wellness-club

[wellness-club]

To Whoever Is Reading This

Shit’s tough. I’m not gonna lie, life sucks sometimes. It all comes in ebbs and flows but for me, for the last few months, it seems like it just won’t pull up. A quote that really sums up how I’ve been feeling lately is one that I found on this page a while ago and I never forgot about it: “Many people have come up to me asking how I’ve been. It seems the only thing I have been able to answer lately without much required explanation is “I’m ok.” Replying with something such as “I’m good” doesn’t even seem apart of my vocabulary anymore. Everytime I catch it slipping out of my mouth I know it’s nothing but a lie. I am the farthest from “good” that I’ve ever been, and it is absolutely terrifying.” - anonymous A few days ago I was in the shower - for some reason, a place where I tend to do a lot of thinking - and I remembered my middle school health class where we talked about mental health. I remembered sitting on the couch in that room listening to the teacher talk and not paying attention. I didn’t get much out of that class but there are a few things that did find a way to stick in my head. 1.) Depression cannot be seen on the outside. Depression can affect anyone. You may think of yourself or others as a “happy person” but that does not mean that depression will not be a part of your life. I sat on that couch and thought exactly that thought. “I’m a happy kid. I’m not going to be depressed.” 2.) If you or a friend seems to be struggling with any mental health issues, do not keep it to yourself. Don’t be afraid to tell someone about it so that they can help. I sat on that couch and thought to myself “of course I wouldn’t keep something like that to myself. Why would I ever do that?” I’m not writing this hoping that people will figure out who I am and try to come find me and talk to me and feel sorry for me. I don’t want pity, I want to help because in the winter of 2017 when I first started to become depressed, I would lay awake at night and read through every single post on this page and I know I’m not the only one who did that. I’m hoping that someone will read this and be motivated to do something about what they’re feeling. To whoever is reading this, ​ Don’t do what I did. If you feel like shit then tell someone. Tell anyone. Tell everyone. Just don’t keep it to yourself. I’ve kept it to myself for about 7 months now and it’s eating me alive. There is one person in this world who really knows what I’ve been going through this whole time and talking to that one person about what I was feeling used to be the scariest thing ever. Maybe it was so scary because I’m shy and not good at opening up but choosing to talk to that one person might be the best thing I’ve ever done. That one person saved me. That one person motivates me to get out of bed each day. That one person cares about me. The point is, even if you’re scared, just know that you can do it. You can have that conversation. It might be terrifying but it might also just save your life. The one thing I’ll leave you with is that you need to be your biggest fan in this world. I’ve learned that there are so many people that will be negative and tell you that you can’t do things or that you’re not good at things, but you can’t let yourself be one of those people. Believe in yourself and keep fighting one day at a time. -Anon

[wellness-club]

Fake Friend

I walk into the Koch cafe, ready for my daily order, they ask me if I want the usual and I say yes and continue down the line. I see him looking. I look back and smile , hey I say, he responds , sup, he smiles at me, his trademark smirk. I try to continue the conversation as he leaves the line but his friend interrupts me, giving him a disapproving look. his smirk instantly fades and turns into his douchebag face, that face that intimidates you but maddens you at the same time, the face of a coward. He doesn't even look back as he walks away laughing with his friend, heading to class. the same day I see him at the Greer, he glances at me and tries to smile but his friend quickly starts a conversation , refusing to acknowledge me. I see him for who he is though. He's sensitive and kind and funny and seems to genuinely care about me , but he would never acknowledge his friendship with me publicly. It's because they're there. When they aren't he talks to me differently. He talks to me like we're close. Like I'm his great friend. but it's not cool to be friends with me according to his jocky tall douchebag of a best friend. Because they only talk to hot popular girls. I'm nothing compared to them. I can't do it anymore.  I can't keep explaining to my friends that I actually know him that he joked around with me everyday on the bus and sat with me at games and poked fun at me. I'm done trying so hard to be his friend, until he steps up and recognizes that his actions hurt me.

-Anon

[wellness-club]

Kaleidoscope

My phone vibrates. I look over and see my friend calling me. My heart drops. Every time her name comes up it feels as though someone is pulling on my heart. As I pick up the phone my first question is, 

“Are you okay?” 

She answers my question with soft, muffled sobs on the other side. My throat clenches as a hot feeling behind my eyes forces a tear. I am so sorry. Through heavy breaths, she tells me about her day. Black and blue bruises form on her upper back from a strike, her arm aches from a blade, and her mind is blurry. I close my eyes and picture her on the third floor of the history building as the breeze from the open window brushes her soft, blond hair. Her nervous hands shake with fear as she fights to hold her body up, and tries not to give in. As the stars reflect in her blue eyes, she tells me about how they reminded her of us, and how we would watch the stars every night in the summer. I can picture her while she breaks down and shuts the window, shutting out her fear, her life, and everything around her. My stomach wrenches. The unbearable pain breaks me down, and I tell her how much I love her, and that I understand. As time goes on, the feeling doesn’t vanish for me, but her tears are quieter and her mind is clearer. I look at my phone. 2:00 in the morning, but she’s okay. 

“I love you, goodnight.” 

The phone clicks and she’s gone. Sitting at my desk, I feel numb as a dark cloud hangs over my head ready to rain on me at any moment. She’s okay, she’s okay. Climbing into bed, I close my swollen eyes. My body tingles as I grow tired. My mind drifts back to when I was a kid, when bad things were only in dreams, giving me an excuse to sleep in the safety of my parents’ bed; when rainy days were days for playing. I drift off, and warmth slowly begins to return to my cold, shaking body. 

