Imagine you’re in a grocery store, perusing the selection of the newly in-season strawberries. It’s easy to pick the fresh strawberries from the less fresh ones: which ones are bruised? Which ones look like they could get moldy soon? Which ones are too red, which aren’t quite red enough? The snap judgments you make about these are low stakes. They’re only strawberries, after all.
You continue on through the aisles of your grocery store, making judgments about the foods you need and do not need more and more frequently. As you gently push your cart past the frozen food aisle, you catch a glimpse of a person selecting various containers of ice cream. They’re in flip flops and a stained t-shirt, and as far as you can tell, they probably wear bigger pants than you. You’ve selected ice cream like this person hundreds of times, but in this moment, this person is different from you. Of course they’re getting ice cream, you think to yourself, they’re fat. Ice cream is probably all they eat anyways.
The judgments you made about the quality of strawberries just moments earlier have now grown into judgments about people you know nothing about. You think nothing of this, as you probably do it all the time. They are thoughts that hold little weight for you because they’re “usual.” Maybe they’re things you heard your parents say when you were growing up, or things you talk about with your coworkers at lunch or your friends when you’re out for drinks. Perhaps it’s even self-preservation: if I judge the actions and appearances of a stranger at face value, I don’t have to take the time to judge myself.
The reality is, everybody does this, whether they like to admit it or not. I’m not requesting that you stop these thoughts that you have about other people, but rather that you question them when they come up. Easier said than done, I know. But let me give you an example.
I am a yoga teacher. Body positivity is part of both my personal and professional life, but I still battle snap decisions I make about myself and others daily—a result of insecurities I’m, ironically, insecure about. A long time ago, at the very, very beginning of teaching, I had a yoga student who appeared as if fitness wasn’t necessarily part of their daily routine—a judgment I made about them by looking at them for one second as they walked through the door. They were shy, and they placed their mat far from mine in the room...Long story short, they kicked major ass every moment of the yoga class. Ashamed of my initial judgment of this person, I decided to approach them after class and tell them how strong and awesome they were, only to find out that this person had been crowned the champion of Ironman triathalons several times and was training to do it again. I hold this story close to my heart, and think of this incredible student every time my instincts tell me to judge someone based on how they look.
This doesn’t just go for size, either. When I was in high school, my mom and I went to an early morning fitness class where we often saw a woman who had clearly done her hair and makeup specifically for her workout. She would spend the class fixing her hair in the mirror between exercises, and we would roll our eyes at her. Here we were, greasy haired and makeup-less, assuming that this woman thought she was better than us. One day, the woman stayed a moment after class to work on a simple exercise. We made eye contact with her and she smiled and said “this exercise is so hard for me, I don’t think my form is right. I’m just trying to work on improving and getting stronger.” My mother and I were baffled—we had assumed this woman was there to show off. She was really there to get stronger, just like us.
The judgments we make about other people before we know them well, or even speak to them, are almost always incorrect. You may judge a person’s weight before you learn that they’re 100 pounds lighter than they were last year, or think a person isn’t as smart as you because they’re too pretty or too blonde or their clothes are too expensive before you learn that they spend their free time researching cures for epileptic seizures in small children using financial grants from their colleagues at Harvard. The next time you feel the need to make a judgment about someone else, or you hear someone you know and love commenting on someone they don’t know, I encourage you to ask one question: Why? Why do you think that? What makes you believe that that’s true...and how would you feel if someone made the same judgments about you?
Challenge it, and then challenge yourself to change it. Keep an open mind for the humans in your world, and leave your snap judgments for strawberries.
-mk
Wednesday, June 13, 2018
Monday, January 29, 2018
Room 18.
“Women are like teabags. You never know how strong they are until you get them in hot water.”
...
It started on a Friday.
I didn’t feel like myself. Walking into my therapist’s office that afternoon, I had in mind what might happen, and I was right: I was sent to the emergency room for unbearable obsessive suicidal thoughts. I eventually signed a form voluntarily admitting myself into the psychiatric ward of a university hospital (referred to in the ward as “the unit”). I was accompanied on my to the hospital by my incredible boyfriend, who deserves a special shoutout for spending our two month anniversary in a tiny room in the ER for 8 hours.
Eventually, I was separated from all visitors and brought up to the unit at 1 AM Saturday, and finally got to sleep at around 2:15. Not knowing anybody, I was thrilled to wake up to find that my roommate Bethany (whose name, as well as all names in this post, have been changed for privacy reasons), was about my age. There was also Jackson, a boy a bit older than us, who had gotten to the unit before me, too. We all became fast friends, going to group therapy sessions and eating meals together. We had to pass time efficiently, as we wouldn’t be seen by the main care team until Monday, so we spent that weekend time in a sort of holding pattern, entertaining ourselves by playing cards and convincing everyone on the unit to watch the Grammys (which the art therapist helped us make decorations and set up for.)
