I Hate Myself (less) book - Betsy Stubbs by University of Michigan Penny W. Stamps School of Art & Design

This book is not finished. In all honesty I did not expect to enjoy working on this project as much as I did, but as I began to write and create I just couldn’t stop and my plans began expand outside the confines of IP. What you are about to read are the first few chapters in what I hope will be a full length book. I have more stories I want to tell and so this is a rough draft, just the beginning of a bigger project that I am excited to continue working on even after I hit submit on IP. Please enjoy and stay tuned for more. Healing has only just begun.

To my momma volcano, You have saved me more times than you know, I lava you the most

Intro

Thanks for Listening

14-23

I had to throw my digital scale away

24-43

Panic! In a public restroom

44-53

Screw you Mr. Baker, I have a B.F.A

54-69

The first cut is the deepest (but the Sheryl Crow version)

Sharing is Caring

70-79

We broke up on a Thursday

80-105

I almost had sex with a moderate Republican

106-121

Rub some dirt on it: an idiot’s guide to healing

122-131

owdy, friends! Maybe you have met me, maybe I even forced this book upon you but allow me to take a moment to introduce myself. My government name is Elizabeth Alice Stubbs, but no one ever calls me Elizabeth, except my friend Michael Russo. To everyone else, I am Betsy. I am named after my Gram, a tiny badass lady who loves music, visual arts, and HBO’s The Sopranos. My middle name is also that of my gram’s sister as well as my Dad’s mother’s name (a little “feed-two-birds with-one-scone” situation, perhaps.) I am a senior in the University of Michigan’s art school and, in the fall, I’ll be studying to be an elementary school art teacher.

I Hate Myself (Less)

I grew up in the Metro Detroit area with my Dad, my Mom and my brother, Foster, and I had an idyllic childhood. I could walk to school most of my life, I played Wiffle ball and Barbies with my friends in the neighborhood and, not to flex too hard, but my next door neighbor even had a pool that I could practice my cannonballs in whenever my heart desired. My parents loved and supported me in everything I did, from church choir to club volleyball, I always had loved ones waiting in the wings and cheering me on. At the bare minimum, I always had a roof over my head, warm clothing and, with my mother running the show, no one in my house ever ever ever went hungry. I’ve had such an amazing life and have been so fortunate to have grown up under the circumstances I did. I have such an amazing support system of family and friends that encourage me to follow my dreams, which I know is incredibly cliche but it’s true so I’M WRITING IT and this is my book god damn it, I will use all the cliches I please. I can look back on a lot of my childhood and my adult life with happiness and immense appreciation for the people that have given me everything I could have wanted but what frustrates me is that all those

happy times were a bit tainted by the uphill battle I have had with my mental health for more than a decade.

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Medically, I suffer from Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Depression with a sprinkle of OCD and bipolar tendencies. The jury is still out whenever I can add those to my resume. It took me a very long time to come to terms with my mental health “quirks”, partly because I was truly not ready to help myself, and partly because of shame. I did not believe that what I was feeling was valid. Why did I have the right to feel so anxious and sad? My life was amazing. Whenever I felt any sort of inclination to reach out for help or share my feelings at all, I would have a little Kourtney Kardashian appear on my shoulder to snarkily remind me that ‘Betsy, there are people who are dying’. It felt like I did not have the right to have any negative feelings because my upper-middle class privilege would not allow for it. My mind was constantly at war with itself. At any given moment, I would feel a depresh sesh creeping into my mind and then I would be immediately bombarded with feelings of guilt and shame about feeling depressed. That would make me feel even more depressed and the vicious cycle would continue until I was a crying puddle on the floor.

My myriad of mental illnesses lived rent-free in my mind in addition to a lovely self-harm habit that, up until 2019, I was a slave to. I don’t believe there is just a single factor that contributes to my mental health, rather thousands, both lived experiences and my own brain chemistry that make me my own special breed of fucked-up. Over the years, I’ve sought help from all sorts of medical professionals but the doctors I saw, the more I really did not like sharing my dark thoughts and I began to keep them to myself. I want to say upfront, that I DO NOT recommend the keeping silent method for dealing with depression; In terms of becoming less violently depressed, this strategy has not proved effect. On the contrary, a pivotal moment for me taking control of my mental health was when I began sharing my struggles with others. It was freeing, secrets can’t hurt you if you tell everyone about them, that is science. I learned that so many people around me understood how I was feeling from their own experiences or those of their loved ones. As I became more vocal about my anxiety and depression, people began reaching out to me to tell me how me sharing my truth helped them to seek help for their own demons. It was absolutely bananas how taking the simple step of opening up to others (and getting a Zoloft prescription) was a catalyst for intense healing and every moment I have spent working on this project, I feel a little bit of my sanity and agency come back to me.

