I will always be a little crazy. That's just what makes me me. That's why people love me and probably why I have this column.

But two years ago when a bad breakup made me more crazy-scary than ha-ha-crazy, I knew I needed help. And so began my stint in therapy.

I know how pathetic that sounds. With all that people go through in the world, I was seeing a therapist to talk about the end of a relationship (that, in hindsight, was crap anyway).

A few months in, however, I realized being in therapy had nothing to do with a bad breakup.

I was crazy for a whole slew of reasons. I was 23, underemployed, living with my 19-year-old sister, her boyfriend and dog and lacking direction.

Turns out, the breakup was hard because, no matter how crappy, I was defining myself by that relationship.

I had a lot to deal with and it wasn't easy. I expected therapy to be all butterflies and rainbows, but there were days when I walked out of the office crying so hard I figured crazy-scary was here to stay.

I had to delve into things I didn't want to, things I was embarrassed to admit and things that hurt.

Therapists don't give orders or even too much advice. For the most part, they ask questions and offer a neutral listening ear.

Slowly, though, it started to work. It took more than a year and a lot of inner monologues to get me where I wanted to be, but it happened. Assuring me I could call her whenever I needed, the day came when my therapist said, "I think we're done here."

Knowing my potential for crazy, I was scared.

Then I understood why our time was up. Since I'd met her, almost everything in my life had changed for the better. I got my own place, a full-time writing gig, a healthy relationship with a great man and, most importantly, the identity I'd lost somewhere along the line.

Some will argue all of this could have happened without therapy, but I'd argue otherwise. I learned that in order to turn things around you have to work. Your life will never be perfect, but it can be more of what you'd imagine perfect to look like if you're willing to ask for help. I was.

If you find yourself in the crazy-scary category, I recommend finding a therapist of your own. I'm only halfway through my 20s, so chances are the rest of the decade will be busy.

Emily Smith is a contributor to Gannett News Service's Quarter-Life Crisis column.