Trigger warnings: self-deprecation, negative body image, eating disorder thoughts, describing general anxiety, depression, self-harm, suicidal idealation

So, now that I've talked about my relationships and their issues in my first year of college, now I'm going to cover my mental health overall and how this big change from living in South Jersey with my family to Western Pennsylvania alone affected me.

I was really scared to move there, but I already knew who my roommate was before I got there because we messaged each other beforehand and selected a room together, so that was nice.  When I got there and moved in, I started to get excited, but I didn't want my family to leave.  I hugged them many times before they finally had to leave, and I was left alone to discover this new place with Elissa (my roommate).  We would go on adventures to rite aid and the dollar store, sometimes Walmart.  That pretty much sums up what there was to do in that little town.  Everything closed early, too, and many things were closed on Sundays.  It wasn't a problem at the time, though because I made a couple more friends, Kristen being a mutual friend between Elissa and I.  We would make smores and watch movies together, Kristen would sleep in our room, and sometimes we would have a pretty good amount of people in our room at once.  Sadly, though, Kristen changed schools, and that's where things started to get a little more troubling.  The thing was, Elissa was fine sometimes, and then totally rude the next.  She loved to have all the attention, and if I said I was hanging out with a friend, she would get upset and claim I hated her because I was leaving her alone.  She would also make a point to make sure everyone around her was miserable.  I didn't notice how toxic she was until that summer when she visited, but I'll get to that later.

As time went on, I started to get more and more stressed at college.  The workload made it nearly impossible to relax, and I frequently would go to sleep past 3am because I had to finish homework I only had one and a half days to do, then wake up at 8am and not be done classes until around 7pm.  I was tired most of the time, and as classes got more and more difficult, I started to procrastinate a lot more.  I don't think a lot of people understand that procrastination isn't just being lazy; with my own personal experience, I procrastinate because I'm afraid of failure.  In my mind, if I don't do it now, I have not yet failed.  When I actually have to start doing it, that's when the possibility of failure goes up.  When I was younger, a couple people in my life teasingly called me stupid, and I have to admit, after a while, I just accepted it as a personality trait.  The funny thing is, though, it didn't make my anxiety go away, or my grades be any better.  If anything, I felt more confused and stressed because I was so focused on just getting it done on time.  Sometimes I would forget complete sections of homework, just because I was trying to race through it.  I was flustered when I did my homework, and consequently, my brain felt fuzzy and disoriented, which didn't make me feel smarter at all.  Deep in my heart, I'm sure I know I'm not stupid, it's just hard when people say otherwise so often you just get tired of arguing with them.  I think, really, that I am a pretty smart person, but also wise.  These two things are very different.  Smart is technical, a literal grading of people.  Think about it: at school you got grades, people were literally grading you based off of smartness alone.  They never asked life advice on quiz questions, never asked how you feel about humanity's place in the world.  Now, don't get me wrong, school is important, and there are an amount of jobs that have a certain standard of how smart you are.  All in all though, wisdom is just as important.  Reflecting on what life means to you, understanding what people are going through, treating people with respect, giving others advice, knowing how to deal with life's problems—these are all what I attribute to wisdom.  Yes, you could be the smartest person in the world, but if you don't give yourself time for reflection and learning about the world around you, that doesn't seem like a very fulfilled life, does it?  So, if anyone ever calls you stupid, first of all it's not true; maybe you struggle in a subject, but that doesn't make you stupid overall.  In addition, if people think you're stupid, so what?  Smartness was constructed to grade the people in society.  If you don't meet the standards, that's okay!  Not every job needs you to have a 4.0 GPA.  Many jobs, though, care about your ethics and what you believe is right and wrong.  So, sidetrack but also food for thought, smartness and wisdom are not the same.  Plus, why the hell do those people feel the need to judge you in the first place?  I think they have some underlying personal issues and insecurities themselves.  I still struggle with procrastination and the fear of failure a lot in college-related things, but with drawing and things I love, like writing this book, I don't have those fears.  I guess it's just because it makes me more relaxed so I'm not as overwhelmed as I am with studying the Baroque period.

Slowly, disordered thoughts about eating began to creep in.  It wasn't exactly the same, but it was worrisome no less.  The food at the university I went to wasn't that great, and most of it was fried.  I didn't mind eating fried food, but after a while, eating the same old thing got old to me.  I would be hungry but not eat because I didn't want to have to trek outside in the freezing cold to get the same old chicken tenders and fries for the second time that day.  So, I was hungry and out of energy a lot.

Now, with the fear of failure, the stress of being away from home, having a roommate I wasn't too keen with, my anxiety attacks spiking out of control, unhealthy eating patterns, and lack of sleep, I started to feel like I was losing it.  I would start to get panic attacks every second of every day.  I did not know the coping techniques I use now, and I wasn't on as high as dosage on medication as I am.  Just for reference, if you are having a panic attack, here's some things that helped me in the past: breathing in, holding breath for three seconds, breathing out, holding for three seconds, and repeat until your heart rate and breathing pattern normalizes again, reminding yourself that you are not in danger (anxiety is from triggering the fight or flight response usually used when in danger), and meditation, usually breathing deeply in and out as consistently as you can until your breathing normalizes.

