Megan K.

Photography by Sarah Tyner

When I was in fifth grade, my mom called me into her room to talk. I knew the conversation topic couldn’t be good – she looked afraid of hurting me, and I could tell that she wanted to choose her words carefully.

She told me that after talking to my dad, they had agreed to take me to a therapist for anxiety. And their diagnosis was correct – I was soon diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, strings of words I didn’t understand and pushed away. My first therapist was a skinny man who sat in a black chair and told me to appreciate the taste of M&Ms individually rather than eating them all at once. I liked eating them all at once though and thought that he needed to be more direct in his messaging to a ten-year-old. This man asked me to play with legos and I didn’t want to – I could feel him analyzing me, trying to make sense of me. I didn’t want to be understood.

The anxiety got worse that same year, but I begged my parents to not go back to therapy. I continued to push it away because I felt like something was wrong with me if I needed help. And one night, my anxiety got really bad. My uncle had come into town and bought my sister and me candy from our favorite candy store near his house. It was always a special treat to enjoy crunchy chocolates and sour candies that made my eyes twitch, and he told me stupid but fun riddles like “Railroad crossing, watch out for cars. Can you spell that without any Rs?” And you were supposed to just say the word “that.” I loved him. The day he came into town was a Friday night and I remember being excited because I would get to spend the evening with him. I wanted to do a little bit of work beforehand, so I decided to create social studies flashcards for an upcoming quiz. My right hand shook as I tried to carefully construct the letters on each line of the flash card – if one morsel of pencil crossed a dotted line, I would tear the flash card into shreds and start again. I finally went to bed around 4 AM that morning because I was exhausted from crying and wondering what was wrong with me. I woke up the next morning and my uncle had left to go back home.

My parents took me to more therapists, and I pushed more away. I always felt like they were judging me and I didn’t understand how I was supposed to tell old strangers my inner thoughts and feelings. One therapist liked to slurp her hot tea carefully and peek over the rim of her mug at me with her glasses. I liked to look out the window at the clouds and pretend I wasn’t there. Her room was warm and filled with posters that I knew were supposed to make me feel good, but the very fact that they were supposed to made them not.

Middle school did not help my anxiety, and I pushed my friends and family away because I didn’t understand why I felt stressed all of the time. I bit my nails, pulled at my hair, and felt annoyed when adults spoke to me. I wrote a lot in a journal and read books which helped me to vicariously live a different life.

High school came, and the anxiety persisted. I did well in academics, participated in the swim team, had a great group of friends – I was very high-functioning and had been all my life, but still struggled. A depressive episode hit in eleventh grade and a new diagnosis came: Major Depressive Episode with Panic Attacks. I remember tears hardening my papers when I tried to study BC Calculus and Calculus-Based Physics – I enjoyed the subjects but they were hard, and when I didn’t understand something immediately I felt dumb. I remember my friend combing her fingers through my hair while I layed in her lap, my hands numb and closed around themselves. There was never enough oxygen for me to feel okay. I was taken to the Emergency Room at the hospital where my dad worked once, and never felt so embarrassed. I ducked my head when seeing teachers or friends because I didn’t want them to know how I felt.

If you’re reading this, I want you to know what helped me the most throughout this journey was genuinely knowing I wasn’t alone. I know that this sounds cliche and I really wish I had a better way to word this, but there isn’t one for me. Someone close to me began to seek treatment for depression when I was in high school, and I was amazed that someone I admired so much also struggled. I felt angry at myself for not seeking help sooner, but it was just never something that was talked about. My parents talked to me, but I really never knew that some of my peers were going through similar struggles until I learned more about what anxiety was and became interested in psychology.

I have a wonderful therapist and psychiatrist now who have both helped me in so many ways, and I’m incredibly grateful for them. I talk with my friends and even with strangers about going to therapy and feel very grateful that I get to go, as well as proud of myself for prioritizing my well-being. I am a psychology major and want to become a therapist myself one day to help other people with their journey. I have amazing friends back home and on campus who support me every day, a kind and caring boyfriend who understands me, and a very accepting family who I’m close with. I am doing really well and have been ever since I’ve gotten to college. Of course there are ups and downs, I still get anxious and mental health disorders aren’t something that go away. You learn to manage and to cope with them, you talk about them, and you grow. Looking back at my journey and how far I’ve come, I'm very proud of the person I am today and where I am. And although anxiety sucks, without the experiences I went through I wouldn’t be so passionate about mental health awareness. Whatever you’re going through, have gone through, or will go through, people will be there to support you in your journey of growth; just make sure to reach out for help when you need it. So many people will be there to support you.

Megan K. (she/her), Georgia Tech

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