If you’re reading this, please know I am here for you.
If you told me I would be writing this a year ago, I would have been consumed by fear. Fear of what other people would think of me, fear of sounding stupid, fear of saying too much. But I realize that you never regret being vulnerable—it’s the things you don’t say or do that haunt you.
So here goes nothing:
For as long as I can remember, I have been a worrier. I was the kid crying every day before preschool, begging my mom not to make me go. I was a nail biter, a hair chewer, a foot tapper. “What if’s” constantly swarmed my mind, and my heart was forever beating a thousand miles a minute. I became used to this state of panic—I thought everyone experienced it—and it propelled me to become a top performer in my class, a dedicated athlete, an attentive friend. From the outside looking in, my life seemed virtually perfect. Inside, I was riddled with doubt, self-hatred, and unhappiness.
The coronavirus pandemic only exacerbated my negative feelings. I grasped for any sense of control I could find, and I turned to exercising and eating (or lack thereof). I punished myself daily by going on 4-mile walks and eating only certain “safe” foods. My new eating habits isolated me from my friends, as I was afraid I would have to eat with them, or hanging out with them would take time out of my precious workout schedule. At that time, I began to experience severe mood swings, where I would be smiling one second and bawling the next. Despite internally suffering, externally I was the picture of “health” — never had I received more compliments about my enviable motivation. However, that “perfect body” was fueled by obsessions that were making me very ill.
This cycle of torture went on for almost a year until one night at school, right before bed I broke down in front of my roommate and told her everything — how I felt lost and empty, like a shell of a human. Never in my life had I been so vulnerable with someone, and she responded with nothing but love and support, urging me to get help. That night, in the middle of the semester, I called my mom to come pick me up, and immediately went home.
After an appointment with my therapist, I visited a psychiatrist who diagnosed me with OCD, anxiety, and depression. Immediately after the meeting, I started crying tears of relief. There was a reason I was feeling the way I was: a chemical imbalance in my brain. I, myself, was not inherently bad. For the majority of my life, I assumed I was broken, that my suffering was my own fault. Getting the medical diagnosis validated and comforted me in a way I cannot explain.
Next came telling people about my diagnosis. I had been reluctant to share my feelings in the past out of fear of being judged or deemed “crazy.” The opposite appeared to be true—nearly every person I told had similar experiences to share or could at least empathize with my situation. Since then, I have tried to be as open and honest as possible — not only for my sake, but to make it clear that anyone can come to me if they are struggling.
I would not be here today if it weren’t for my wonderful family, my incredible best friends, and my dedicated therapist and psychiatrist. I am fortunate to have such beautiful people in my life, and I believe everyone should be afforded the same support system.
If you’re reading this, please know I am here for you.
Casey D., Villanova University ‘22