I awake to soft raindrops dancing on the roof. As the pitter-patter grows, joy flows through my 6-year-old self. Adrenaline rushes through my body as I slip out of my blue, polka dotted bedding and rush to get my duck-yellow rain jacket hanging in the closet. After pulling on the matching boots, I sprint into my younger sister’s room to find her already one step ahead of me, the sound of my footsteps echoing through the brightly lit hallway. Her soft voice resonates from the kitchen. I jump down the stairs, grasping the railing to avoid tripping over my clunky boots. My mom buttons up my sister’s matching raincoat and helps her slip on her boots, then sends us outside with a hug. Her warmth envelopes me with happiness. We step out into the driveway, and I can see that the rain has already begun to form puddles, holding the reflection of the grey sky. As we throw ourselves into them, the water feels refreshing as it splashes onto my legs, washing me with pure joy. Although grey surrounds me, I see in technicolor. Red and orange dance with each drop of rain. Light blue bounces off of my sisters smile. Yellow flashes in front of me as my sister laughs and jumps. The grass glistens green, and the minute raindrops it holds shimmer like small diamonds. My world is a kaleidoscope. 

My alarm wakes me up with a jolt. The rain is gone, but the dark cloud still hangs above me, the bright colors replaced with the grey monotone of the world around me. 

I’m color blind. 

I keep my head high and go through the motions. Every day is the same. Looking around I see my friends laughing and smiling like they always do, but their smiles no longer radiate bright blue. My dad calls it the black dog. The black dog visits me often. Most of the time she lays on my bed at night or follows me around to class. No one else sees her, but I’ve learned to accept her unshakeable presence as something that I have to deal with on my own. 

As the sky grows darker and the air becomes crisper, her leash seems to tighten around my wrist, lightly rubbing a mark into my skin. Yet still, I plaster a smile onto my face. I’m available to those who need me. I’m okay, I’m okay. I reach over for my phone on my bedside table and text my friend to see how she is. She’s okay. A feeling of relief washes over me but is soon replaced with an anxious feeling from an unidentifiable source. Breathe. I feel my black dog tugging at her leash, begging for attention. It takes every bit of strength left in my body to drag myself out of bed. My eyelids feel as though they have weights on them, making it impossible to keep them open. In an attempt to wake up, I go to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. For a second I am splashing in the puddles again with my sister and dancing in a kaleidoscope of colors. I smile. I open my eyes and look in the mirror only to see that the bags under my eyes have become darker and my olive skin has grown paler. Taking a deep breath, I slowly make my way back to my room to get changed. I apply a light tone of concealer under my eyes, masking the dark blue and grey color that seems to kiss me every morning and wrap a few bracelets around my wrist to hide the marks. I pack up my bag and turn off the lights, locking all of my secrets behind the door. As I make my way down the stairs my friends are waiting for me. When we step outside, the sun is shining, but the chilled wind sends a shiver down my spine. Their voices are clear but my head is someplace else, making my thoughts blurry. I don’t understand. As they rant about a quiz they bombed and how they got into a fight with a friend from home, I listen. I listen to everything that that they have to say, and I’m there for them, even for the smallest things. 

“I had a tough night last night.” I say, my voice shaking thinking about what happened. 

Just as I expected my words are stolen by the wind and carried away. I should have known that I don’t matter. I don’t matter. These words resonate through my head. I’m not enough. 

“Hey, sorry I just forgot something in my room.” I say, turning around. Their faces are puzzled, but with a shrug of their shoulders, they continue on with their conversation. Running into my room I slam the door and throw my backpack on the ground. It feels as though I have been punched in the gut over and over again. My heavy breaths are uncontrollable, causing my burning eyes to water. Salty tears rush down my face onto my dry, pale lips. What is wrong with me. All I see is black as my mascara smudges under my eyes. I look closer. The yellow sunflower that was once present in my hazel eyes has wilted to a muted grey. I untie my shoes and climb into my bed, holding the weight of the world on my shoulders. My black dog jumps up and snuggles into the curves of my back. I close my eyes and shut out my fear, my life, and everything around me, just as my friend had done the night before. I understand. 

When the weekend finally comes, I set my alarm for 6:30am, pack my lacrosse bag, and run outside to meet my Dad. His bright smile is contagious and for a moment I see a glimpse of bright blue but it quickly fades. Driving through an old town in Boston, he begins to look at me with worried eyes. Before I can say anything, he pulls the car over and parks alongside a coffee house. Reaching for my hand, he asks me to take a walk. As we make our way down the sidewalk, the sun is just starting to set, causing the old buildings to cast lengthy shadows onto the street. Holding my Dad’s hand, I feel safe. Nerves race through my body and it takes every bit of strength in my body to speak. 

“Dad, I think I’m depressed.” 

His grip on my hand tightens softly. As the buildings ahead of us grow closer and their shadows become taller, he leads me across the street. I look up at him confused at first, but as soon as I see him smile at me, I know he understands.

“You always have to walk on the sunny side of the street.” 

The sun peeks out from the tip of the church and lightly kisses my cheeks. I close my eyes again but this time I can feel something superior, something that only comes from the embrace of your Mom’s arms, the reassurance of your Dad’s hand, and the beautiful rays of the sun. When I open my eyes, I’m looking through my kaleidoscope. I can see in color again. Yellow and orange jump from rooftop to rooftop, purple and magenta flow up to the sky like small bubbles as the dogs sing to each other from across the street. I look at my Dad, his smile radiating bright blue, only this time, it’s clearer than ever. 

People say that everything happens for a reason, and I’ve come to be a firm believer in this. I know that I am stronger now. I know that as my younger sister grows up, I will be there for her, reminding her that although some days it may rain, she should never forget that the vibrant yellow color of her duck raincoat will always be there, she just has to look at the world through her kaleidoscope.