When Monday came around, I was excited. Would I get to go home soon? Would they diagnose me properly? The answers were mixed. Yes, I had a proper diagnosis and a medical plan, but no, I couldn’t go home just yet. I am expected to stay in for about a week.
In terms of a diagnosis, I have been diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, or OCD. OCD can manifest itself in many different ways, but for me it comes in the form of disturbing obsessive thoughts that stick in my brain and won’t go away. They can be anything from thinking I’m not worthy of being loved to thinking I’m going to hurt someone important to me, and even thinking a violent scene in a movie might happen to me in real life. When I came to the hospital, the thoughts came in the form of thinking I was going to hurt myself. I had had the obsessive thoughts very vividly for about 2 weeks before admitting myself. The depression and anxiety that it was thought that I had were simply results of the difficulty of having thoughts like this, so it’s really good that I’m in the hospital and getting the treatment and help I need for the right diagnosis!
So...why am I writing this? First of all, I’ve always been very transparent about mental illness and want to continue that. Second of all, if I had been more open about my scariest symptoms I could’ve gotten more help sooner. Also, I want to stress how important it is to be open with your support system so that they can help you—and know that they will help you, even if you think that “we’re not a family/friend group that talks about those things,” if you need help, ask for it!
I also wanted to give people an update as to where I’ve been, since I haven’t been at work or in school, and just recently regained access to my phone within the unit. My internet access is minimal, but if you text me, I’ll respond! (If you need my number, private message me).
I’m sending love to all of you, and to the world, but also to myself. We all need a little love and a little reminder that we are loved. But I’m especially sending love to my biggest supports, my family, my therapists and medical team, my amazing friends and roommates, my boyfriend, and my CPY family. Thank you for everything. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
I can’t wait to see all of you when I am discharged. And if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m always here.
Xoxo
MK
...
It started on a Friday.
I didn’t feel like myself. Walking into my therapist’s office that afternoon, I had in mind what might happen, and I was right: I was sent to the emergency room for unbearable obsessive suicidal thoughts. I eventually signed a form voluntarily admitting myself into the psychiatric ward of a university hospital (referred to in the ward as “the unit”). I was accompanied on my to the hospital by my incredible boyfriend, who deserves a special shoutout for spending our two month anniversary in a tiny room in the ER for 8 hours.
Eventually, I was separated from all visitors and brought up to the unit at 1 AM Saturday, and finally got to sleep at around 2:15. Not knowing anybody, I was thrilled to wake up to find that my roommate Bethany (whose name, as well as all names in this post, have been changed for privacy reasons), was about my age. There was also Jackson, a boy a bit older than us, who had gotten to the unit before me, too. We all became fast friends, going to group therapy sessions and eating meals together. We had to pass time efficiently, as we wouldn’t be seen by the main care team until Monday, so we spent that weekend time in a sort of holding pattern, entertaining ourselves by playing cards and convincing everyone on the unit to watch the Grammys (which the art therapist helped us make decorations and set up for.)
When Monday came around, I was excited. Would I get to go home soon? Would they diagnose me properly? The answers were mixed. Yes, I had a proper diagnosis and a medical plan, but no, I couldn’t go home just yet. I am expected to stay in for about a week.
In terms of a diagnosis, I have been diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, or OCD. OCD can manifest itself in many different ways, but for me it comes in the form of disturbing obsessive thoughts that stick in my brain and won’t go away. They can be anything from thinking I’m not worthy of being loved to thinking I’m going to hurt someone important to me, and even thinking a violent scene in a movie might happen to me in real life. When I came to the hospital, the thoughts came in the form of thinking I was going to hurt myself. I had had the obsessive thoughts very vividly for about 2 weeks before admitting myself. The depression and anxiety that it was thought that I had were simply results of the difficulty of having thoughts like this, so it’s really good that I’m in the hospital and getting the treatment and help I need for the right diagnosis!
So...why am I writing this? First of all, I’ve always been very transparent about mental illness and want to continue that. Second of all, if I had been more open about my scariest symptoms I could’ve gotten more help sooner. Also, I want to stress how important it is to be open with your support system so that they can help you—and know that they will help you, even if you think that “we’re not a family/friend group that talks about those things,” if you need help, ask for it!
I also wanted to give people an update as to where I’ve been, since I haven’t been at work or in school, and just recently regained access to my phone within the unit. My internet access is minimal, but if you text me, I’ll respond! (If you need my number, private message me).