This book, although unfinished, is just a snapshot into one twenty-something’s life and what she has learned from her experiences. I am still a certified hot mess and am in no position to be giving anyone any advice, but I hope that by reading this, any of you struggling with your own demons can feel a little less alone. Please take care of yourselves while reading. In my reflections, I have tried to be as honest as possible about coming to terms with my illness and inevitably, due to the nature of this topic, there is some triggering content. There will be more trigger warnings throughout the book before chapters dealing with more sensitive topics so put this book away if you need to. Hell, burn it if it makes you feel better. I just want us to be able to work on our shit together.

alright, go ahead get reading

i had to throw

my digital scale away because it was damaging

my self-esteem

I Hate Myself (Less)

he second my alarm clock goes off, my stomach sinks. The sun will not rise for another hour but here I am, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes as I drag my groggy self into the bathroom. The first thing I do is take out the rubber bands that my orthodontist gave me to attach to my braces in order to fix my overbite. I had recently gotten into the habit of opening my mouth as wide as I could until the rubber bands snapped and went flying across the room, instead of using my hands, which were now open for other activities (that’s called efficiency hun). I brush my teeth with an electric toothbrush my mom had bought me, an Oral-B that would light up when you put too much pressure on your teeth; my dentist told me I had to ease up on my gums. At this time in my life, I had not been formally diagnosed with anxiety, but perhaps the trail of tooth brushes with completely smashed brissols that were left in my wake, should have been a subtle clue of my angst. While I brush, I do squats. I always tried to aim for around 50 but because I was feeling particularly chubby this morning, I bumped the number up to 80. Squats were my easy exercise of choice because you could do them anywhere (i.e in my bathroom at the butt crack of dawn) and they targeted the quads, the area of my body that I had a particular distaste for. In sixth grade I had a growth spurt, propelling my height to 5 foot 6 in, only slightly taller than average, but for a middle schooler, I felt like a giant. What I now appreciate as my modellike long legs, in 2011 made me feel like a baby giraffe and not in a cute way. The boys that I desperately wanted

attention from, had to look up at me and that alone can be enough to propel struggling tween into depression.

I had to throw my digital scale away

My hatred for how much taller I was than my peers quickly transitioned into a hatred for the way my body looked in general. I gave myself headto-toe inspections in every reflective surface I came across, not because I was a fan of what I saw, but because I was obsessed with making sure that I had made myself look as small and as much like my petite classmates as possible.

My slight vertical advantage, coupled with my undiagnosed anxietyriddled mind proved to be a destructive combination, and despite

the fact that I wasn’t even that much taller than my classmates, my insecurities about my size remained, unwavering in my thoughts. There were a lot of things about myself that I didn’t particularly like, but the areas that were most subject to my loathing were my stomach and inner thighs.

I Hate Myself (Less)

In addition to sudden height change, other parts of my body began to change in the way that young girls’ bodies begin to change when they start to become real grown women. My breasts ballooned, my hips got wider and my thighs expanded, closing the gap that used to separate my right thigh from my left. I could feel how they brushed against each other as I shuffle throughout the bathroom, trying to complete my morning routine in its entirety before my brother woke up and demanded to take custody of the bathroom. I open the creaky, slightly broken drawer that housed my toiletries and pulled out a bright blue and yellow makeup bag I had purchased at Claire’s a couple months before. The bag was made of shiny vinyl and had a big handle and two dogs wearing matching outfits printed across the front. The bag was home to my blossoming makeup collection. At one point in her life, before becoming a nurse, my Aunt Janet worked in the perfume and cosmetics departments at Macy’s. At family gatherings she was always giving me samples and testers to keep for myself. Sometimes she would even give me some of her old Chanel blushes and Bobby Brown lipsticks and as I got older, I was able to buy cosmetics of my own at the drugstore, more Covergirl than Dior, but the same idea. I was on a big eye liner kick at the moment and I had developed a signature, thick, blunt eyeliner look that I really thought was going to take Bloomfield Hills Middle school by storm.