-Katherine B

[wellness-club]

I’m at my school’s auction when I see it, The painting of Greenly Pond; autumn leaves reflected on calm water, In addition to a crystal blue sky, swarmed with a crowd of clouds. I see it as an optical illusion. I’m five again. Playing in my room pink tutu, purple leotard, and crowned with a large tiara. I am the queen of make believe. I’m just about to knight my stuffed bear when my brother opens my door, he loves playing make believe with me. Whenever he hears my parents starting to yell at eachother, he rushes to my room. We are professionals, we know that they are just yelling because they want to prove who loves the other more. They are very competitive people. When the fighting grows too loud, my brother recommends taking the game out to the pond. We spring out of the house, making sure to never interrupt mum and dad’s competition, because that wouldn’t be very fair. I just never understood why my mum would cry, and my dad would walk away, and there was a never a winner. When I see the painting of the house I grew up in, it reminds me of the optical illusions of my childhood, all the times I convinced myself I wasn’t seeing something in front of me, warping my own vision. All the times I would run out of the shaking house, like an astronaut ejected from her spaceship, escaping to the pond, where the water’s reflection could blur reality. Ignorance is not a quality I admire, but the age of innocence is a time I will always cherish. A time where I could outrun my deepest demons by imagining my life in storybook form. It has been years since my parents gave up on their competition, since I moved out of the house on Greenley Road, and it has taken these years for me to grow out of my tutu, to realize playing make believe is not the answer to my problems. I have learned the importance of being present, of facing my hardships head on. There have been, and there will be, many beautiful moments in my life, and in the not so beautiful moments, in the bad moments, I have realized, these are the times I learn, the times I grow, the times I become who I am. And I won’t let any water distort that.

“Where I Come From” by Maya R

[wellness-club]

The Battle

There are approximately 9 minutes left in study hall. I figure that is enough to start a submission. Yet truthfully, I have no idea where to start. How do you pinpoint where you lost yourself? An educated estimate would be sixth grade. I had just transitioned to a small private school. As the winter term rolled in, I lost the enjoyment in my once well-loved pastimes. The best part of my day was arriving home to a silent space and scrolling through playlists of sad songs, depressing quotes and watching tragic real-life stories on youtube. It became my daily routine. Barely anyone at school noticed, I tried my best to not let anyone worry. One night, I turned to self-harm. I felt more than I had in months, but the "aftertaste,” so to say, kept me from continuing. I decided it was time to reach out for help. Personally, this teacher has never taught me, but I had heard countless good reviews. I worked up the courage to tell him. To my surprise he answered, "You may be feeling really sad, but you are not depressed. I see your smiling face all the time." It would be a lie if I told you his statement has not affected my communication with adults severely. He was reinforcing the idea that depressed people do not seem depressed through physical appearance. I felt overlooked. Did he think "depression" was supposed to be written across my forehead? He could not read my heart or my eyes from the distance between us. He couldn't find my proposed suicide plans by watching the way I walk. 

I wish I could outline how or why I got over my depression. It simply slipped away after the conversation with what I thought to be a trusted adult. I thought I was okay. I thought I could survive anything after that. 

In eighth grade I battled a new war against myself: anxiety. I had panic attacks from just the tone in someone's voice or a look I caught. 'The light in the classrooms were too bright,' I thought over and over again. I felt exposed because I couldn't see myself through the lens of others when I needed to judge how I looked or what I was doing. Tests were the worst. I worked myself up until I choked with every breath of air. I got through eighth grade purely on a major case of senioritis after being accepted to Deerfield. My first fall here at the academy was wonderful. I had a great group of friends, loved my classes and was taking full advantage of being a day student yet living on campus. Things starting taking a turn for the worst during winter break. I felt stuck as all my best friends traveled home and to exotic places. Their families couldn't be happier to see them and mine saw me four hours ago when we started our morning. A void opened up without the constant laughter I experienced with my friends. I woke up late and went to bed late. Most days didn’t have a purpose. One could pluck them right up from vacation and I wouldn't have even noticed they were gone. I started pulling at the skin covering my hands, arms, stomach and legs. Endlessly discontent with their every aspect. I felt disconnected from my body and I tried not to notice it anymore in fear that I would shut down. According to my therapist, my anxiety has taken on a new dimension. It feels intangible. Much like the beginning of this story, I cannot explain why I can't hold air in my lungs or why my chest feels the need to let go of every breath before I can catch it. There is no explanation to why I stay home for Sunday brunches, what previously was the highlight of my week. I don't know why the lights in the classroom are getting brighter just as they did last year. I know better now, I know more. I am trying my best to recover. But it is hard and has become a part of me. Letting go has never been my strong suit. "Things will get better," I have told myself for years. And let it be known that this is the first time I believe it. 

-Anon

[wellness-club]

Validity of Feelings

I grew up believing my parents were the most amazing humans on earth. This was especially true about my father; I’ve idolized him my entire life. I thought he was perfect in every way.  Over the summer, at one of my mother’s parties, I discovered that this wasn’t true.  With the drunken slip of one of his old friends, my sheer trust and belief in him crumbled.  I realized he was only a human and he has made rather big mistakes.  

This realization was overwhelming. I ran off to the bathroom with tears pouring down my face.  I was embarrassed.  I was embarrassed that I was crying and I was embarrassed that I had never been told the truth when everyone, including my siblings, had already known.  Most of all, I felt betrayed.  I slipped off to the bathroom to get away from the laughter and the music.  My whole body was shaking and I couldn’t stop crying.  It was at that point that I felt compelled to engage in self-harm.

I returned to the party with a smile plastered onto my face and continued to socialize with the guests.  No one knew that anything was wrong and I didn’t want anyone to.

I’ve always had a hard time accepting my own feelings.  I usually dismiss them and constantly tell myself I’m overreacting.  I keep the issues in my life a secret because I don’t think the people around me would ever understand.  On the rare occasion that I do say something, the person is incredibly supportive and I usually end up feeling better.  In this situation, however, it wasn’t the case. My father told me that I had no right to react in such a way and that if I didn’t change my attitude I would pay for it dearly.  