I’m sending love to all of you, and to the world, but also to myself. We all need a little love and a little reminder that we are loved. But I’m especially sending love to my biggest supports, my family, my therapists and medical team, my amazing friends and roommates, my boyfriend, and my CPY family. Thank you for everything. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
I can’t wait to see all of you when I am discharged. And if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m always here.
Xoxo
MK
Monday, December 4, 2017
Starting Over.
Dear Internet,
Hello, it's me again! Did you miss me? (Probably not, because only 8 people read this annually, but that's okay, it's good to see my favorite octet back again.)
I have a secret, internet, and that's that I'm terrible at meeting people. When I go to parties, I'm typically the girl in the corner who brought her own beer watching people flirt over their cranberry cocktails and stories of what happened last weekend to that one friend they both kind of know. I'm not good at these things. Typically, I just walk up to people I've never met and criticize (or, occasionally, compliment) what it is they're drinking and hope that it works. (At this point, it has about a 67% success rate).
So when, days before Thanksgiving, I met somebody new who didn't run the other way when I made a joke about "Legally Blonde," I got a little overexcited. Granted, we met through one of those dating apps that I criticize heavily (and have even trashed explicitly on this blog), but a few glasses of wine in and swiping right sounded like an outstanding idea. I figured this would be one of those things where we talked until I figured out that he only wanted me for sex, and our conversation would slowly fade into the abyss as they all seem to do.
I was wrong.
This got me to wondering...What does it mean to start over? What does it mean to sit on the couch drinking wine watching John Mulaney with someone you barely know and realize you never want to leave? What does it mean to forget the people who came before, to lose your mind, your breath, to lose track of where you are for just a second, and then slap yourself on the wrist because it's probably too soon for all of that? What does it mean that I'm terrified for the person I will not name to read this in fear that he'll decide that a blog post is just crossing the line a little too far?
Regardless of all of this fear, there's one brave thing I've learned: when you start over, you don't owe apologies to the people you're leaving behind. They don't need a condolence card for the fact that they're no longer in the forefront of your brain, and you don't need their permission to move on. You don't need to call them to tell them you're moving forward, that you gave their sweatshirt to your neighbor and took their pictures off your walls and deleted their sports preferences off of your phone. No, you don't owe them anything, because the only person that you owe anything to is yourself, and that's an apology.
So, here goes.
Dear Madison,
I'm sorry that I kept you up at night thinking that you weren't good enough, thinking about something that wasn't helping you become a better version of yourself. I'm sorry that I didn't focus on you, enough, and I promise that I'll do better for you in the future, because you deserve better.
Sometimes we meet people who are so amazing that they help us realize how amazing we are, help us realize how much we truly love ourselves. Today I woke up excited to be myself. Proud to be myself. Loving myself. It's not the people from my past that I have to thank for that. It's the people--the old friends and the fresh eyes (especially those)--that I have now. Today, I start over. Today, I move forward. Today, I put myself first. And I've never felt better.
Oh...And to the person that sparked this in me?
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
-mk.
Hello, it's me again! Did you miss me? (Probably not, because only 8 people read this annually, but that's okay, it's good to see my favorite octet back again.)
I have a secret, internet, and that's that I'm terrible at meeting people. When I go to parties, I'm typically the girl in the corner who brought her own beer watching people flirt over their cranberry cocktails and stories of what happened last weekend to that one friend they both kind of know. I'm not good at these things. Typically, I just walk up to people I've never met and criticize (or, occasionally, compliment) what it is they're drinking and hope that it works. (At this point, it has about a 67% success rate).
So when, days before Thanksgiving, I met somebody new who didn't run the other way when I made a joke about "Legally Blonde," I got a little overexcited. Granted, we met through one of those dating apps that I criticize heavily (and have even trashed explicitly on this blog), but a few glasses of wine in and swiping right sounded like an outstanding idea. I figured this would be one of those things where we talked until I figured out that he only wanted me for sex, and our conversation would slowly fade into the abyss as they all seem to do.
I was wrong.
This got me to wondering...What does it mean to start over? What does it mean to sit on the couch drinking wine watching John Mulaney with someone you barely know and realize you never want to leave? What does it mean to forget the people who came before, to lose your mind, your breath, to lose track of where you are for just a second, and then slap yourself on the wrist because it's probably too soon for all of that? What does it mean that I'm terrified for the person I will not name to read this in fear that he'll decide that a blog post is just crossing the line a little too far?
Regardless of all of this fear, there's one brave thing I've learned: when you start over, you don't owe apologies to the people you're leaving behind. They don't need a condolence card for the fact that they're no longer in the forefront of your brain, and you don't need their permission to move on. You don't need to call them to tell them you're moving forward, that you gave their sweatshirt to your neighbor and took their pictures off your walls and deleted their sports preferences off of your phone. No, you don't owe them anything, because the only person that you owe anything to is yourself, and that's an apology.