I had to throw my digital scale away

After my makeup is done, I begin work on my hair. After numerous uses of “Sun-in’’ on my hair, I had finally gotten it to the uneven haybale color/close enough to blonde look that I was striving for. After brushing out the tangles, I ran my $15 purple Conair hair straightener over every section of my hair twice to make sure I had achieved complete pin straightness. For hair and makeup, I transitioned to wardrobe. Already laid out on my floor from the night before, today’s look is a pair of stretched out PINK leggings, a two sizes too small Hollister zip up and a pair of knock off Uggs that my mom had gotten me at Costco, but before I can put on my unofficial middle school uniform, I had to do my daily weigh-in. I slide off my pink flannel pajamas pants, pull my purple honors orchestra sweatshirt over my head and take a deep breath, before I gently tap my big toe on the Weight Watchers logo that adorns the top of my digital scale. The small screen flickers to life and 3 zeros appear. I take a deep breath and step on the scale and the zeros disappear into spastic flashes as the machine crunches the numbers. While I wait, I silently plead

“Please don’t be over 115, please don’t be over 115.” This was the current arbitrary number I had selected to

be my maximum weight allowance. The past several months, I had been gaining weight much quicker than I had ever previously. . My rapidly increasing mass was terrifying to me and I did not at all equate the weight gain with the inevitable changes that young ladies go through. I thought that I was spiraling into obesity and I had to take immediate action.

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As first order of business, I began skipping breakfast. When my mother noticed, she began making my smoothies to ensure that I put something in my body before I left for school. Despite Louise’s kindness, I was sure that a blend of frozen fruit and yogurt would give me a muffin top so I would pour them down the drain when she wasn’t looking. As I sat my with friends at lunch and we all talk about how much fun we had at Julia’s Bat Mitzvah the weekend before, I was tallying up the calories in my bag lunch using an app on my Baby Blue iPod Touch under the table. I monitored absolutely everything that I was putting into my body and thought that if I were to slip up once, it would all be over. For example, if I dared have an ice cream cone when out with my friends, I would have to make up for my mistake with an hour of crying followed by two on the treadmill. It felt like I was fighting against myself in a battle to force my body to fit into a very petite mold and I was losing miserably. I breathe deeply and finally glance down at the scale and my heart sinks; 116 pounds. “How could this happen?” I think to myself. My mind is swirling, my eyes filling up with tears. I had been so good the past week, skipping all my breakfasts, avoiding sugary foods, and I had clocked 20 miles on the treadmill, what more was I supposed to do? I have failed and there were going to have to be repercussions for my failure, but for now, I have to go to school.

I Hate Myself (Less)

I wipe away the few tears that were able to escape from my eyes, dragging a faint line of my mascara with it. I stepped off the scale and the numbers that had just caused me turmoil, effortlessly flipped back to zeros.

“I could make myself throw up,” I thought, as if this solution that

I had tried time and time again would immediately propel me into the doublezero body that I wanted so bad. I nix the purging for today, I already brushed my teeth and I don’t want my breath to stink at school later. I set a mental reminder to do sit ups tonight, a lot of sit ups. One of my go-tos for attacking the belly fat that no one else ever commented on but consumed a lot of real estate in my brain. The lesion that had formed on my back from my training bra strap digging into my back every time I would do the sitting back that is required for the sitting up had just healed and I was ready to double down my abdominal working efforts.

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I gaze back at myself in the smudge-covered bathroom mirror, checking to make sure from my hair down to my toes, every detail is perfect. Nothing too out there that could draw too much attention, my upper thighs, stomach and breasts covered in exactly that way that I liked. I sigh to myself “This is the best it is going to get” I thought, “Why do I even try.” With every ounce of willpower I have, I put my makeup back in my bag and tuck it back into its drawer. I screw the cap on my toothpaste and put my electric toothbrush back in the charging port before my brother inevitably swaps his own in, leaving mine to slowly die until I can brush again before bed. I slowly scan the dimly lit bathroom to make sure had not forgotten anything when I hear my mom calling for me. I have to hurry up, the bus will be here soon. I give myself one last glance, before I flip off the light and step into the dark hallway, no going back now.

I had to throw my digital scale away

I Hate Myself (Less)

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It starts when my chest begins to tighten.