I still haven’t told any of my friends on campus of what happened this summer. They don’t know of the incident that night  or my scars.  I don’t know why I’ve never told them but I’m still harboring the fear that they won’t think my feelings are valid. A fear that my father personified and made much worse during the days following the party.  

Now, I’m comfortable with opening up to my friends about my insecurities and the issues in my life.  I’m more comfortable letting them see the side of me I’ve always kept hidden. I know that I should never self-harm] again to make myself stop crying because there is nothing wrong with crying in the first place.  

-Anon

[wellness-club]

Comfort Through Pain

As soon as I read the text “Call me” from my mom, I knew. I felt a lump in my throat, as I dreadfully picked up my phone to call her. She answered and I immediately bursted into tears. There I was, sitting right outside of the Greer on a Friday night, bawling my eyes out as people walked by and stared.

Deerfield can be a lonely place, but I had never felt it quite like this. Being away from home when a tragedy occurs, not being able to hug your crying mother, having to hear that kind of news over the phone; this was the cherry on top of my already gloomy winter. I felt helpless, and deeply saddened by the loss of my grandfather.

That same night, sitting in my bed, listening to sad music, I began to reflect on my relationship with my grandpa. I felt ashamed. So I began to write:

I’m a coward for never giving you the time of day

I’m a coward for never letting you teach me set back

I miss your card tricks

I miss your love for golf

I miss how you called me Mary Elizabeth

And the expression you made when you were impressed with me

You always seemed to be impressed with me

How could you love someone who couldn’t even talk to you for 5 minutes?

Why couldn’t I give you five minutes?

I finally learned how to play setback

But it’s too late

I bought a set of golf clubs

But your golfing days are long gone

How could I be such a coward?

It’s been 2 months since I’ve seen you

I didn’t say goodbye

I didn’t even give you five fucking minutes.

A war veteran, a father of seven, a loving husband to a woman with Alzheimer’s

But your damn granddaughter couldn’t give you the time of day.

I miss your voice

I miss being able to brag about myself to you.

You loved to hear about my life.

You loved my presence, my patience, and my love

All you needed was 5 minutes

Yet you still loved me unconditionally

You gave me a lifetime of love

All I had to give was 5 minutes.

Although devastating, this whole situation has really taught me a lot about myself, and the guilt and love I feel towards my grandpa. I allowed myself to be vulnerable and emotional, whether it was in my room alone, or on the ice after my hockey game the next day, as I saw my mom cry for one of the first times in my life. I’ve experienced incredible support from my friends here, and have never felt more proud to be apart of this community. I am not alone.

Rest easy Big Art,

- Mary E

[wellness-club]

Safe Haven

For the last 7 years I’ve had a “best friend” who loved to hurt me whenever things weren’t going her way. She knew exactly how to do it, slipping in a mean insult just at the right time, adding a cute giggle to the end of it that just begged others to join in and laugh along. I didn’t notice this until it was too late, we were too far into our friendship to change anything and I was already labeled as her friend. Or at least that’s what I tell myself now to make me feel better about not saying anything then, for turning a blind eye and pretending there was nothing I could do because like she used to say it is what it is. I was used to living in her shadow, to be honest I mostly liked it. It was comfortable, no one expected much from me. I wasn’t very athletic, I wasn’t smart, and I defiantly wasn’t pretty, at least not compared to her. Her shadow was like a nice big safety blanket that protected me from mattering to much to our group of friends. So when I would get a problem right in my 8th grade math class (a subject I struggled and worked extremely hard at that year) and she would respond to my enthusiasm with a snarky comment like, “Well it took you long enough! You’re such an idiot sometimes.” I would laugh and pay no attention to it because it was a comment that was only meant to be funny, she was my supposed best friend she would never actually mean something like that. What came to be clear though was that nothing I ever accomplished was ever worthy enough for her and soon when I was left alone at night with time to think nothing was ever worthy enough for me either. My grades, my competitions, my games, even my reflection was never going to be good enough for me. I would never be the person I wanted everyone to see me as. The feeling I used to get when I first discovered Deerfield was almost indescribable, words simply not enough to do it justice. The happy butterflies and uncontrollable smile that never left my face were just the beginning of it. Deerfield was always a place that put me in utter awe over how incredible it was. Now, there are times I need to search for that feeling when I’m sitting in my friends room on a Friday night.. But no matter how hard I search for how it initially felt when I first discovered this amazing place, in the end I still manage to get inside my head, convincing myself of things that aren’t always true and ruin it for myself. I can’t help but think that I really don’t belong here because after all what am I contributing to this school that makes it so damn great? It’s most defiantly not athletics or grades and I’m not some outstanding person that everybody wants to get to know. Often I am even worried that no one really likes being my friend they’re just to nice to tell me the truth. I find myself wondering if I’m wasting this opportunity to be here because most of the time I have no clue what I’m actually doing. While all this can weigh me down like a load of bricks I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. The people I have met and the experience’s I have had in my last few months have left an impact on me that will never go away. Each of my friends have been there for me in ways unimaginable. While they are different in many ways each of them have the same kind heart that I have grown to love. They are awesome and if I could be a quarter of the person they are I would be happy. Since September the most important thing I have learned is that even at your lowest you will learn something new and valuable about who you are. Even when times are hard and you are broken and feel like giving up you will learn to appreciate yourself in a new light. You will learn to leave the mistakes you’ve made and the people who have hurt you in the past where they belong. And in time you will mold into a new person, someone who is stronger, someone you are proud to be. My middle school guidance counselor once told my 6th grade class that “one day it just gets better.” And while I haven’t gotten there yet, I have chosen to trust that I will because everyday is a little less harder then the last.