So, here goes.
Dear Madison,
I'm sorry that I kept you up at night thinking that you weren't good enough, thinking about something that wasn't helping you become a better version of yourself. I'm sorry that I didn't focus on you, enough, and I promise that I'll do better for you in the future, because you deserve better.
Sometimes we meet people who are so amazing that they help us realize how amazing we are, help us realize how much we truly love ourselves. Today I woke up excited to be myself. Proud to be myself. Loving myself. It's not the people from my past that I have to thank for that. It's the people--the old friends and the fresh eyes (especially those)--that I have now. Today, I start over. Today, I move forward. Today, I put myself first. And I've never felt better.
Oh...And to the person that sparked this in me?
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
-mk.
Monday, August 7, 2017
Outer Space.
Dear Internet,
Recently, someone very dear to me started to become distant. Their answers went from full sentences to single words, sometimes even abbreviations of words like "ok" and "thx." As much as I hated to admit it, something between us had shifted. And so, although I didn't want to, I had to call a spade a spade and say:
"Look, I'm kinda getting the vibe that you need your space right now. So unless I am wrong I am going to honor that."
The response I wanted was not the response I got, even though it was a perfectly valid response: yes, the person needed their space from me. And of course I would honor their request.
But it's a funny thing, needing space, especially when the person you need space from is a person who struggles with anxiety. So when this person told me they hoped I'd have a good day and I said that was unlikely, I was confused and upset about why they were confused and upset.
Here's why.
When you need space from a person with anxiety, they will think that they did something wrong. When you tell them they did nothing wrong and you simply need a moment (or several) to yourself, they will not believe you. They will search their brain, scrolling through every moment they've ever spent with or without you, wondering if that small decision or that one facial expression was the final straw that pushed you away.
When you need space from a person with anxiety, they will think that they are a terrible person. That you don't want to connect with them for a period of time because they are worthless, unloveable, not deserving of friends. They will destroy themselves from the inside out, assuming that the space you need is a result of things they cannot change, like their anxiety, their depression, or even something as simple as their hair color. They will examine every inch of themselves, searching for things to tear apart or to change. And then they will consider changing all of it.
When you need space from a person with anxiety, they will assume that you will never come back, or that when you do you'll have realized that you really enjoyed not talking to them at all. They may think that this "space" you need is really a goodbye, and that the next time you accidentally run into them at the grocery store or on the street you will avert your eyes and walk in the other direction. They believe that the next time they need to call you (and someday, they know, they will need to call you), you will refuse to answer. They believe that, even though it sounds crazy, they have lost you forever. This assumption will crush them.
So.
When you need space from a person with anxiety, a completely, totally valid thing to need, tell them why. They don't need a novel. They just need something specific and clear to tell themselves to get them through the day. This is not "I just have a lot on my mind" or "I can't tell you." This is "I have been very busy and need some time alone to clear my head" or even "I feel my relationship to you has changed and I need time to think of the words to explain it to you." Give them enough to calm their brains. Give them enough to sleep at night.
When you need space from a person with anxiety, give them a time frame. Something as simple as "I will reach out to you on Friday" or "check in with me tomorrow morning" will suffice. Indefinite times are crippling to the anxious mind. Even if at the check in you need more time, that is fine. They just need to know that you haven't forgotten about them, that this won't last forever.
And most importantly, when you need space from a person with anxiety, be kind. Be gentle. Perhaps they are panicked. Perhaps they are crying in their office, or on the street, or on the subway. Perhaps you have turned their day upside down. If you are typically their go to resource in times of struggle, suggest other resources, but do so nicely. Do not tell them what they can't do, or how they can't react, or that their reaction is a bad one. Their emotions are a real part of their human experience, and even if they seem unfathomable, they likely are very strong, maybe even scary to the person experiencing them. Their thoughts will be convincing, their anxious mind will win the battle over their rational one.
Because when you need space from a person with anxiety, their anxious mind, if only for a moment, is validated. They may have worried that this day would come. So take all the space you need, but remember:
When you need space from a person with anxiety, your words and actions matter.
-mk.
Recently, someone very dear to me started to become distant. Their answers went from full sentences to single words, sometimes even abbreviations of words like "ok" and "thx." As much as I hated to admit it, something between us had shifted. And so, although I didn't want to, I had to call a spade a spade and say:
"Look, I'm kinda getting the vibe that you need your space right now. So unless I am wrong I am going to honor that."
The response I wanted was not the response I got, even though it was a perfectly valid response: yes, the person needed their space from me. And of course I would honor their request.
