Katie H.
Photography by Hannah Facenda
Please note: In her letter, Katie writes about her experience with suicidal ideation. If you feel this content may be triggering for you, we encourage you to take a pause and access any resources you may need. If this letter is not right for you at this time, we invite you to read a different letter on IfYoureReadingThis.org. As always, take care.
If you’re reading this, it’s not your fault
A semester ago I would have never considered writing this letter, nevermind attaching my name and photo to it. I likely wouldn’t know about IfYou’reReadingThis.org at all. I lived under the incorrect assumption that my struggles with mental health were my fault– a result of my lack of perspective, a failure to check my privilege, or because I simply wasn’t working hard enough. I carried what I now know as my anxiety and depression with guilt and shame.
My early childhood was great. I was constantly surrounded by my family’s love, blessed with that inherent confidence that kids just have. As I grew older, my family didn’t stop loving me, and I didn’t have trouble making friends. There was not anything truly wrong with my environment, but that inherent confidence that I used to have dwindled.
I’m not sure when exactly my issues started because there is no concrete experience that caused them. To some extent, I think these issues must have always been there somewhere in my mind. I do remember struggling with body image issues since late elementary school, though at that point, it was not all-consuming. At first, the insecurity was just physical, but it began to metastasize to more parts of my life. Eventually, it became crippling. By late middle school, I thought that the world would be a better place without me. There’s no doubt in my mind, especially now, that I have always been blanketed in love, but the thoughts were inexplicably there. For so much time I struggled to share what was going on in my head. I have always been described as a bright and happy person, and, as I previously wrote, essentially nothing was ‘wrong’ with my life. Obviously nothing is perfect, but nothing happening to me would warrant that level of emotional distress.
I could not understand, particularly at such a young age, how my life could be objectively so good, and yet, I could be struggling so acutely at the same time.
I couldn’t bring myself to ask my parents for help until my sophomore year of high school. I got a therapist. After a few months though, we weren’t clicking, and I stopped going. I tried going to my school counselor for different stints, but that wasn’t right either. Life felt up and down for a long time. The lows were trying and the highs were good enough to convince me that there was nothing wrong with me in the first place. This cycle prevented me from getting help again until my senior year of high school. I finally broke down and started therapy again. This time, however, I clicked with my therapist and I began to truly get better.
Then, I started my first year of college and got set back yet again. Everything made me nervous: talking with my new friends, being in crowds, going to the gym, going out, being in my room, sitting in class, even talking to my best friends and family from home. Sleep wasn’t an escape anymore; my nights were plagued by nightmares, sweat and restlessness. At some points, I couldn’t get through my days without tears, panic attacks, and wishing I were dead. Despite how horrible I was feeling, I was functioning well: my grades were good, I had plans everyday, I was working out and eating right, going out on the weekends but not going too hard, and I was able to keep in excellent touch with my family and friends from home without leaving campus. Eventually though, I was so exhausted and in so much pain that I couldn’t imagine continuing. I knew that it wasn’t a problem with my school, my friends, my family or even my actions. I was doing everything right and went to therapy once a week. There was nothing I could pin my issues on, not even myself. At that point, I considered my options to be getting medicated, dropping out, or dying. Dramatic, I know, but that’s where I was.
Medication had always been my last resort. Whenever someone recommended starting it, I quickly shut them down. The side effects made me nervous, no one I knew was on it, and I thought that I wasn’t the type of person to need it. While now I know that this is far from the truth, I struggled with coming to terms with the fact that my brain was imbalanced. My brain was working against me to keep me in a hard place. It was going to drive me to the ground if I continued to reject the idea of medication.
After being medicated for six months and counting, life is beautiful again. Not only is it beautiful, but I can see and participate in it. I don’t associate my mental health problems with shame and guilt anymore. I can face real adversity with grit, and get through it far better than I could before. I can feel authentically happy, and although I– like everyone else– have bad days, they don’t define my life anymore. I am more myself than I have ever been because depression and anxiety doesn’t rule my days and my personality.
If you’re reading this, please know that your mental health problems, whatever their cause may be, are not your fault. There is hope, even when days don’t feel livable. However embarrassed you may be about your mental health struggles, they are worth talking about. Being vulnerable will heal you and open more doors than you can imagine.
Katie H., Boston College
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