My mom tells me I’ve always been a worrier. Even as a kid, one of my favorite phrases was, “Are you okay?” I’d ask babysitters, waiters, strangers on the street. People with Resting Bitch Face used to scare me more than the normal kid fears, like clowns or the dark. Part of me was convinced that everyone knew something bad was coming, and nobody would tell me.
From the beginning, there were impressions of near-catastrophes, almost-tragedies, just sitting right beyond the line of the horizon. The force of them shook the earth beneath my child-feet, the tremors too small for anyone else to notice.
As I got older, the tremors got stronger. Even the smallest issues would set me spiraling into a panic. In high school, a missed homework assignment meant total failure – I would not get into college, I would not get a job, I would eventually starve on the street. Every social interaction seemed like an invitation for criticism and suddenly talking to other people never seemed fun anymore. The attacks felt like you were in a car spinning out of control. The times in between felt like that moment when you’re leaning back in your chair, realizing you’re just about to fall. For six years, it felt like I was constantly ready to jump out of my skin.
When I got to college, I thought things might be easier. All the tangible stressors in my life were gone – the people in high school that scared me, the college applications, the grades that mattered so much – everything seemed taken care of under the light of the golden dome. For the first few weeks, I was incredibly relaxed. There was something comforting knowing that I was part of a tradition, and a strong community like the Fighting Irish.
But as the days went on, my anxiety got worse than ever. Class became nearly impossible. There were some days that I couldn’t bring myself to walk into classrooms, even when I got as far as the door. I’d sit in the bathroom of Debart and cry, because I was too scared to skip class, and too scared to attend class. I was convinced that no matter what I did, something horrible would ruin my life in one full swoop.
Social situations were just as bad, if not worse – in large groups of people it always felt like I was doing something fatally wrong. Usually, I let my friends do most of the talking, and if anyone did pay me too much attention – especially guys – my heart would start racing and I would have to leave the room. Dorm parties, tailgating, anything that required me to smile in a crowd caused something near to paralyzing fear. Luckily, I had made some very close friends in my section – without them I wouldn’t have been able to leave the room.
As things got worse, I started self-medicating – by my sophomore year, I’d drink until I passed out at least once a weekend. For the first few drinks it seemed to calm my nerves, but I soon learned that one too many would leave me with uncontrollable panic attacks that I could not be talked down from. A couple of times, I’d panic so much that I would dissolve into screaming, hysterical sobbing that nobody could talk me out of until I fell asleep or went unconscious. People would tell me I was being irrational, and I knew I was, but every time I panicked it felt like I’d completely lost control of my body.
I lost some friends because of this. I scared a lot of friends because of this.
My roommates begged and in some instances, demanded, that I get help but I was scared of disappointing my family or being forced into medication. On some level, my feelings were familiar and normal – getting rid of them seemed impossible.
The anxiety made life almost impossible. I’d become incredibly depressed in high school, and it only got worse at Notre Dame. I started having very detailed thoughts of suicide, even going so far as planning to sneak onto Duck Island and overdose one particularly dark day in the fall. I only agreed to go to counseling after an incident where, after some particularly competitive binge drinking, I woke up from a blackout on the floor of my dorm room with long, shallow cuts down the inside of my arms from my wrists to my elbows. The scissors were lying on the ground a few inches from my outstretched hand, and when I realized what I’d been trying to do, I gave in to my friends’ advice.
For two years, I went to counseling at St. Liam’s. My psychologist was a nice, middle-aged woman who never judged me for the antics I got into on the weekends (because, despite everything, I could not be convinced to stop drinking). She advised me to try out an antidepressant medication that kept me stable long enough to work through some of the irrational thinking that set off my panic attacks. Now, even though I still worry, I haven’t had an episode in almost a year.
My story isn’t a tragic one but a lot turn out to be. Sometimes I’m scared of what I could have done to myself if I’d let things go any longer. I want anyone else at Notre Dame to know that there’s no shame in recognizing you have a problem. You need to know that even if your feelings are valid, they’re not normal. You can feel better than this.
Interested in writing a “Her Story”? Please contact Rebecca Rogalski or Katrina Linden at notre-dame@hercampus.com
The HCND application is now open! For more information contact Rebecca Rogalski at rebeccarogalski@hercampus.com or Katrina Linden at katrinalinden@hercampus.com
Follow HCND on Twitter, like us on Facebook, Pin with us, and show our Instagram some love!