A knot in my throat develops and my eyes start to well up. Slowly, my breathing quickens and I know what is coming: panic. Sometimes I am already alone when it begins and I don’t have to worry about finding a safe space I can retreat to. Other times, I’m not so lucky. In the middle of class, the stares of my classmates last longer and longer as I squirm in my seat. I recite self-help propaganda in my head or just try to think of anything else: what I had for breakfast, the football game this weekend, anything else besides the dread consuming me in the middle of AP Gov.

It’s too much, I can’t take it any longer. I abruptly get out of my chair and half walk/ half jog to the bathroom. My eyes stay glued to the floor. I count the linoleum tiles in order to avoid eye contact with my peers and teachers passing by. I do my best to get to the furthest, most isolated bathroom and I get myself into the furthest, most isolated stall. If anyone sees me break, sees me crumpled on the floor, I’ll have to talk about it.

I Hate Myself (Less)

They will want to know what happened and why I was so upset. the most difficult part is that I don’t know why. I feel as though my whole world is imploding, but I can’t identify the source of the destruction. One minute I was sitting in class, listening to a lecture, laughing quietly at an inside joke with my friend, feeling content, even happy, when storm clouds suddenly began to invade my horizon. I try to push them away. “Not today!” I scream in my head “Today is good! Leave me alone!” but my internal cries fall on deaf ears, anxiety listens to no one. I stand in the corner of the stall. If I’m lucky, it’s a handicap accessible one with lots of room for angst. Even though I am alone, there are people walking all around the building. Someone could walk in at any second so I keep my hand over my mouth to muffle my cries. I rock back and forth on my heals as tears stream down my face and I try to catch my breath. My body lowers down to the ground as I grow lightheaded from hyperventilation . I give myself a hug around the knees as I fight off the panic. There is nothing I can do, after years of experience I know that. At this moment, the best medicine is simply riding it out.

PANIC! In a Public Bathroom

After that it’s a blur, a mix of sobbing, gasping for air and sharp pains in my chest. My body feels completely limp. Even if I were to try to get to my feet, I couldn’t. In those moments, I am helpless in the face of hopeless sorrow. It’s a pitch-black tunnel until finally, a small light appears. My breathing slows as my dry heaves become normal breaths. I feel life creeping back into my body. I wiggle my toes to make sure I have control over my body. Tears are no longer streaming down my face, the deafening noise in my head has faded. Everything is still. I feel sore and exhausted. A long distance relay where the baton is passed between fear, anxiety, sorrow and hopelessness and when I finally cross the finish line, I have nothing left.

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I am remarkably tired now, my eyelids are heavy and all I want to do is crawl in bed. But I can’t do that right now. I pick myself up off the cold tile floor. I make my way to the sink,using cold water to rinse off the mascara tracks that run down my cheeks. In between deep breaths, I look at myself in the dirty mirror, right into my reddened green eyes. “It’s over, you are fine, you are fine, you are fine” I tell myself. This is my mantra, my battle cry that I chant as I prepare to reenter my life. My life where everything is great and I smile and laugh, my enthusiastic persona and my armor. “It’s over, you are fine” I open the bathroom door

“You are fine.”I walk back down the hall to my classroom “You are fine.” I lift my head up and let my semi permanent smile come back to my face

“You are fine.” I stroll back to my desk, not a care in the world.

“You are fine.” I am back in my seat, my teacher is still

lecturing, I pick up my pencil and pick up my barely legible notes where they left off. I am fine.

I Hate Myself (Less)

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wait a minute, what’s a panic attack? information from the Mayo Clinic explained by ducks

I Hate Myself (Less)

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I Hate Myself (Less)

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I Hate Myself (Less)

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y small metal desk in Mr. Baker’s social studies class sat smack dab in the middle of the room and that is where I was sitting on the day my self esteem would receive an incredibly rude awakening from the aforementioned Mr. B.. At the front of the room, the aforementioned Mr. Baker was scribbling something on the white board and lecturing to us about a dead person that did something significant a couple centuries ago and I was sitting quietly, getting lost in a doodle in the margins of my notes. I guess to call them notes is a bit generous considering I had not written down anything that Mr. B had said for the past hour. I did not particularly like Mr. Baker and it had become obvious to me that the feeling was mutual. My brother had been in Mr. B’s class before and gave the experience rave reviews so at first I was excited to be falling in my big brother’s footsteps when I was assigned to his class as well. This excitement, however, soon gave way in dread because almost immediately Mr. Baker and I began butting heads. I found his particular breed of humor overly sarcastic and crude and I am sure he thought I was a hyper smart ass that would talk back when he would say something I found offensive. One particular instance, one of his comments resulted in me calling him sexist, which he did not particularly enjoy. So he sent me to the office. As soon as I got there, our secretary, whom I love dearly and frequently delivered passes for, asked me why on Earth I got sent to the principal office, and when I told her she turned me right back around.