-Anne F

[wellness-club]

Loneliness

I am currently living through the saddest and most miserable time of my life. I’ve discovered much truth to the dreadful thoughts that go along with winter. Although I have plenty of people who support me, I’ve never felt more alone. I haven’t had a good day in approximately 18 days, 18 days full of inescapable sadness. I never knew what to think when students would express their inevitable misery for the colder months at DA. I never experienced much cold in my hometown, so I never quite knew what to expect once winter rolled around.

The three weeks before Christmas break were possibly some of the better weeks I’ve experienced since going to boarding school. I was surrounded by an amazing group of five people who cared deeply about my emotional well being and were always there when I needed them. Although everyone seemingly felt a bit down before break, we all reunited stronger than ever on January 2nd. Ever since, the depression of winter has set in and torn us all apart. Many of my friends I used to be close with have drifted due to opposite schedules. I’ve become distant from many people I love dearly, whether it’s due to my own fault or the natural somber feelings that winter brings I will never know.

I have become incredibly distant with one friend in particular, for the sake of this submission I will omit his name, who used to be one of the most trusted and reliable people in my life. Although his absence is due to his own fault, I can’t help but blame myself. It seems as though I blame myself for everything lately. Many things that used to bring me great joy have lost their glow. I wouldn’t even leave the dorm if it wasn’t for the select people in my life who still care. It is so hard to keep my emotions under control when all I want to do is just scream, scream as loud as I can for hours, in hopes that when I stop I will feel some sort of relief from it all. One constant feeling I carry with me every single day is the feeling of loneliness. It amazes me how even surrounded by people you can feel lonely.

That being said, many people have come up to me asking how I’ve been. It seems the only thing I have been able to answer lately without much required explanation is “I’m ok.” Replying with something such as “I’m good” doesn’t even seem apart of my vocabulary anymore. Everytime I catch it slipping out of my mouth I know it’s nothing but a lie. I am the farthest from “good” that I’ve ever been, and it is absolutely terrifying.

-Anon

[wellness-club]

Do My Best

Sometimes, I only have one thought in my head: I hate myself. This thought circles around and around, telling me that I’m not pretty, not skinny, I’m not good enough. I hate myself. And in these moments, my hatred will consume me, and I will look in the mirror only to affirm my beliefs that I am ugly, unworthy, meaningless. I have always struggled with my body, always told myself I was too fat for anyone to love me, blamed boys not liking me on the size of my thighs. I see myself in the reflections of the windows on buildings and cringe away from it, thinking the distorted figure reflected back at me must be how others see me. I have tried to convince myself that it would be a good thing to have an eating disorder, that even though they are incredibly unhealthy, at least I would be skinny. I shrink away from conversations in which those seemingly perfect girls artificially put themselves down, thinking that I was unable to join in because while their comments were false, mine were real. I feed my self-loathing by looking at pictures of ‘perfect,’ pretty girls on Instagram, wishing I could look like them, have their confidence, have their life. This is only makes me feel worse about myself, and I feel myself itching to be out of my skin. I continue to deal with this self-hate everyday, and when it gets really bad, I barely want to leave my room. But I do my best to continue on with my life. I do my best to smile at the world around me and hope that true beauty comes from happiness.

-Anon

[wellness-club]

Lessons

I spent most of the summer before my junior year at home. After a horrible sophomore year full of rumors, self-hate, and anxiety, I was relieved to finally be able to spend my break back in Poland. But being home meant constantly fighting with my parents and feeling like I could never live up to their expectations. The constant pressure and the feeling of losing control resulted in me trying to find an outlet to regain power over something in my life. My outlet became food.           

I developed an eating disorder.

The day before I returned to Deerfield, my mom found out about my eating disorder. She made me promise I’d stop, and I lied and said I would, and that everything would change at Deerfield. However, instead I began one of the hardest years of my life. Instead of getting better my eating disorder got worse. I didn’t have any energy and would fall asleep during my co-curricular theatre. Any grade below a 91 caused me to have a mental breakdown and lock myself in my room for hours. Even my advisor wrote in my advisor comment how I would “delve into the depths of despair” and just physically shut off. The whole time I also thought I had to act like I was perfectly fine even when I felt like tearing my hair out and screaming.            

These past two years of battling depression and my eating disorder have been a struggle, though it has gotten better. Getting up every morning is hard, doing homework is hard, even talking to people is a struggle when you don’t really see a point in keeping up a stupid façade of happiness. But with the support of counselors, my friends, my parents, and especially my brother I have made great strides in recovery. In fact, through opening up about my struggles to Josh, I mended my relationship with him to the point where he became one of my closest friends who I could always confide in.            

Out of all the things I’ve learned, here are the most important: 1.) Reach out for help, even if you don’t think there’s anything seriously wrong with you. Don’t compare your problems to others and don’t minimize them. Regardless of other people’s sadness, yours is completely justified. 2.) Stop overthinking things. I often assume my friends hate me or think too much about a comment someone made. It helps to take a step back and look at things in perspective. 3.) The most important piece of advice I’ve ever gotten is to look back at a moment when you thought you wouldn’t be able to get through something, and realize you’ve gotten through it. I look back at moments where I thought my life was over like my sophomore year when my parents disowned me, and there were horrible, and untrue, rumors going on about me at school. I didn’t think I would get through it but I did and am much stronger. 4) Count to 10. You can stand anything for ten seconds, and then start another ten seconds (this also helps when you’re in a very boring class). ​

-Helena T

[wellness-club]

Written on a random page in my French notebook, September, 2016, after I left the library in tears and no one noticed. I sat in the Hess by myself in a dark room.

