When I was 20 I saw a therapist for the first time.
I had spent the last 6 years recommending therapy to every friend who’s problems looked like they were encroaching a DSM IV diagnoses, sitting through psych classes, and practicing counseling techniques. I believed in mental health treatments like marathoners believe in stretching: they know it’s necessary, but they don’t always take the time to do it themselves. But there I was, finally filling out a pre-counseling questionnaire at the student counseling center at Ohio State, terrified that my problems weren’t real enough to see a therapist, or that I would hate them, or I would discover something in there that would upend my life, or that I was too late. There was also that very small nerd part of me that wanted to analyze therapy as another educational experience. But mostly, I just wanted to be okay.
I was in love. And I was leaving the country. For 6 months I had been trying to come to terms with both of those facts individually and collectively. I didn’t know what it meant to live more than 10 minutes away from the person I loved, and when I had to spend the summer just 90 minutes away, I am not proud to admit, I could not handle it. I also didn’t know how to live more than a three hour drive from home, and I was about to be 21 hours worth of flights away. After too many nights on the floor crying and too many rash, irrational, and potentially harmful choices, I knew it was time to get help. I knew enough to know that those were panic attacks and this was anxiety.
“I’m in love, and I’m leaving the country, and I just want to get through this in one piece.”
Those were essentially my first words the first time I saw a therapist. And it helped. Although I do not remember more than a collective 30 seconds in that office, I know it helped. Because it made me start to be proactive about my mental health. I started to pay attention to it and it’s patterns. I started to think about how my past was impacting my present and how my thoughts were sabotaging my future. I created a scale for my anxiety that to this day helps me understand if I’ll be okay with calming music or if I need to go to a two hour yoga class. I didn’t have very many sessions, but I was given tools to help. And then I was on my way.
I left. I moved to the other side of the world. I thrived. My partner and I struggled. We amicably parted ways, both a little heart broken. But along with the tools I’d gained in therapy, I had the newfound confidence in achieving two things I had believed to be impossible: living an ocean away, and having my heart broken while I was an ocean away. It’s amazing the high you feel when you accomplish what you never thought possible. I got through it in once piece.
When I was 22 I saw a therapist for the second time.
I was in love. And I was leaving the country. I was much more prepared for both this time. But I was slipping back into old habits of fear that were downward spiraling me to panic attacks and irrational anxiety. And my stakes were much higher. I wasn’t just leaving for a semester. I was going for two years to a country completely different from my own, and I would be living alone. At that point I also had no idea where I was going. I assumed I would have virtually no way to contact home save for letters and maybe monthly trips to get internet. I assumed I wouldn’t be coming home at all, and I assumed no one would visit me.
“I’m leaving the country and I need to be able to manage my anxiety while I’m there. Oh, and I’m in love.”
These sessions helped tremendously. I was able to realize not only what works for me, but how my choices about helping myself were impacting me days later. I was able to self guide my process and I am confident I did the work I needed to do to prepare for this journey. And in the process, my relationship ended. Two days later I interviewed for PC. I was ready.
So now I am 8 months into this insane journey and I have 19 months until the finish line. The process is ups and downs and steps backwards and forwards, all in one day. Sometimes I laugh just watching the goats run around after it rains, and sometimes I cry just from a song playing on shuffle. I have already had incredible personal break throughs and discoveries here, and I know more are coming. But there is one thing I was honestly not prepared for: homesickness.
I knew I would be sad that I would miss out on my friends lives and on big events like family weddings and birthdays and vacations. I knew I would have a hard time forgiving myself for missing things like recitals and choir concerts and first words and first steps. I knew I wouldn’t be able to be there for heartbreaks and new job celebrations and galentines day. But what I did not expect is how much my heart would ache for the little moments.
I have never been homesick before. Not for more than a couple of days at a time at a very manageable level. At which point I could always call Dad and have him come pick me up for the weekend. But this. I miss stupid things like watching trash TV with my parents. I miss the way my mom turns off all the lights in the house on her way to bed, and the way my dad’s face lights up when he’s telling a story. I miss how the paper is always on the table in the morning and how my mom can’t help herself but stay up reading until I get home at night. I miss the last 15 minutes of my drive home from campus when my whole being starts to feel the comfort of home. I miss the warm silence between my niece and I when I get to steal a hug, and the way 90% of my brother and I’s conversations happen standing around the kitchen counter past 10pm. I miss my sister’s infectious laugh and my nephew’s daily discoveries. I miss the way every family gathering has to start and end with hugging every guest as they enter and exit. I miss long debates about what to do with the kids table now that all the kids are adults. I miss just being, but being surrounded by people who love me so much we don’t have to say a word.
I did not anticipate this. I did not anticipate the physical feelings of pain that would come with the mental. And now I am trying to navigate pain I did not expect and the anxiety that is holding it’s hand. I’m taking it day by day, and hoping that my parents visiting in a few months will give me a new boost. But I did not anticipate this, and so now I am figuring out what will work. It’s going to take time, but I have nothing if not time. Eventually, this too will be a lesson learned and a breakthrough earned.
So why am I telling you all of this? Because mental health is important. And it is stigmatized. And it is kept quietly in the dark all too often. Sure, I could've just written a piece about homesickness, but that wouldn't get at the way my body physically and mentally reacts the being far from the people I love the most. Or the way that the homesickness carries along with it the anxiety that I have spent my adult life waging a war against.
I had many symptoms, causes, solutions, treatments, and theories that were both unique to me and universal to people with anxiety. I have watched more loved ones than I care to count go through their own personal journeys with mental health, and one of the most dangerous thoughts I’ve seen happen time and time again is that they are the only one and they are alone. In our own ways, at different intensities, everyone is going through something, and I think we need to have more conversations about it. I think we need to share our stories with each other when we can, and I want others to know that they are not alone. I will most likely struggle with anxiety in different ways at different intensities for the rest of my life. And I want to talk about it. People ask what my life is like here. This is what it’s like. Every few months there is another internal struggle, the anxiety kicks back up again, and I go to war with myself.
But let me tell you. Writing this helped. So thank you for listening.