But it's a funny thing, needing space, especially when the person you need space from is a person who struggles with anxiety. So when this person told me they hoped I'd have a good day and I said that was unlikely, I was confused and upset about why they were confused and upset.
Here's why.
When you need space from a person with anxiety, they will think that they did something wrong. When you tell them they did nothing wrong and you simply need a moment (or several) to yourself, they will not believe you. They will search their brain, scrolling through every moment they've ever spent with or without you, wondering if that small decision or that one facial expression was the final straw that pushed you away.
When you need space from a person with anxiety, they will think that they are a terrible person. That you don't want to connect with them for a period of time because they are worthless, unloveable, not deserving of friends. They will destroy themselves from the inside out, assuming that the space you need is a result of things they cannot change, like their anxiety, their depression, or even something as simple as their hair color. They will examine every inch of themselves, searching for things to tear apart or to change. And then they will consider changing all of it.
When you need space from a person with anxiety, they will assume that you will never come back, or that when you do you'll have realized that you really enjoyed not talking to them at all. They may think that this "space" you need is really a goodbye, and that the next time you accidentally run into them at the grocery store or on the street you will avert your eyes and walk in the other direction. They believe that the next time they need to call you (and someday, they know, they will need to call you), you will refuse to answer. They believe that, even though it sounds crazy, they have lost you forever. This assumption will crush them.
So.
When you need space from a person with anxiety, a completely, totally valid thing to need, tell them why. They don't need a novel. They just need something specific and clear to tell themselves to get them through the day. This is not "I just have a lot on my mind" or "I can't tell you." This is "I have been very busy and need some time alone to clear my head" or even "I feel my relationship to you has changed and I need time to think of the words to explain it to you." Give them enough to calm their brains. Give them enough to sleep at night.
When you need space from a person with anxiety, give them a time frame. Something as simple as "I will reach out to you on Friday" or "check in with me tomorrow morning" will suffice. Indefinite times are crippling to the anxious mind. Even if at the check in you need more time, that is fine. They just need to know that you haven't forgotten about them, that this won't last forever.
And most importantly, when you need space from a person with anxiety, be kind. Be gentle. Perhaps they are panicked. Perhaps they are crying in their office, or on the street, or on the subway. Perhaps you have turned their day upside down. If you are typically their go to resource in times of struggle, suggest other resources, but do so nicely. Do not tell them what they can't do, or how they can't react, or that their reaction is a bad one. Their emotions are a real part of their human experience, and even if they seem unfathomable, they likely are very strong, maybe even scary to the person experiencing them. Their thoughts will be convincing, their anxious mind will win the battle over their rational one.
Because when you need space from a person with anxiety, their anxious mind, if only for a moment, is validated. They may have worried that this day would come. So take all the space you need, but remember:
When you need space from a person with anxiety, your words and actions matter.
-mk.
Wednesday, January 18, 2017
Procrastination Nation.
Dear Internet,
I'm baaaaaaaaack!
Yes, it's been a while since I last posted, and that has to do with one major theme I'm dealing with in my life right now: procrastination. We're all guilty of it from time to time, but I find myself to be especially guilty recently. Maybe this is because I'm going back to school in a week, and I don't want to admit to myself that I'm running out of the luxurious time I have to relax at home. Or maybe it's because I'm convinced that I have much more time to do all of these things than I actually do. Whatever the reason, it's not that I don't want to do my work, it's just that I don't want to get out of my vacation mindset and step back into the world of work quite yet.
So how do we deal with procrastination when it hits us so hard? I have a few ideas.
Procrastinate Effectively
If you're deciding to procrastinate, do so as effectively as possible. What does this mean? Well--procrastinate your work by doing other work. Don't want to pay your bills? Prep tomorrow's dinner instead. Don't feel like prepping dinner? Maybe turn up the music on your speakers and sweep the house and fold the laundry! You'll avoid doing that thing you don't feel like doing, but in the meantime you'll get other important things done. It's going to feel great, and eventually you'll get around to doing that thing you were avoiding all along.
Take it in Steps
Break down the thing you don't feel like doing into steps to help it feel like it's not such a big thing to tackle. Do you have a big book to read like I do? Put tabs in parts of the book to help you figure out where you want to be by when, and then you don't have the whole book to read in one day. Just make sure you stick to your steps so you don't get slammed with work at the last minute--which is a big trap we can all fall into.
Just Do It!
This seems like the most obvious one, but try just going for the thing you're avoiding and doing it with full force! It may not be the most fun option, but it actually may be the most effective. You may find that what you've been avoiding doing is actually quite easy to complete--or if not, it's at least enjoyable. Make a cup of coffee, get a snack, sit down, and just do it!
You can do this, internet. I believe in you.
Now I have to go. I have things I'm procrastinating on.
-mk.
I'm baaaaaaaaack!