I feel like I’m not good enough. My body isn’t good enough. I’m not funny enough. I’m not pretty enough. I’m not nice enough. I’m not smart enough; I’m not anything enough. Sometimes I look in the mirror and think about how ugly I am, and sometimes I look in the mirror and think I’m pretty average. Occasionally, I think I’m beautiful. I’m not good at one specific thing; I don’t know what I want to do with my life. I just want to be the best at something, but there are people better than me at everything. I feel inferior to my friends, but I don’t want to. Sometimes I think they don’t love me as much as I love them and they never ask or notice when I get like this. I went to the bathroom to hide for a minute and think about everything that is wrong with me and try not to care what other people, even my friends who I know love me but I doubt it sometimes, think about me. I find myself striving to be the girl who I think has the perfect life. But I just want to be myself and I want people to fully 100% love me for exactly who I am and never doubt it or thinking I’m annoying sometimes or something.  I want to be myself all the time and not be scared of other people not liking me. I want to not regret anything I say or do. I’m just having a tough time finding my place and figuring out how to be myself. There may be people out there who think they know who I am, but there is no way that anyone can know all of me, and that makes me very sad. When I die, or the sun explodes, does anyone really care that I thought about this?  No. My life is insignificant, so what is the point? Thinking about this brings on a fear that I never want to think about. And then I think about the janitor that just walked in as I was writing this and wonder how much worse or better he has it than me. We never know. I don’t want to go back to my dorm and talk to anyone right now. I want to go to the rock and sleep there by myself. I want to hug a person who doesn’t know me.

- Sinclair S

[wellness-club]

Alive

        Some say it seems like I have it all together. Some say they’re sorry to hear. And others tell me they “would never have guessed.” I developed depression the winter of my first year here at Deerfield. It began with a faint sense of haziness, waking up every morning and feeling just a little bit off. At first I thought it was my sleep schedule – the craziness of work settling in had been taking a toll on that. But I soon realized that this was beyond that. Some stroke of luck prompted within me the idea of seeing a counsellor. Three sessions in, he suggested that we take a depression test. I went down the list, reading the questions, filling in bubbles, all the while thinking about how others must have had it so much worse. Thinking about how I could have had it so much worse. After I finished, I handed the test over. He looked at it, added up a few numbers, and said it. “I think you’re struggling with severe depression.”

          Hearing the words out loud sent a chill down my spine. It had never occurred to me that I could have depression. After all, I’d always thought that I was a happy boy. Naturally, I fervently rejected the notion. I told myself that bad days persisted, sad feelings persisted, and self-hatred persisted, but it wasn’t called depression. It was called life. It was under these lies I lived, through the rest of the year, through the summer, and all the way into the next fall, and even the winter. However, I hit a wall in February. There was a dance in the squash courts the night Dr. Curtis announced Head of School Day. I rushed back to my room as excited groups of friends swarmed towards the athletic center. I lay still in my bed, eyes staring straight at the ceiling, hoping that somehow my determination would unleash some of my pain. It didn’t. I felt the room begin to close in around me, isolating me, reminding me that I was all alone. I let it consume me, hoping I would break down, sobbing. I didn’t.  Instead, I engaged in self-harm. That very same night, I showed up to my coach’s apartment. I told him I wanted to talk. Right there, in the middle of his living room, the moment I uttered the word “depression”, tears gushed out of my eyes, and I broke down sobbing. In the middle of Coach’s living room.

       The year went on with more self-destructive behavior. Coach was always there to hold me accountable, to make sure I made appointments, to make sure I showed up to them, and to make sure I followed up to set up the next one.

       The next year I almost didn’t come back to Deerfield. There are no words to describe the relief I felt on the last day of the school year. In some naiveté, I believed that the days of loathing myself were over. I would no longer have to sit in my room crying alone, telling myself I was too fat, reminding myself I wasn’t smart enough, convincing myself that all my “friends” secretly hated me. As my mom’s car pulled away from campus, I felt liberated. But depression isn’t something you can wear like a hat. It isn’t something that grounds itself in external factors, such as your environment, the season, or your surroundings. Sure, it may fluctuate, but it grounds itself in your heart, in your mind, in your soul. Similar feelings persisted through the summer. Nights were too familiar, where I would sit alone, in the dark, curled up in a ball crying because I didn’t think I deserved love.

          When the leaves hinted at the fiery-red hue of fall, I found myself again on the highway back to Deerfield. I told myself I was rejuvenated by the restful summer break. I convinced myself that I was ready to take on the year, unsure of what ready even meant. I’d made it through two years, after all – what would another year be? Turns out I stumbled through fall term with the first four lines of Miley Cyrus’ “The Climb” on replay in my head: “I can almost see it / that dream I’m dreamin’ but / There’s a voice inside my head sayin’ / You’ll never reach it.” The voice in my head was potent that it drove me into an abyss of inexplicable pain. I told a counsellor I wanted to see the psychiatrist to see if medication would be helpful. Sure, she said. You just need you parents’ permission. That very night, I called my mom. We talked about college for a bit. It was the only topic she ever spoke to me about. The moment I changed the subject and mentioned psychiatrist and medication, she began yelling at me. Change your perspective, she said. You’re making a big deal out of nothing, she said. I forbid you from seeing anybody, she said. After I hung up the phone, I got into my bed, pulled up the covers, and sank into a sea of salty tears. I had never felt so fragile, so empty, so broken.

       Weekends are some sort of refuge, but at the same time they confine me in a cell of my own thoughts. This winter I stopped leaving my room during weekends. I kept telling myself I had work, that school had to come first, that I was busy, but deep down I knew I was just making excuses. I was too scared, too anxious and too depressed to go out and interact with people. Work was just a powerful excuse I used week after week to justify not going to the dining hall to eat meals, to explain avoiding any sort of human interaction. Often when I leave my dorm on Sunday nights to go to sit-down, I breathe in a wisp of fresh air and realize that I hadn’t left the dorm since Friday night.