I Hate Myself (Less)

ScrewChapter You Mr.Name Baker

I felt like Mr. B was just waiting for an excuse to get under my skin or just try and make me feel bad when he treated my other classmates, especially girl classmates with a lot more kindness than I was afforded. Hindsight is 20/20 I’m sure that at the moment I was being overly sensitive, but I was a hormonal tween that was hitting puberty like a bus and any slight damage to my self-esteem could send me spiraling. I seemed to be having the highest highs and the lowest lows and, without saying a word to anyone, I attempted to help myself on my own. While most of my coping mechanisms seemed to be quite harmful, as you while reading later on, but there has always been one thing that kept me grounded and that was art. My whole life, I have used art to escape my anxiety, as a place to explore my imagination, express myself and connect with the world in a way that I’d never been able to. As soon as I could get my little toddler fingers on my first crayon, it was off to the races and not a sheet of paper or wall was safe from my artistic hand. I think describing creating art as one of my hobbies would be a dishonest portrayal of what my creative process means to me. Among a few other things, I believe that creating is my purpose and what I live for. I want to use my creativity to try and make the world a better place and I work hard at my craft in order to do this. If you were to ask me right this very minute, if I believed that I was a skilled artist, I would say yes. I believe I have good technical skill as well as a unique artistic talent and I work very hard to prove this to be true, but this is not a belief that came naturally to me.. Mr. B helped to put major breaks on my creative drive, but I’m going to mention that in a little bit, we are still in a flashback within the flashback.

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Right away my parents and teachers recognized that I liked to create and had a natural talent for drawing. My mom made sure we always had lots of art supplies at our house and I would spend hours filling my sketchbooks with maps of made up places, portraits of my favorite stuffed animals, and stick figure women with absolutely huge boobs (I’m not sure what that says about me, someone qualified should psychoanalyze that). I wanted to spend all hours of the day making shit and my mother shared a great example of this with me. When I was the ripe old age of 3, Louise recalled that she remembered one of my preschool teachers sharing with her at pickup that I had really enjoyed the finger-painting project that we had started early that day. Apparently, I enjoyed it so much that when the rest of my classmates began transitioning into our next activity, I remained seated at my teeny-tiny preschool munchkin desk, adding important details to my masterpiece. Upon realizing that I had not followed directions, my teacher asked me if I could go setting my painting on the drying rack, wash my hands and go join my classmates on the rug for music time. After a brief time contemplating her offer, I politely declined and returned to my finger painting. My teacher told my mom that I had been so nice when I said I wanted to keep painting that she just continued to let me. Perhaps this set me down a dangerous path because ever since my days as a wee tot, it seems that I am unable to function without a drawing utensil in my hand. Every article of clothing I own has some paint splatter or dried adhesive embedded into the fibers. My fingers are permanently closed from

hot glue gun burns and unintentional X-acto knife stabbings. Art has become ingrained in virtually every facet of

my being and this was very much true as I sat at my small metal desk in Mr. B’s social studies class and sat smack dab in the middle of the room.

I Hate Myself (Less)

I do not remember what dead white man he was probably telling us about, but I was doing my best to retain his lecture while I doodled in the margins of my notebook. My ADHDriddled mind was not compatible with simply sitting and listening during classes. I had to be doing something else, something that could share my attention. Drawing was a natural activity to fulfill that criteria, all of the teachers that I have had prior to 6th grade took no issue with my non traditional learning style. At this point in my life, I was pretty used

to the adults in my life, applauding my artistic endeavors, but Mr. Baker made it abundantly clear that he would not be joining in the applause. He

made it his mission to call me out in front of the class for not paying attention and I was convinced that he took pleasure in chipping away at my self-esteem. This time when he called me by my government name, “Elizabeth,” and told me to stop scribbling all over my paper and actually take some notes, I pushed back. I told him that I was in fact paying attention and I questioned whether he ever scolded my friend, Cynthia, who is an EXCEPTIONAL, artist for drawing in class, he replied “That is because Cynthia is a good artist,” and with that jab he continued regaling us with the tale of some dead white dude taking credit for something he didn’t do 500 years ago.