Anywhoozles (what a cute word for such a sad section of this chapter oops), I was having a terrible panic attack alone in my room one day, and long story short (I don't want to upset/trigger anyone so I'm going to be vague) I relapsed with self-harm.  I didn't do it since eighth grade, but at this point I just felt so lost and anxious, and I thought it would be some sort of release.  It worked—I was calm for about two seconds—and then I went into panic mode, nauseous from guilt, bandaging myself, and calling my mom in tears.  I describe self-harm as a type of drug.  You know deep in your mind you shouldn't do it, but it makes you feel better, even if only for a little, but once you come down from that high, you feel worse than before, guilty, feeling like you let everyone down.  There's a lyric in a song that says "the cutting part was easy but regretting it is so fucked" (music video above) and I think that describes it perfectly.  I personally think that the healing process also sucks in a way.  I liked seeing myself heal from the episode, but the itching and soreness kept reminding me what I did, and I felt guilty all over again.  I told my roommate how itchy it was and all she said was "well, you did it to yourself."  I was so shocked all I could say was "damn."  That was one of the most ignorant and rude things someone has said to me regarding my mental health.

So anyway, my mom calmed me down, and I emailed my psychiatrist about it and asked if I could call her.  I feel like something snapped in my brain that day, and I still think that to this day.  Maybe I was on the brink of being depressed, and self-harming that one last time after so long of being clean brought it on full-force, I have no clue.  All I know is after that last episode I felt uncharacteristically suicidal.  I thought about killing myself fairly often, so much that I was kind of scared of myself.  I wanted to live, but I also didn't.  It's hard to explain, but it's like you want to just be numb for a while, but then be able to come back to life whenever you feel like it.  I guess escapism is a good word for the type of suicidal I was feeling.  When I was having panic attacks when I was trying to sleep, I would smother my face in my pillow until I had to gasp for air, feeling even more anxious and angry than before.  My anxiety made me depressed, and then when I couldn't cope, I got so angry.  It was a terrible feeling.  My roommate tried to help me best she could, urged me to get help, and I said I would.

I talked to my psychiatrist a couple days later, and I tried to explain everything best I could.  This was the most honest I've been with myself and others in a long time.  I finally realized that no, I'm not okay, and I need help.  I'm always afraid that being honest with a mental health professional would lead me to the hospital, but she talked to me very professionally and in an almost medical way, describing things using brain chemistry, which actually made me feel better.  It made it feel more real; there was science behind this, I wasn't just crazy.  She officially diagnosed me with depression, and begged me to talk to a counselor on campus.

I was terrified to hear her actually say those words.  I had depression.  For real.  To me, that sounded like a death sentence.  I can't be this miserable my whole life.  I was terrified I was going to be pushed over the edge with my mental health, and end up killing myself.  I quickly reached out to the counseling center and scheduled an appointment with a counselor/therapist/whatever they call themselves there.  I got an appointment for the week after, and I was so nervous.  Everyone was telling me it'd be okay, but I was still scared.

It was awful.

Don't get me wrong, therapists can be amazing, but this one, this one was not.  I don't even remember her last name, I know it was something fucking weird like Toledo or something, so let's just call her Dr. Toledo.  Yes, she was a doctor, and yes, what I'm about to tell you is true.

She would give me little exercises to do after our session, like writing down where I want to be in my life five years from now, and that was fine, but then the next session she just never brought it up.  She also promised to email me helpful links for mental health resources and never did.  One time she was on the phone for half the session.  Until I talked to my friend months and months later, who went to a different counselor in the same building, I thought the sessions were only 25 minutes.  Nope, they were supposed to be an hour, but I was kicked out after 25 minutes each time.  When I was there, she wouldn't really do any doctorly things with me, she would kind of try to listen to what I was saying, but then just turned it into girl talk, like I was gossiping with my friend or something.  It was totally unprofessional and unhelpful.  The thing that got me the most angry though, you'll never believe.  I told her how I felt sad, anxious, and suicidal, and you know what she said?  Do you really want to know? 

She said, and I swear on my life, she said exactly this:

"I don't think you're depressed, I think you just have a case of the blues."

Even writing this is making me so upset all over again, so I'm taking a couple breaks here and there to get grounded.  That's very important.  It's okay to help others by telling them about what you went through, like I am.  I love doing this, but it can get pretty overwhelming, so if you ever choose to do this, don't ever feel obligated to do so.  If you need to take a mental health break, by all means do it!  You're trying to help other people's mental well-being, and what good does it do if it's harming your own well-being?  As my favorite art teacher once said, "the key to humanity is first loving yourself," and I try to remember that as often as I can.

Also I just remembered the therapist's real name.  Ha-ha.  Toledo is better.

Anyway, so I told my psychiatrist, and she said that that was ridiculous, and she told me I could call or email her if I ever needed her.  She urged me to go see a different therapist, but I was so discouraged I never did.

One of the many reasons I transferred schools, but more on that later.