Content warning: This article contains descriptions of self-harm, addiction and suicide.
My first day at Iowa State was nothing short of comical.
I started the day by waking up for my 7:45 a.m. lecture, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to start the year off strong. However, I was reminded that morning just how precarious life can be. As I skateboarded down the sidewalk on a steep decline, not even 1000 feet away from my dorm, my wheels hit a set of rumble strips at the intersection and my feet left the ground.
After soaring in the air for what felt like an eternity over Union Drive in front of the Knoll, I slammed into the ground, feeling my arms and legs scrape the asphalt violently. As I slid across the pavement, I looked up to see another student (who, in two years, would become my friend and roommate) standing on the sidewalk looking at me. Apparently, she had seen the whole thing but tried to play it off like she hadn’t. In embarrassment, I quickly dusted myself off and continued skating towards Hoover Hall.
Upon arrival, I realized my leg and arms were bleeding pretty badly. Nevertheless, I sat through that 7:45 a.m. lecture while holding a paper towel to my scrapes. Despite the agony I felt in my arms and knees, this was not the pain that I noticed first the moment I sat down. Rather, as I sat in the lecture hall, I felt a pain on the backs of my thighs that I had felt since the end of July. With the scars still fresh, sitting down was always met with pain.
You see, about a month before that, I was admitted to a behavioral health center for self-harm, after a series of mental breakdowns and years of struggling with anxiety coupled with depression.
After coming to terms with what I had done and showing my parents the aftermath, I admitted myself to an inpatient program for people struggling with mental illness and addiction to find support and build coping skills.
At 19 years old, I was the youngest person on the ward and terrified. My peers had come from all walks of life and were met with a wide range of circumstances that landed them in the same place as me. Slowly, I got to know everybody.
My roommate was an elderly Hispanic man with severe alcoholism and a temper (due to a stroke he had previously) that led him to threaten the lives of himself and others. Another patient I had come to know was a severe drug addict and alcoholic, who had been admitted after trying to drink himself to death. A mother of a boy with autism had admitted herself due to severe burnout as her son’s caretaker.
Moms, dads, brothers, sisters, sons and daughters all had admitted themselves or were involuntarily admitted because they, too, were struggling with a mental illness, addiction and/or suicide attempts.
During my four-day stint, I witnessed people at their most vulnerable moments. It felt as though we had stripped ourselves of the masks we had put up over the years to protect ourselves from the evils that lurked behind our eyes. In the ward, we had to shed those masks till all we had left were the emotions we felt — like Joy and Sadness from Inside Out. Then, we had to figure out how to manage them. Through group therapy, one-on-one sessions with psychiatrists and the completion of a “safety plan,” we learned how to cope with our intense feelings.
I think it’s important to say that I don’t share these details lightly. It took me four years to write about those four days, and there is so much more I could share. However, I find it more productive to talk about what has happened since.
For about two years after that experience, I continued to struggle with my anxiety and depression. I still had thoughts of ending my own life. I was concerned that I might not survive to see graduation. It was as though all the hope had been sucked out, and what was left was just a vacuum, void of optimism.
However, I mustered up some hope soon enough.
After years of trying to find the right therapist, I finally did. When I came to my first session, I was a mess. There had been a whirlwind of situations and circumstances that aren’t worth talking about in this way, that had led me to an eerily similar place that I was that summer before freshman year. Through months of sessions, however, I finally started to see the light I had been looking for.
My therapist, a quote-enthusiast, would consistently quote Viktor Frankl to me in our sessions to help me find my way. Finally, he told me to read Frankl’s book, “Man’s Search for Meaning.” Published in 1946, this book is a two-parter: the first is a chronicle of Frankl’s experience as a prisoner in a German concentration camp and how he found meaning in a void; the second is a description of his psychotherapeutic method, known as logotherapy.
Logotherapy, according to the Viktor Frankl Institute of America, is “healing through meaning,” and it promotes freedom of choice and personal responsibility.
In his book, Frankl writes, “Everything can be taken from a man, but one thing: the last of the human freedoms – to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.”
Upon reading Frankl’s book and relating it to my own struggle to find meaning, I decided to change my attitude and find my own way. I decided to be part of something bigger than myself. That’s when I decided to join the Iowa State Daily as a reporter.
In the last two years, I have written over 70 articles that have explored a wide range of topics, including protests, crime, microaggressions, city council meetings, club events and more. In each article, I have found meaning. When I see the story has been published, I feel that I have made an impact. I’ve even had the opportunity to see the impact my articles have had on others firsthand; for example, after writing an article about students of color who had experienced microaggressions on campus, I was informed by a faculty member that I had inspired them to donate to our paper and fulfill our fundraising goal.
These moments, and others, have propelled me to keep on keeping on. I have found meaning in my work, and I believe that anyone can find meaning in their lives and the things they love to do.
Nearly four years after my four-day stint, with a month left till graduation, I wish I could talk to that scared, struggling kid. I wish I could give him a hug and tell him it will all be okay. I’m proud of him, and I hope he’s proud of me too. He’s still with me, and will continue to be for the rest of my life.
I live with anxiety and depression every single day. It will never go away, and that’s okay with me. Despite the struggles, I have found meaning in my life that will last an eternity. I encourage you to find your meaning and run with it till the end of time.
If you or someone you know is struggling, I encourage you to reach out to the following number:
National Suicide and Crisis Hotline: 988
This article is a senior column, which allows graduating seniors at the Daily to write about a lesson, advice or something else worth sharing as they prepare to start the rest of their lives.