I stared at the ground silently, I could feel my cheeks getting hotter. I was so embarrassed, my tween angst already did not make for a healthy environment for self esteem to thrive, but an adult telling me that I wasn’t a good artist was devastating. Maybe to someone else this comment would have slide off their back like a raindrop down a car window, but art seemed to be the one thing that I felt confident about, being a creator kept me sane and made me feel like my life had purpose but with one snarky retort, Mr. Baker brought me to my knees.

Screw You Mr. Baker

I Hate Myself (Less)

I pretty much stopped doodling during class entirely after that for a while, which directly affected my ability to pay attention in class, so I was able to retain even less essential Mr. B Social Studies knowledge than I had before. I stopped showing people close to me my art, I was so petrified of my work being compared to someone else or criticized in any way that I hid it from the world and at some points, stopped creating entirely. My last two years of middle school I did not take an art class. Perhaps this is a normally scheduling choice for someone else but I had never been without an art class. Even during summer vacation, when school wasn’t in session, I was signed up for classes at the local art center or I would attend an art camp, but I cut myself off clean turkey. I told myself I just wanted to try new things, I made pajama pants in Home Ec and I even was in my middle school’s yearly musical but I really just gave up on myself. It is crazy to think that right now I am about to graduate with a B.F.A and I have taken my official blood oath to work as a creative for the rest of my life but there was a time in my life I almost completely abandoned my passion. My self worth was so unbelievably compromised that I let the words of my 50 something sixth grade social studies teacher completely undermine my creative practice. As I have gotten older and grown more confident in who I am as a person, that same confidence has translated into my work. When you are able to approach work with apologetic honesty, it makes more of an impact on not only viewers but the process then becomes an exercise in catharsis. When I was sitting on the floor in kindergarten, I wasn’t thinking about the healing power of the crude looking Spongebob drawing that I was working on, I drew because I loved it and I continued to love it until someone made art not feel safe anymore. It took a while and lots of outside support but I learned to love art again when I started creating for myself again. When I let myself go from the criticisms and restrictions that I was placing on my creative practice, that is when my art was able to feel inspiring again.

Screw You Mr. Baker

PLEASE

NOTE:

The following chapter contains

that some readers may find discussions of self harm

triggering. If you are one of these people,

take care of yourself & flip ahead 54

I Hate Myself (Less)

pages.

The

firstiscut the

deepest

(but the Sheryl Crow version)

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I Hate Myself (Less)

don’t remember exactly when the first time I hurt myself was but I know that it happened at the pinnacle of my middle school angst. I hate everything and everyone and no one understood me and the only thing I wanted in the whole world was a pair of Lululemon leggings and the attention of a boy. I had grown before most people in my class so while all the other girls had their stick thin prepubescent bodies the 7th grade boys seemed to flock around, I was a

haired legged 5 foot 7 monster person with the self esteem of a grain of rice. I sat everyday in school

in my uncomfortable Victoria’s Secret leggings while my feet sweated profusely in my off brand Uggs thinking about how if things didn’t start to get better, I was going to end it all. Looking back, I was being melodramatic but to my little 12 year old self, life was utterly meaningless and I was a fat cow that no one was going to ever love so I might as well just off myself now before things get even harder. I was so convinced that I was going to be dead before high school that I started writing an actual will, as if I had anything of value as a middle schooler that should be handed down to a reliable guardian.

The first cut is the deepest

I don’t know what set me off on the particular day I decided that I should slit my wrists but in my hormonal mind, anything was fair game. It was after everyone went to bed and I was sobbing into my pillow because of whatever doomed thoughts were swirling around my mind that day when I saw an old pocket knife across the room on my desk. It was a blue Swiss Army knife that I had taken out of my mother’s dresser because on top of being violently anxious I was also a kleptomaniac. I held the small knife in my hand and thought about how much it would hurt to slide it across my wrists. I didn’t know if the process would be messy and I had already been scolded for getting paint on my rug so I figured those same rules would apply for my own blood so I slapped myself to the bathroom. I looked at my red puffy face in the mirror with disgust, it was a verification that what I was about to do was justified. I had seen a few people slit their wrists on TV, mostly for the point of suicide and I knew that I just wanted to punish myself, not end it all right now. That would be super messy and then my mom would have to clean it up and that didn’t seem super fair. I pressed the blade up against my wrist with a lot of pressure just to see how it felt at first. It left a large indent in my arm, a guideline for my next move.

