Goodbyes are hard.
CONTENT WARNING: contains themes of anxiety, depression, and suicide that may be triggering to some readers.
Saying goodbye is the hardest thing. This past week I had to say goodbye to a part of my life that I won’t ever get to experience again. Oregon, George Fox, Undergrad.
I moved home to southern California, far away from Fox, far away from my life there. In the beginning I was embarrassed, ashamed, and I didn’t tell anyone. If people asked me what I was doing home I’d lie. I’d say my school went online or that it was due to financial issues. What was I supposed to say? I had a mental breakdown and had to move back in with my family? Not only does it make the person asking uncomfortable, it makes me uncomfortable. The idea that people will perceive me and have their own personal thoughts about my situation makes my skin crawl. I’ve always been open about my mental health struggles and my mental illness in the past. Anxiety and depression seemed to be as common as a cold on college campuses, so it was easy to share when your peers were also dealing with similar things. But this was different. This was… bad. So away I went.
Letting go was the hardest part. Letting go of the idea of a normal senior year. Of graduating on time. Of living independently. But once I was home, it was like a weight was lifted off of me (to be fair I was heavily medicated but still). The idea that I wasn’t alone and had my parents checking in on me was enough to take the edge off. After a while, the memory of the breakdown has faded. I forget about the panic attacks, the throwing up constantly, the malnutrition, the insomnia, the lack of motivation. The feeling of not being able to turn off my brain, wanting to scream and cry and often doing both. The feeling of being completely alone even though there were people around me. The feeling of pure hate towards my physical body and mental state. The feeling of wanting to die. I’ll never actually fully forget it, but the memory becomes more dull. The feelings become less immediate and less painful.
Whenever I’m hard on myself for moving home, think I am weak, or disappointed in myself that I couldn’t handle life and school like everyone else seemed to be, I remind myself of something my therapist told me. She told me she was proud of me. She said that she saw and still sees me as strong. At first I scoffed at it. Like yeah, sure. you’re supposed to say those kind of things, you’re my therapist. But then, I thought about it. I am strong. I put my mental health first. I made some very hard decisions. I am not weak. I will get better. If I stayed in that situation, I could be dead. So what if I have to take a couple summer classes instead? At least I am safe. The future can literally be anything, it is unknown, unpredictable. Who knows what it holds for me. All I know I made the right decision for myself in this moment. The rest is out of my control.
For now, I will do my classes remotely. Finish my degree most likely over the summer and move on with my life. I will never forget my time at George Fox, and even though my senior year wasn’t what I dreamed of, I’m making the most of it. I am learning to thrive instead of just survive, and that’s what matters.
