Trigger warning: This article contains explicit mentions of self-harm and eating disorders.
Last fall, at the end of the first week of classes, my department held an orientation of sorts — a panel of professors to answer all of the questions generated by our graduate student angst. Each professor was assigned an area to talk about, ranging from purely academic to balance to life outside academia. The professor who addressed this last area strongly encouraged everyone to have a hobby outside of academia — even, he said, self-harm.
We all laughed.
By April, I was carving into my skin with an X-Acto blade during office hours with the door wide open. This was not a result of the professor’s remark, though it had made me uneasy at the time. The fact is I’ve been struggling with self-harm since junior year of undergrad. Well, actually since the age of 11, as excoriation disorder (formerly called dermatillomania) is a lesser-known form of self-harm. I didn’t even know there was a name for it until my first semester of undergrad. I had always known I had a problem, but to discover I had a problem was disquieting.
On one hand, there are others like me. On the other hand, the issue is serious enough to have its own name and place within a long list of psychiatric disorders. I should have started counseling right then, but I didn’t.
I eventually started counseling at the end of my junior year, but that was due to a temporary struggle with anorexic and bulimic eating disorders. For the record, I have neither of these conditions. Both were byproducts of over-correcting my compulsive eating habits at a time I was obsessing about my weight. This counseling continued through my senior year and provided me with strategies to deal with my impulses to hurt myself.
For instance, the first time I cut myself, I told my counselor who suggested I asked someone whom I trusted to keep my knives for me. So I asked my roommate. I repeated this in April, asking one of my friends to hold on to my X-Acto blade. If you aren't aware, this takes a lot of courage and discipline for anyone who self-harms to do.
Coming back to academia, I fully planned on starting counseling again. I hesitated. Then, on Dec. 2, I received a doctor’s referral at Goddard to see the psychiatrist. In mid-January, I was called to set up an appointment — for the end of February. By this point, my excoriation episodes were worsening: I was picking myself apart for two hours every night. I considered writing it into my schedule just because of how much time it took up.
What truly unsettled me, however, is that after beginning counseling, it seemed that almost everyone I knew in higher academia struggled with some sort of mental illness, to the point that it was accepted as natural. It shouldn’t be.
Mental illness is not a punch line. It’s not a problem confined to graduate students, even though it appears more concentrated. Sometimes students come to college knowing they struggle with a mental illness. Some learn by accident, others learn the hard way. Seeking help is not something to be ashamed of — I for one wish I had done it sooner rather than later. Yet, I am afraid at the other end of the spectrum, opposite of ignoring or shaming mental illness, is the assumption that it is to be expected, especially the further an individual goes with his or her studies.
Mental illness is something that can and should be treated, just like a physical illness. Yet it isn’t natural, it’s not just part of the package. The university, as an institution and a community, should come together not only to heal, but to prevent. From undergraduates adjusting to academia to graduate students living below the poverty level, there are material, tangible burdens that, if they don’t trigger mental illness, can certainly aggravate them.
We can do better. We can be better.
Editor's note: As more students share stories about their struggles with mental health, the better we can combat the stigma around it. If you have a story you would like to share, contact us at dailyopinion@ou.edu.