          It’s hard for me to imagine that an outsider could ever understand what it’s like to live with depression. I struggle with the anxiety of doing work in the library, hearing whispering voices tell me that I wasn’t smart enough, that I deserve to be working alone, locked in my room. I hyperventilate and feel queasy when I go to the Greer, the loud discordant noises roaring at me, reminding me that I am socially inept, that I am not qualified to be at Deerfield. I stay away from dances, for the flashing lights condemn me for being a slobbering, bawling mess who isn’t even functional, who isn’t even capable of having fun. Even my friends, those who know that I struggle with depression, they don’t know that I cry almost every other day. They don’t know that there are days when I punish myself by not eating because I feel so empty inside that the only possible way to match that is to reach a point of physical emptiness: hunger. They don’t know that I am fighting, on a daily basis, the notion that they secretly hate me. They don’t know that I feel like I don’t deserve them, because I am the most wretched, horrendous, human being alive. They don’t know that I am going through these feelings every day. Depression doesn’t take a day off. Every day, if I am laughing carelessly at a joke with friends, if I seem like I’m on top of the world, if I look like I’ve been sleeping plenty, if I say I’m doing okay, I’m doing great, I am struggling.

          In many ways, I am still struggling to live, from the moment I groggily open my eyes at 7:30am to when I hazily flop into bed at 2:30am. And every single day, I still feel broken inside. I feel flushed empty from the core. And I am so fragile, I’m terrified that a tap will cause me to shatter into pieces on the floor. But perhaps naturally, perhaps miraculously, I am still waking up every morning. I still make it into the shower. Most days I still put on class dress, and some days I still make it to class. I honestly could not say what is propelling me forward to keep fighting, but somehow, there’s always a drive. Even on the darkest of days, when I look all the way down the tunnel and I don’t see a single speck of light, by some blind will, I still want to survive.

-anon

[wellness-club]

Enough

My first year of Deerfield was hard. Not only was the work load a change from my small private boarding school, but socially everything seemed to be more stressful. Having family at the school made my transition easy, I got to see my older brother everyday on the walk to my physics class, and mom in her office and dad in his class room. I knew going into Deerfield that the girls were competitive to be the best, and the prettiest and the skinniest. I told myself I wouldn’t become involved in that or worry about how I looked or who I talked to. I found myself a best friend and we decided to stick together the whole year, fall was great, the winter was cold and dark, and that’s when it became harder!

My so called best friend complained about her boy problems and how he wasn’t snapping her back, or answering her texts. But I had bigger things on my mind. I had just found out my aunt has cancer, and my mom was taking it hard, and taking it all out on me.  My friend seemed to think her boy problems were bigger. The daily screaming matches with my mom were constantly on my mind, and I was not letting anyone know about it. Being best friends with the “prettiest girl” in our grade wasn’t something I needed, I thought we clicked and got along and that’s why we were friends.

By the time spring came, I hated my body, hated my skin, hated myself and was constantly finding ways to get out of meals, social situations and family time. I didn’t even feel like I could tell my “best friend” what was going through my head. By the beginning of spring term I began engaging in self-harm and disordered eating behaviors. No one seemed to notice, granted I was good at hiding them and my feelings. Not until I walked into the house and my mom asked to see my headband I had wrapped around my wrist from lacrosse practice. When I went to unwind it from my wrist she grabbed my hand looking me in the eye asking the simple yet unanswerable question of “why”. I got nervous and broke into tears.

I began to realize I was putting myself into situations with people who made me feel like I wasn’t worth their time or any time at all. I felt like I had wasted my first year doing what I told myself I would never do. And I didn’t even notice I was doing it. I felt like no one cared and I didn’t really want anyone to notice me because I thought I was weird and different. But I knew I needed to tell someone, when a childhood friend came to me crying because her brother was very sick. I told her to breathe and that I was here for her. With tears running down her face she held my hand and told me I’m here for you too. That’s all I needed to hear. Since that day I have not engaged in self-harm. And I have not told myself I am not enough because my friend who I was trying to help didn’t realize she was helping me more that I was helping her.

-Mae E

[wellness-club]

August 16th

On August 16th, around 2 in the morning. I messed up pretty badly.

The details of what happened are unimportant to the story but I was probably going to lose a lot of friends over it. And on top of that, my mom found out about what I had done. About 8am the same day she dragged me out of bed, brought me upstairs and yelled at me. We’ve all been there, I don’t need to go into my mother’s exact dialogue. On and on about how she can’t believe she trusted me. How everyone was going to find out about this. I was putting a bad name on our entire family! How could I do this to my friend? This isn’t the little girl she raised. If I’m doing things like this how can she even trust me enough to go to let me go away to Deerfield?

It was overwhelming. The amount of things I had done wrong. How many people would hate me. Hate my entire family. Now, of course, it seems ridiculous. Obviously this would all blow over, and it has. But in the moment it was as if the whole world were collapsing. I made a suicide attempt, and everything that happened after is kind of a blur.

The next day or two was filled with lots of tears. My parents sat next to me, my mom recounting again and again how scared she was when she walked in and I wouldn’t wake up. How she dragged me out of bed, yelling for my sister. The confused house cleaner standing by. The paramedic pushing into my sternum as hard as she could to see if I was still feeling pain. The phone call made to my dad in New York. Him sprinting out of his office and finding the first train he could. My sister, not fully knowing what was happening, why I wasn’t waking up.

Once I was fully conscious all the doctors started asking me questions. “That scratch you got from climbing on the rocks with your friends? Are you sure that is how it happened?” A skeptical glance at me. I know I have never cut myself, but they don’t trust me. Every time one came into the room they asked the same thing “do you feel like hurting yourself or anyone else in this moment?” I know these things are precautions. I know it has probably helped people in the past. I know they were only trying to help. But for me it was a reminder. You are unstable. We don’t really trust you. You tried to kill yourself.