Yes, it's been a while since I last posted, and that has to do with one major theme I'm dealing with in my life right now: procrastination. We're all guilty of it from time to time, but I find myself to be especially guilty recently. Maybe this is because I'm going back to school in a week, and I don't want to admit to myself that I'm running out of the luxurious time I have to relax at home. Or maybe it's because I'm convinced that I have much more time to do all of these things than I actually do. Whatever the reason, it's not that I don't want to do my work, it's just that I don't want to get out of my vacation mindset and step back into the world of work quite yet.
So how do we deal with procrastination when it hits us so hard? I have a few ideas.
Procrastinate Effectively
If you're deciding to procrastinate, do so as effectively as possible. What does this mean? Well--procrastinate your work by doing other work. Don't want to pay your bills? Prep tomorrow's dinner instead. Don't feel like prepping dinner? Maybe turn up the music on your speakers and sweep the house and fold the laundry! You'll avoid doing that thing you don't feel like doing, but in the meantime you'll get other important things done. It's going to feel great, and eventually you'll get around to doing that thing you were avoiding all along.
Take it in Steps
Break down the thing you don't feel like doing into steps to help it feel like it's not such a big thing to tackle. Do you have a big book to read like I do? Put tabs in parts of the book to help you figure out where you want to be by when, and then you don't have the whole book to read in one day. Just make sure you stick to your steps so you don't get slammed with work at the last minute--which is a big trap we can all fall into.
Just Do It!
This seems like the most obvious one, but try just going for the thing you're avoiding and doing it with full force! It may not be the most fun option, but it actually may be the most effective. You may find that what you've been avoiding doing is actually quite easy to complete--or if not, it's at least enjoyable. Make a cup of coffee, get a snack, sit down, and just do it!
You can do this, internet. I believe in you.
Now I have to go. I have things I'm procrastinating on.
-mk.
Thursday, December 1, 2016
The Importance of Mental Health in College.
Dear Internet,
I'm a musical theatre major, and my teachers often emphasize how valuable a "mental health day" can be. The purpose of a mental health day is to recharge when you're feeling uninspired or not up to the challenge of a day by staying home and putting yourself first. To be honest, I've always scoffed at the idea, rolling my eyes at the people who decided to take these days to themselves instead of showing up to class, thinking they were using these days as an excuse to simply ditch. I vowed that I would never take a mental health day because I would never need one--right? Right. Or so I thought.
I woke up on a Monday and didn't want to get out of bed. Not in a lazy way--it wasn't that I wanted to snooze my alarm once again or get another hour of shut eye. It was in an oh-my-god-my-depression-is-kicking-my-ass way, the kind of feeling where the weight of the world was on my shoulders before my feet had even touched the ground. But still, I pushed on. Class will help me, I swore, and I did everything I could to make it the best day possible. I got myself a coffee and plugged in my curling iron. I put on a dress, I wanted to feel good, but as I looked in the mirror, I saw through my own perfectly primped facade. Still, I got my ass out the door and went to school. In my first class, a dance class, I felt myself holding back meaningless tears for a painstaking 75 minutes, feeling personally victimized every time my teacher gave me a caring, constructive adjustment. I began to succumb to anxious thoughts, feeling more and more worthless, emotionless, and empty as every moments passed. By the time the next class came around, another dance class, I must have looked a bit off, as one of my friends asked me to step outside with her. As she asked if I was okay, I completely unraveled, crying hysterically into the sleeve of my jean jacket and ruining the makeup I had worked so carefully on just an hour earlier. It was my first ever anxiety attack at school, and I was mortified. It became clear that class wasn't going to be a possibility for me, so my friend sat me down and rubbed my shoulders as I called the university health center. I spoke to a sing-song voiced woman who talked me off the ledge and convinced me to come to the health center in person. So I went, hysterical, and spoke to a blonde therapist who essentially told me that, in my instability, I could either go back to class or go to the hospital, since I wouldn't be stable alone in my dorm room. To be honest, I didn't really know which one to pick. The hospital sounded extreme, but I was so far from being grounded in myself that it felt like a reasonable option.
This, internet, is the definition of needing a mental health day. I never thought I would need one myself, but here I was, staring it in the face, realizing that maybe, just maybe, it was a mistake to come to school and simply stick it out. When you really need one of those coveted mental health days, "sticking it out" sounds easier than it really is. As I learned, it's almost impossible to make it through a class when the only thing you can focus on is the looming anxiety in the front of your mind. It's frustrating, it's debilitating, it's devastating, and, quite frankly, it's embarrassing. It's humiliating to feel you're losing your carefully calculated control in front of the people you love, even though, at the end of the day, they still love you right back. My overachieving self believed that the best decision was to get out of bed and show up, hoping that perhaps class would make me feel better, but unfortunately it just didn't work out that way.
