Let yourself be "over it". Let yourself be free from guilt. Do not dwell on people who do not care about you. Let your thoughts run freely but once they reach negativity, push them away and attempt to find some kind of happiness. Try not to get offended easily. People will like you and people will dislike you. But do the people who dislike you matter? Probably not. In the long run what is important is keeping yourself alive. Don't think about the way the cold wind feels when it cuts your skin and freezes your uncovered ears. Don't think about the words of your demons clawing at the remnants of your sanity. Do not think about what you have broken down or the things that are your fault.
Try to think of the feelings of warm sand between your toes. Think of late nights outside of Sheppe's dorm with a bottle of mosquito repellent and two people you loved. Ponder your trips to Washington and New York surrounded by people who cared about you. Think of faces: the faces of people who will never abandon you because they understand and possibly love you. If someone doesn't care, are they really worth your time? Is this person worth a single tear, a lump in your chest, a lowering of your self-esteem?
~
Yesterday, I went to a therapist. A counselor. Whatever you want to call them to make yourself feel that you aren't a "crazy". After about an hour of me trying to avoid using specifics, she referred me to a local psychiatrist. I am scared beyond belief. I am horrified to even type this and admit this weakness of mine to a world of strangers. (Truly, anyone who reads this blog is anonymous to me and perhaps there are things here that I should not make public.) I don't know if I even believe in clinical depression, general anxiety disorders, bipolar disorder or whatever it is I am plagued with, which adds a degree of irony to this situation.
When I first suspected that I had emotional issues, I tried to argue my way out of getting any kind of help. Medication will kill my personality. Therapy is for people with real problems, I only have first world problems. But these thoughts seem irrelevant now. I am too scared of my thoughts to not get help at this point. I am worried about medication killing my inspiration to write, but what is the alternative? I can't write if I'm dead and my writing will be horrible if depressive insanity takes over as the only tone in every piece. I don't have problems. And by that, I mean my problems aren't external. I think what I'm realizing now is not that I have a hard life, but I have a hard time processing the things that happen to me. I have a hard time viewing things realistically and responding the way a normal person does to the events in his / her life.
I should have done something earlier. I should have realized that ignoring the fact that I was unhealthy was hurting people around me. Yesterday, the woman I talked to said "It sounds like this has been going on a long time." She was probably right. There comes a point when your friends start becoming sick of you, where you need to take responsibility for yourself. I committed what I've always viewed as one of the greatest sins: selfishness. I need to start taking responsibility for the negativity of my emotions and trying to do something to fix that.
It's amazing what kinds of things can inspire us to be strong and to take risks (because going to see a therapist when you believe it's bullshit is indeed a risk). I feel like I should have been inspired to do this by someone a while ago, by a person who was much more significant to me. But what could I have done at Groton? I think any ex-Grotties and current Grotties reading this can all agree that the counseling services at Groton were proved ineffective last year. Despite my confusion back then, I should have done something to prevent this from going too far.
All I want is to be a normal, well-liked person. I don't want to be a rebel, an eccentric, an artist, a prep, a bitch or anything else. I want to experience the world like everyone else. I don't want to have short bursts of goodness followed by incredible depressions. I don't want to be triggered into anxiety by hearing particular songs, names or watching sad scenes in movies. I don't want to be self-destructive and I don't want to destroy others for small moments of relief at being able to express my immense anger.
In the end, this is all about my survival. Do I want to live for a long time? Sometimes. And, in one of these rare moments of wanting to live I have consciously made an effort to save myself. It wasn't all me. There are people I want to thank. Of course, I never mention other names in this blog, but there are certain gingers, Asian girls, extremely tall friends and siblings who I think of whenever things are bad. Not all of them can be at this college with me, but they can at least support me from a distance, and keep me from succumbing to my selfishness.
Try to think of the feelings of warm sand between your toes. Think of late nights outside of Sheppe's dorm with a bottle of mosquito repellent and two people you loved. Ponder your trips to Washington and New York surrounded by people who cared about you. Think of faces: the faces of people who will never abandon you because they understand and possibly love you. If someone doesn't care, are they really worth your time? Is this person worth a single tear, a lump in your chest, a lowering of your self-esteem?
~
Yesterday, I went to a therapist. A counselor. Whatever you want to call them to make yourself feel that you aren't a "crazy". After about an hour of me trying to avoid using specifics, she referred me to a local psychiatrist. I am scared beyond belief. I am horrified to even type this and admit this weakness of mine to a world of strangers. (Truly, anyone who reads this blog is anonymous to me and perhaps there are things here that I should not make public.) I don't know if I even believe in clinical depression, general anxiety disorders, bipolar disorder or whatever it is I am plagued with, which adds a degree of irony to this situation.
When I first suspected that I had emotional issues, I tried to argue my way out of getting any kind of help. Medication will kill my personality. Therapy is for people with real problems, I only have first world problems. But these thoughts seem irrelevant now. I am too scared of my thoughts to not get help at this point. I am worried about medication killing my inspiration to write, but what is the alternative? I can't write if I'm dead and my writing will be horrible if depressive insanity takes over as the only tone in every piece. I don't have problems. And by that, I mean my problems aren't external. I think what I'm realizing now is not that I have a hard life, but I have a hard time processing the things that happen to me. I have a hard time viewing things realistically and responding the way a normal person does to the events in his / her life.
I should have done something earlier. I should have realized that ignoring the fact that I was unhealthy was hurting people around me. Yesterday, the woman I talked to said "It sounds like this has been going on a long time." She was probably right. There comes a point when your friends start becoming sick of you, where you need to take responsibility for yourself. I committed what I've always viewed as one of the greatest sins: selfishness. I need to start taking responsibility for the negativity of my emotions and trying to do something to fix that.
It's amazing what kinds of things can inspire us to be strong and to take risks (because going to see a therapist when you believe it's bullshit is indeed a risk). I feel like I should have been inspired to do this by someone a while ago, by a person who was much more significant to me. But what could I have done at Groton? I think any ex-Grotties and current Grotties reading this can all agree that the counseling services at Groton were proved ineffective last year. Despite my confusion back then, I should have done something to prevent this from going too far.
All I want is to be a normal, well-liked person. I don't want to be a rebel, an eccentric, an artist, a prep, a bitch or anything else. I want to experience the world like everyone else. I don't want to have short bursts of goodness followed by incredible depressions. I don't want to be triggered into anxiety by hearing particular songs, names or watching sad scenes in movies. I don't want to be self-destructive and I don't want to destroy others for small moments of relief at being able to express my immense anger.
In the end, this is all about my survival. Do I want to live for a long time? Sometimes. And, in one of these rare moments of wanting to live I have consciously made an effort to save myself. It wasn't all me. There are people I want to thank. Of course, I never mention other names in this blog, but there are certain gingers, Asian girls, extremely tall friends and siblings who I think of whenever things are bad. Not all of them can be at this college with me, but they can at least support me from a distance, and keep me from succumbing to my selfishness.
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