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I never really knew what the saying “the first cut is always the deepest meant”, I assume it was metaphorical but I soon found it to be incredibly accurate. I slid the knife across my wrist so quickly and in a panic that I didn’t know how deep I had sliced and diced myself and I felt a sharp still and my blood started rushing down my arm like a pipe burst. My only thought was “holy s*** holy

s*** holy s***I am going to stain the bath mats.” In those

first couple moments I didn’t feel any pain, it almost felt cool where the air met a part of my arm it had never before, but as soon as I began reaching for the paper towel I felt fire. It was like the feeling when you first get a rug burn with no relief. I grasped my wrist and held it tightly before I could wrap it with my paper towel tourniquet. It only took seconds for the white Bounty extra strong hand towels to deep shade of crimson. My bathroom started to smell like pennies and I was worried but all my stuff laying around in the bathroom was going to wake someone up. There was no way in hell but I would ever survive looking at my mom’s face so she looked at what her daughter had done herself.

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I threw out the first round of paper towels and began rinsing my wounds under the sink. I clenched my teeth as cold water rushed into my cuts and I kept my arm under the faucet until the water ran clear instead of red. I dried off my clean laceration and wrapped my forearm in several layers of paper towel while my injury continued to bleed. I slid one of my favorite purple scrunchies around the makeshift bandage so it wouldn’t come unwrapped as I slept. I put on my dark green Bloomfield Hills Middle School basketball jersey, because I thought if I were to get any blood on it, the stain would not be visible to anyone, most importantly, my mother who did the laundry in my household at the time. I wiped up the blood that I had spilled on the counter and floor with even more paper towels. Another reason not to self harm, it’s not sustainable. I put the bloody scraps at the bottom of the wastebasket, turned off the light and tiptoed back to my room. The journey from the bathroom to my bedroom door was only about 7 feet, almost directly across the hall, but in the darkness, with my-bandaged arm beginning to throb under the Bounty extra strong, the distance between the rooms seemed so much further. I slid inside the crack that I left in my door and tucked myself back into bed.

I Hate Myself (Less)

I laid very quietly staring at the ceiling thinking to myself, “What the f*ck did I just do.” The thought of having to now go through the trouble of keeping my sleeves long, bracelets plentiful and everyone else around me ignorant of any negative emotion I had. Instead of the immobilizing gloom that was consuming me before, my attention was now on how I was going to hide my “boo-boo” from my family and friends tomorrow. I could not even remember what had me so upset in the first place. I was thinking about the sharp pain that shot up and down my left arm and not the sheer pain of existing that I had developed. So many thoughts were racing through my head. I didn’t even know where to begin. I felt like I was silently losing my mind under the covers and I could not manage to fall back asleep. In my sleep deprived state, my eyes began to wander around my bedroom. Even though I was thoroughly depressed at this point in my life, my interior decorating preferences never wavered. My robin’s egg blue walls were covered with One Direction posters, maps of places I had and had not been to, and art done by myself and artists I admired. There were colorful clothes thrown on the floor, scattered across my beige carpet with an assortment of toys, books and art supplies that also were not put away in a traditional sense but some how in the chaos, I could always find the tackle I required. My room was bright and happy. It was a place for youthful innocence, having sleepovers with my friends and staying up way too late reading comic books under the covers. It looked like every other middle school girls’ room but I hope to some god that the things that I was trying to hide inside my bedroom walls were not the feelings of every other middle school girl. It was hard to think that someone who fantasized about falling in love with a Jonas Brother and wore hello kitty pajamas could have so much darkness inside her but here I was, nursing a self inflicted knife wound the night before an algebra test.

The first cut is the deepest

Physical pain is easy to treat. There are specific steps and procedures that can be done to treat injury, and most of the time, those specific steps and procedures can be used by lots of different kinds of folks. Emotional pain is a completely different beast. It is so hard to treat because it takes so long for those suffering to even realize that something is wrong and even after that, most just choose to try to just triage themselves unassisted. Anxiety and Depression like to adhere to the deepest crevices of your mind so that try as you might alone, you are unable to extract them. I had no idea how to handle the mounting pressure I was putting on myself and my hatred for myself that grew by the day. I couldn’t concentrate on anything, and I couldn’t sleep. The panic felt like it could devour me at any moment and I had no way to defend myself. I did not know what mental illness was; How was I supposed to know how to heal? I needed something to distract myself. If I had to be suffering, I wanted to suffer from something that I knew how to handle. My mom kept Neosporin and bandages above the washing machine. She taught me to wash my wounds before I treated them, so that they heal. Even the most painful lesion could be treated and your body will try its best to heal itself. It had become all too apparent to me that my mind did not have the same regenerative capabilities that my body had.