But before I advocate for staying home whenever you don't feel like getting out of bed, I must say that being surrounded by people I love, even when I felt completely disconnected from them, was a nice gentle reminder that I am loved, I am valued, and I have people around me to keep me grounded when I'm feeling unstable. So do I regret getting out of bed instead of taking the mental health day I likely desperately needed? No. But I do regret the fact that I felt that taking a mental health day would've been a weak choice. On the contrary, making the decision to take a moment to focus on your own mental health is a very strong choice. It takes a lot of bravery to say that you're not okay, that something is wrong within you and that you need a second to fix it. This is something that I think a lot of college kids overlook, saying that it's "just stress" and they'll be "just fine" on their own without stopping to evaluate where they really are. It's something that I think a lot of parents and teachers overlook, too, taking their students' occasional lack of light for laziness when there's something more important going on that's being ignored.
It's time that college students start treating their mental health like it's a priority. I'm not saying that we should stop doing our homework because we feel that it stresses us out, or we shouldn't go to class because it takes away from our time to have fun. I'm saying that, if you're at the end of your rope, that last paragraph of your paper can wait for you to have a quick conversation with your roommate where you reach out and tell them that you really need someone right now. You can miss 20 minutes of your first class of the day to go and talk to a school counselor about how you're feeling and how to find the tools to work through it. You can take a break from your study sets to meditate for ten minutes, or put off cleaning your room to make cookies to share with a friend if you really need to. I propose constructive activism when it comes to our mental health. Taking a few extra steps to make sure that we are the best that we can be, so when it comes to doing that work we stress so much over, it will be its best, too.
I wish I had been told how important my mental health was earlier in my life. I grew up confusing occasionally taking much needed time for myself instead of finishing all of my work perfectly as being an underachiever, and I was praised for my excellent products by my teachers. But rarely do I remember a teacher or peer genuinely wanting to know how I was, or if I was okay. The facade was enough. But I think it's time for me to take my own advice and start focusing on my own mental health. The grades and schoolwork will eventually be behind me, and it will be get done one way or another, because it has to get done. But there's a real human being who's going to come out on the other side of it all, and she won't ever be behind me.
It's time that I start focusing on her, don't you think?
-mk.
I'm a musical theatre major, and my teachers often emphasize how valuable a "mental health day" can be. The purpose of a mental health day is to recharge when you're feeling uninspired or not up to the challenge of a day by staying home and putting yourself first. To be honest, I've always scoffed at the idea, rolling my eyes at the people who decided to take these days to themselves instead of showing up to class, thinking they were using these days as an excuse to simply ditch. I vowed that I would never take a mental health day because I would never need one--right? Right. Or so I thought.
I woke up on a Monday and didn't want to get out of bed. Not in a lazy way--it wasn't that I wanted to snooze my alarm once again or get another hour of shut eye. It was in an oh-my-god-my-depression-is-kicking-my-ass way, the kind of feeling where the weight of the world was on my shoulders before my feet had even touched the ground. But still, I pushed on. Class will help me, I swore, and I did everything I could to make it the best day possible. I got myself a coffee and plugged in my curling iron. I put on a dress, I wanted to feel good, but as I looked in the mirror, I saw through my own perfectly primped facade. Still, I got my ass out the door and went to school. In my first class, a dance class, I felt myself holding back meaningless tears for a painstaking 75 minutes, feeling personally victimized every time my teacher gave me a caring, constructive adjustment. I began to succumb to anxious thoughts, feeling more and more worthless, emotionless, and empty as every moments passed. By the time the next class came around, another dance class, I must have looked a bit off, as one of my friends asked me to step outside with her. As she asked if I was okay, I completely unraveled, crying hysterically into the sleeve of my jean jacket and ruining the makeup I had worked so carefully on just an hour earlier. It was my first ever anxiety attack at school, and I was mortified. It became clear that class wasn't going to be a possibility for me, so my friend sat me down and rubbed my shoulders as I called the university health center. I spoke to a sing-song voiced woman who talked me off the ledge and convinced me to come to the health center in person. So I went, hysterical, and spoke to a blonde therapist who essentially told me that, in my instability, I could either go back to class or go to the hospital, since I wouldn't be stable alone in my dorm room. To be honest, I didn't really know which one to pick. The hospital sounded extreme, but I was so far from being grounded in myself that it felt like a reasonable option.