The one thing that everyone couldn’t understand was why. They all had their own explanations as to why it usually happens. But no one could wrap their heads around the fact that I was, and am, a very happy person. The issue is that I can’t really explain it myself. I was tired, and upset, and wasn’t thinking clearly. I don’t believe in a god, and was feeling like nothing would get better. So, why not? That was my thinking. Yet no one in the entire hospital could seem to understand.

I’ve only told one of my friends about this event. I think I’m inclined to keep it a secret just because of all the stigmas that are attached. I’m convinced that if I told people I have tried to kill myself everyone would tread lightly around me, sure that any small thing could set me off. You would never know now that anything happened, and I’m okay with that. It’s really showed me that everything will pass, even if it doesn’t seem like it in the moment, and I try to keep that in mind whenever anything happens.

I still have the hospital wristband tucked away somewhere as a reminder that I made it through. I keep the sticky note folded up on my desk, a confused attempt at an apology. “I love you all.”

-Izzy M

[wellness-club]

Growing Up

Growing up, I’ve seen a lot of my family struggle with various types of mental illness. From depression to alcoholism, both branches of my family tree have had it all, and I’m proud to say that I believe we have all fought through it and come out as better people. Within my family, I am considered the golden child, always the one with good grades, not getting into trouble, “destined for greatness” as some of them say. What most people in my family don’t know is my own personal struggle with mental health. It all started in middle school. I was considered to be part of the “popular” group of girls in my grade however I was considered different from most of my best friends. The majority of my friend group was size 2 or smaller, while I was at a healthy weight, just with a different build than most of them. None of the boys considered me beautiful, I was the girl who was easy to talk to and whom boys used to get closer to my friends. This was the beginning of my body image issues. Starting from about sixth grade all I wanted to be in life was skinny. I thought that would solve all of my issues, that boys would suddenly like me more if I had a thigh gap or a flat stomach. But inside I knew that I was not going to become anorexic and I hated myself for it. I hated myself for not being able to starve myself, and giving in to food cravings. This led to issues of self-harm for me. My parents weren’t doing so well at the time and this just increased my sadness. I was feeling such intense emotion that I didn’t know how to feel, so I went numb. I wanted to feel something, something I knew how to feel and I understood, like physical pain. This went on and off for a couple months until I decided I needed to stop. My family and friends to this day don’t know of this time in my life.

Years later flash forward to sophomore fall. I got my best grades ever, my hall was amazing, loved my classes. It should have been one of the happiest times of my life, but with my family falling apart at home and my brother off at college not there to support them, I began developing paranoia and anxiety. I had an amazing group of friends but for some reason I was always worried they all secretly hated me. I overanalyzed every person’s expressions and body language, each text, each conversation. I was convinced. I put too much pressure on myself to be perfect, to solve all my problems and everyone else’s (my family’s). After each day of pretending to be this perfect, happy teen I could not take it anymore. I found myself at least twice a week unable to sleep, curled up in a ball in my chair in the dark, sobbing and wishing to make it all better, to take the burden and the stress away. There were times I thought about ending it all, just giving up. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do that to my family and my friends. I ended up reaching out to my closest friend at Deerfield and telling her about what had been going on. I sat in her room venting for a good hour talking about everything and just letting myself be vulnerable for once. I started calling my mom more often, facetiming her when possible, and started sharing more with her, about my life, my bad days, my good days. I still struggle with the stress this school puts on me and I put on myself but I’ve somehow found a way to make it work, with the help and support of my amazing friends and family.

-Anon

[wellness-club]

Hollow

          I’ve never been one to depend on other people. Self-reliance and independence are two traits I’ve grown to embody and when I arrived at Deerfield, that didn’t change. In fact, when I came to campus, I was more than ready to live alone and take full responsibility of my high school experience. Of course, I had an advisor, teacher, hall resident, and proctors there for me whenever I wanted, but I didn’t feel inclined to reach out for help when I needed it. In retrospect, however, the result of my stubbornness was detrimental to my health and well-being. During my first fall of Deerfield, I began to experience anxiety and sadness that were not bred from homework or bullying, but from obstacles I hadn’t yet faced until I arrived on campus.

          Separation from my family meant that when major fights occurred, I was no longer there to protect my younger brothers and sister from arguments they weren’t yet old enough to understand. Phone calls from my siblings begging in desperation for me to come home in addition to a constant fear of failing to maintain the impossibly high standards I’d placed on myself to excel in academics, social settings, and athletics led me to a breaking point where I was willing to do anything to get the horrible feelings out of my stomach. I began engaging in eating disordered behaviors, and for some time I thought it was working to help me manage my feelings.

          I’d done a pretty good job of concealing my new habit until I went home for parents weekend and my mother and brothers commented endlessly on how much weight I’d lost and how my cheeks had hollowed. Then again when I came home for Thanksgiving and winter break my parents fretted over the fact that each time they hugged me there was less and less to hold on to. Jeans stopped fitting the way they used to, my hair began to thin and soon I was able to see the effects of my disorder even through the body dysmorphia I’d developed alongside it.

          Luckily, as the school year continued my family and school problems began to decrease, and I returned back to a much healthier weight. My parents, friends, and certainly Deerfield never really knew about my eating disorder. I confided in one out of school friend who has been a rock throughout every challenge in my life, but besides him there is nobody else I sought help from.

         I want to conclude this story by clarifying that Deerfield did not cause my eating disorder. This school offers everything I could have asked for and I truly love it, and it was because I refused to accept help when I couldn’t handle everything on my plate that the disorder was able to get the best of me. I urge anyone reading this who has ever felt alone, anxious, or unhappy in any way at Deerfield to reach out to the countless people on campus who are here to take care of us and make us feel safe, no matter what we’re going through.

-Anon