On the Chapel steps

I’d been having one of those days, one of those weeks and one of those semesters. I had cloistered myself in the library as penance for a series of unprecedentedly horrible exam grades but nonetheless managed to teach myself a grand total of one concept for my impending statistics midterm. Finally realizing that another hour in Perkins would do nothing more than make me slide further down my own personal spiral of anxiety and self-loathing, I finally decided to call it a night and get some sleep—after I checked Facebook. My newsfeed was full of people at parties I had ditched in order to focus on schoolwork, so I scrolled quickly through it before suddenly stumbling upon something one of my freshman dorm RAs had reposted.

“This campus, like many similar institutions, is home to a mental health crisis—with which I and many of you are personally familiar.

“Tonight from 10PM-12AM I will be sitting on the steps of the chapel, and invite those of you who are hurting, helping those who suffer or want to have a part in fighting this battle to come join me. We can talk, we can sit in silence—you can make your presence known, or you can watch from afar, but even if I am the only one who shows up, know that if you're reading this, you are not alone.

“If this means anything to you, please stop by, however briefly, and please share this message yourself.”

“Take care of yourselves and each other, and remember that seeking help is not a sign of weakness—it is the first step to becoming stronger."

Unsure if my present state truly constituted a mental health crisis—I’ve taken advantage of Duke Counseling and Psychological Services a few times but never gotten any sort of formal diagnosis—I nonetheless resolved to see what there was to see. So, 20 minutes later, I made the cold, dark slog from Perkins to the Chapel. The snow crunched under my feet, and I adjusted my hat to better shield myself from the wind. The lights normally illuminating the building façade were off, making the gathering of five or so people at its foot appear like a cult meeting. Refusing to let the dramatic analogies whizzing around in my head discourage me, I approached the group and immediately recognized my former RA. I sat down a step from her and just focused on my breathing for a moment—I wasn’t about to just bare my soul in front of a group of strangers. But then I did.

Suddenly I was revealing some of my most personal concerns to those sitting around me. I was oh-so-ready to leave Duke but harbored guilt for feeling that way. I felt indifferent about economics, the subject in which I had so enthusiastically decided to major just a year ago. More than anything, though, I was tired of being so hard on myself, so unwilling to forgive my mistakes and inadequacies. It felt like I was on some late-night talk show—"Tom Vosburgh Tells All" would make for a great episode title—but it was cathartic nonetheless.

As each halting confession left my mouth and disappeared into the frigid air I truly began to realize my problems were not unique to me—my voice could very well have been that of any of my peers. I could not possibly be the only one struggling with statistics, nor could everyone else be Buddhist monks perfectly at peace with their imperfections. “You’re not alone in this,” my RA told me. “Everyone feels that way sometimes, but everyone deals with it differently.”