One of these things does not belong

LDOC is supposed to be the best day of the year. You’re supposed to sleep in. You’re supposed to start off the day with a mimosa. You’re not supposed to get a call at 10am from your mother, who’s sobbing and wants to see if you’re ok. You’re supposed to go to your classes and not pay attention and get super pumped for the concert that night. You’re not supposed to check your email and see that you are being asked to leave campus. You’re supposed to have an amazing night, one last party before holing up in Perkins before reading period. You’re not supposed to discover that someone with whom you trusted with one of your biggest secrets has decided that you are a danger to yourself and others, and are no longer fit to stay on Duke’s campus.

I am a human. I am a student. I am a friend, a lover, a sibling. I am passionate. I am driven. I am dangerous. One of these things does not belong.

This is the second anonymous article I’m writing for The Chronicle. The first —“Welcome to my Closet”—was a brief summary of my struggle with anxiety. One of the bigger conflicts I had when writing it was whether to remain anonymous. On the one hand, I thought putting my name to the article would allow people to approach me and perhaps share their stories. On the other, that would automatically cast me as the “crazy girl” to anyone who hasn’t met me yet, including potential friends, bosses and partners. In the end, self-preservation took over, and the article went out anonymous. Only a few knew the name behind the words, one of them being a close friend. She proofread the article for me, and gave me some great feedback along with words of support and encouragement. The funny thing about words is, they can be empty. Not two weeks later were those same words twisted into statements of fear and rejection. “You are a danger to yourself and others.” “Please do not contact me again.” “I can’t be around you.” “You are the one that does not belong.”

“You’re in remission! You can never cure depression. You’re so strong. You’ll have this burden for the rest of your life.” Which of these things does not belong?

I gave up. I put on a brave face, passed my finals, drank my way through beach week and then simply gave up. At home, I let myself believe that those words were true. I let myself sink into them and cry about how I was truly a threat to the people I loved. I started stealing and lying and rebelling because what was the point? It took me four months before I even realized I could be wrong, and opened up the topic with my therapist. It took me half a year to consider the possibility that it is not a mental illness, but a stigma that was causing me so much harm. It took me until today, almost a year after the whole thing happened, to realize that I can do something about it. When I wrote “Welcome to my Closet,” I hid my name because of fear. Now I hide it because of pride. I am ashamed of how much I let these words affect me. “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” Wrong. Words will lift you and twist you and throw you so hard that your very being breaks and you are forced to question who defines you—you, your friends or your mental illness?

Love. Support. Compassion. Understanding. Caring. Stigma. One of these things does not belong.

The author of this column has chosen to remain anonymous. Please send an email to chronicleletters@duke.edu if you would like to contact the author.