This, internet, is the definition of needing a mental health day. I never thought I would need one myself, but here I was, staring it in the face, realizing that maybe, just maybe, it was a mistake to come to school and simply stick it out. When you really need one of those coveted mental health days, "sticking it out" sounds easier than it really is. As I learned, it's almost impossible to make it through a class when the only thing you can focus on is the looming anxiety in the front of your mind. It's frustrating, it's debilitating, it's devastating, and, quite frankly, it's embarrassing. It's humiliating to feel you're losing your carefully calculated control in front of the people you love, even though, at the end of the day, they still love you right back. My overachieving self believed that the best decision was to get out of bed and show up, hoping that perhaps class would make me feel better, but unfortunately it just didn't work out that way.
But before I advocate for staying home whenever you don't feel like getting out of bed, I must say that being surrounded by people I love, even when I felt completely disconnected from them, was a nice gentle reminder that I am loved, I am valued, and I have people around me to keep me grounded when I'm feeling unstable. So do I regret getting out of bed instead of taking the mental health day I likely desperately needed? No. But I do regret the fact that I felt that taking a mental health day would've been a weak choice. On the contrary, making the decision to take a moment to focus on your own mental health is a very strong choice. It takes a lot of bravery to say that you're not okay, that something is wrong within you and that you need a second to fix it. This is something that I think a lot of college kids overlook, saying that it's "just stress" and they'll be "just fine" on their own without stopping to evaluate where they really are. It's something that I think a lot of parents and teachers overlook, too, taking their students' occasional lack of light for laziness when there's something more important going on that's being ignored.
It's time that college students start treating their mental health like it's a priority. I'm not saying that we should stop doing our homework because we feel that it stresses us out, or we shouldn't go to class because it takes away from our time to have fun. I'm saying that, if you're at the end of your rope, that last paragraph of your paper can wait for you to have a quick conversation with your roommate where you reach out and tell them that you really need someone right now. You can miss 20 minutes of your first class of the day to go and talk to a school counselor about how you're feeling and how to find the tools to work through it. You can take a break from your study sets to meditate for ten minutes, or put off cleaning your room to make cookies to share with a friend if you really need to. I propose constructive activism when it comes to our mental health. Taking a few extra steps to make sure that we are the best that we can be, so when it comes to doing that work we stress so much over, it will be its best, too.
I wish I had been told how important my mental health was earlier in my life. I grew up confusing occasionally taking much needed time for myself instead of finishing all of my work perfectly as being an underachiever, and I was praised for my excellent products by my teachers. But rarely do I remember a teacher or peer genuinely wanting to know how I was, or if I was okay. The facade was enough. But I think it's time for me to take my own advice and start focusing on my own mental health. The grades and schoolwork will eventually be behind me, and it will be get done one way or another, because it has to get done. But there's a real human being who's going to come out on the other side of it all, and she won't ever be behind me.
It's time that I start focusing on her, don't you think?
-mk.
Saturday, November 5, 2016
Depression: A Weed in the Garden of Eden
It starts like a weed in the garden of Eden, a thorn on a rose that goes undetected. It starts peaceful, like a river, calm enough that you can tell yourself there's nothing to fear. And then, as all living things do, it grows. First a tiny leaf sprouts underneath a willow tree, then a bud, then a flower blossoms so red and luscious that you can't help but be drawn to its dew kissed petals. So you pick it. And where that weed once grew, another grows. This time bigger, stronger, redder, and then another grows, and another, until the garden of Eden has a garden of weeds within it. But you think you can control it, it's just a garden. And the vines grow thicker and the soil richer and the roots deeper until the flowers can no longer be picked out of the ground. They're inside your world now, infecting your meadows, strangling your trees, until they're so big and strong and tall that they begin to block your sunlight. And the garden of Eden starts to become dim and dark and clouded until the lakes become mirrors of the world you no longer have. And you are alone. And you try to remember when the weed was just a weed, when Eden was just Eden, but you've forgotten every feeling you used to feel, every color's vibrance sucked out of a world you no longer know. And you are alone. And there is no sun, and there is no light, and there are no trees, and the world becomes hollow, and you are alone.
The flowers don't bloom red anymore. The flowers don't bloom at all. And you water them and love them and will them to grow with everything you have and everything you are, but still they refuse.
Is there any more reason to love? Is there any more reason to live?
The garden of depression grows strong. It grows big. It roots deep within you. It plants in you like a tree and grows there as if will stay forever, and sometimes you let it. But somewhere inside is the girl who planted the garden of Eden, who brought the sunshine in and taught the flowers to grow. And on a good day in spring she will emerge again, and she will grow a new garden, one with a white picket fence and butterflies and meadows of lush green grass where barefoot thoughts can run. And the weeds still may grow, but this time she'll cut them before they can bloom into the flowers she used to pick so long ago. She will be able to run and play and never have to hide from the clouds that used to block her sunshine.
In that garden, she will be strong.
In that garden, she will be free.
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