I’m not exactly a calm and average individual. You may have noticed from my diet—strictly vegetarian with the exception of heavily processed meat. Or perhaps my caveman-like grunts of frustration may have tipped you off. But despite my quirks, I am not insane. You can’t call me crazy.

People say psychologists are for nuts. So when my mom suggested that I start seeing a psychologist earlier this year, I thought she was the crazy one. After all, I see dead-tired people—not dead people—and I don’t hear voices convincing me to skinny dip in the school pool at night, though I wish some girls I know would. I was fine and I wouldn’t go to a psychologist to change that.

But because I would never do it, I had to do it anyway. For the first few months of this school year, I saw a psychologist every week, and not because I’m crazy.

The first time I came, I expected to take one of those tests where they show you an inkblot and you say it’s a vagina if you’re a sex addict or sweet, dried blood if you’re really thirsty.

What I got instead was a question my parents really didn’t have to spend $165 an hour for: “How are you?” Intuitively, I would answer “good.” But I soon realized that this question was not another blank “what’s up?” like I had received at school. She was asking how I really was.

So I began to recite everything I felt was bothering me. I told her how inconveniently there was a hole in the same spot of both my boxers and my pants and now people could see “the good stuff.” Soon anxiety began to take control and I began to wonder whether my stuff was really that good anyway. Did I have as good of stuff as the other guys?

I revealed the paradox of my 12 coupons for a free Krispy Kreme donut. I had been suffering from intense trepidation that I might not be able to use all of them before they expire and that if I did manage to make 12 donut runs in 5 days, the cost to fill cavities may render my coupons worthless.

And even though I can mostly sleep at night and I don’t have a fetish for pencil sharpeners, my psychologist never once proved my problems unimportant. She made me feel listened to.

With recent episodes in our community that may have been linked to overstressed students, I am willing to bet we have all wished we had someone that would listen to our problems. And this doesn’t make us crazy.

Everyone has struggles, worries, feelings of discontent and everyone needs to let them out in order to conquer them. So it shouldn’t take $165 and schizophrenia for someone to ask you how you’re feeling today—and mean it.

Thus, I encourage you all to pour out your worries to a friend this week. Perhaps you could have this discussion over a donut. I have coupons.