When I was younger, I felt like a marionette; strings being pulled in every direction. Rather than being myself, I imitated what I liked in others. Like any younger brother, I imitated my older brother, Adam. He was into sports, and so was I. He got a haircut, and I got the same haircut. He wore certain clothes, and I followed suit. Despite our similar appearance and interests, I steered clear of the trouble he got into; my mind was always different.
Coincidentally or not, I became very irritable, anxious, and more fatigued than I had before once Adam left for college. While the teenage years are used for self-discovery, I was becoming increasingly frustrated because my daily activities were being interfered with. I knew Adam wasn't there to imitate, and I quickly had to find myself. I felt extremely rushed, which only multiplied my problems.
The following year of self-discovery added to my anxiety and worry: not sleeping well, low self-esteem, and feeling unimportant. I was excited to embark on my freshman year at Grand Valley, and hoped the forthcoming changes would remedy my symptoms. Despite my optimistic approach, nothing could have prepared me for my freshman year at GVSU.
I lived with 3 other roommates in what was a study hall a few months before; everything was thrown together. This seemed especially fitting, a sign for the personal struggles I was encountering. I tried being friendly with them, but the efforts weren’t reciprocated. I didn’t feel welcome. Lucky for me (I thought), there were plenty of others I knew from high school. Unlucky for me, they weren’t in my classes. I wasn’t a socialite by any means, so making new friends didn’t come easy. Unconsciously, I decided I didn’t need friends and could skip class if I desired. I figured if people didn’t care about me, then I didn’t have to care about them. For the first time in my life, sports were an afterthought. I lost interest in everything. I was failing classes for the first time. I was surrounded by others, but none of them seemed to care about what was tearing me apart inside: isolation.
I was lost and incomplete.
Suicide seemed logical. Suicide was an easy way out of all the torment and pain. Would anyone even notice if I was gone, forever? A slit of the wrists here and there, and here and there. Drowning myself in a tub, gasping for breath only when I realized I might be hurting someone else. Stabbing myself with a pin again and again, over and over. Looking at a gun, wondering if that’s the final scene. Staring at a bridge on a highway, contemplating taking the plunge.
No! My story didn’t end here. If I stayed weak, it would have. If I refused to acknowledge my mental health, it would have.
My parents, especially my mother, noticed changes. My mother knew something wasn’t right as I talked to her on the phone every day. I withheld as much information as I could, but when suicide was mentioned, they sought help because I was too stubborn to do so. My initial appointment began with my parents and I sitting with the doctor. My answers were short and I found it humorous. Eventually, it was just me and the doctor. If I gave an answer, they were shorter. Otherwise, I stared at the wall; I owed nothing to this stranger.
My troubles existed, but they weren’t accepted. Others advised me to seek help, yet I refused. I was the one who had to learn to spread my wings and fly.
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