure on myself to achieve something in a field that interested me. I couldn’t just be content to see shows or take in knowledge; I had to do something with that experience and knowledge, too. I wasn’t allowed to just relax. Says who? Says me, and says my parents (or at least my parents as I internalized them when I was a kid; they’ve long since realized I should do what makes me happy, but it’s hard to shake the impressions you form when you’re little), and says my childhood teachers who expected great things from me and were always happy when I did those great things. And says my therapist, too — or so I’d thought.

After I told my therapist where all the pressure was coming from — including from her, as I’d perceived it — she pointed out that she didn’t have a stake in my achieving anything. I’d assumed she wanted me to. I’d assumed she wanted me to work hard and create something and not let my life be in vain. But she told me she doesn’t feel that way at all. All she wants is for me to be happy. It doesn’t matter what that happiness is, as long as it’s not harmful to others or to myself. All that pressure I feel — I’m the one who’s created it.

I was shocked how simple this all was. It’s like when I finally realized it was okay to be gay: it turned out that I’d been the one making things hard on myself. I’d been my own worst enemy.

It turned out I also had the power to be my own best friend.

So I’ve realized I don’t have to do certain things right now if I don’t want to. What do I really enjoy? What do I do when left to my own devices? I love to take in knowledge. I love to absorb things: read books I haven’t read, see movies and shows I haven’t seen, hear music I haven’t heard, go places I haven’t been, and so on. Perhaps someday I’ll feel ready to create something, to write something substantial. Meanwhile, as one of my readers has occasionally pointed out to me, I’m already creating something: this blog. If my goal is to write something so that I can make a living off it — well, that’s not necessarily impossible, but if it happens, it’s going to take a long time. I can’t depend on it. (And if I want to make a living in musical theater — forget about it. There are like a dozen people today who make a steady living writing musicals.) That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t attempt to write, but it means I should do it because I enjoy it, not because I feel that I have to do it.

I don’t want to discount the power of the Celexa here. It’s very possible that it’s reduced my habitual anxiety, clearing the way for me to have these revelations. Whatever the cause, though, I’ve been feeling pretty content lately.

And I’ve been enjoying that feeling of contentment.