Physical Pain is easy to treat, it’s the emotional pain that gets neglected and if left untreated, can infect your whole life.

I Hate Myself (Less)

The first cut is the deepest

I Hate Myself (Less)

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I Hate Myself (Less)

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I Hate Myself (Less)

ven after continuous support and encouragement from my loved ones and even as I am writing this now, just weeks before I am going to share this book with the unsuspecting public, I still feel like a bit of an asshole. I mean, who am I to think that my story is worth people giving up their valuable time to read it. Why do I think I am such hot shit that my experiences are even worthy of gracing the pages of a book, even a small, self-published, faux memoir written by an amateur art student. A quick note,

General rule of thumb is that you should never take advice from someone who chose to go to art school so you might have made an incredible mistake taking any of this in the first place, BUT I

solemnly swear that I have consulted outside resources and during my research, I was profoundly affected by the wisdom of a particular academic that I like to refer to as the Britney Spears of social work, Brene Brown

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If I had to pick a moment when I finally felt like I was starting to heal, it was when I finally broke down my barriers and began sharing my truth. I had built up my defenses so high that I couldn’t see the outside and I felt suffocated and alone. When I began to share feelings, that had previously never left my subconscious, I could almost feel the pressure leave my body. With every little bit I shared, I left myself exposed in a heal that was restorative. I was more vulnerable than ever and I felt liberated. I no longer had to bear the burden of keeping the evidence of my mental illness a secret, which was quite sizable because I do not have the attention span to

effortlessly keep a secret.

Being vulnerable can not only benefit your own mental health but it can inspire others to seek out healing as well. This idea finally made sense to me after I listened to Brene Brown’s TED Talk, “The Power of Vulnerability”. Apart from being an icon, Brown is a renowned social worker, researcher, and public speaker. In her talk Brown outlines how in her work she discovered that vulnerability is essential for feeling like you are worthy. Brown has spent years collecting qualitative data from subjects all over the country about their experiences with selfacceptance and feeling connected to others. She found that the difference between people who feel love and acceptance, and people don’t believe they deserve love and acceptance is the ability to be vulnerable and actually believing that we are in fact worthy of love and connection.

I Hate Myself (Less)

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Sharing is Caring

Most folks naturally want to make sense of messy situations. It is hard to lean into discomfort and expose yourself to your own trauma, it’s easier to just file it away somewhere far in your mind. We avoid vulnerability at all costs so we rarely experience just how powerful vulnerability can be and that is what Brown explores in her research. Queen Brene begins her TED talk by discussing the importance of connection. Connection is what gives us purpose, a reason to get out of bed and, in her research findings, Brown began to see that in order for connection to happen, we need to allow ourselves to be seen. After countless hours of interviewing, Brown found that the people that she spoke to often fell in one of two categories; those who felt worthy and those who did not. More often than not, the interviewees that felt worthy, who consistently experience self love, felt like they had authentic and meaningful connections with those around them as a result of being vulnerable and authentic themselves. I could not have said it better when Brene breaks it down and hits us with this wisdom:

“Staying vulnerable is a risk we have to take if we want to experience connection.” If we want to feel like

we are a part of something bigger than ourselves, like we are a part of fulfilling relationships, we need to give something of ourselves first. If you are not honest with yourself, you cannot be honest with other people, which is not conducive to earnest relationships, and you need those in order to be a sane human being!

I Hate Myself (Less)

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I was really struck by Brown’s insight because she described was exactly how I felt. The moment I started being more honest with myself and others about my struggles and battles with mental illness the more I began to feel empowered and like my relationships with others were deepened as a result of my honesty. In retrospect, it’s obvious to me that I needed to embrace vulnerability in order to free myself but that was a lot easier said than done. The shame I carried with me about what I was feeling and what I was doing myself consumed me and I didn’t dare let anyone else know how powerless I felt. I have experienced a lot of struggles as a result of mental illness and for some odd reason, I was embarrassed so I hid all evidence of my self-loathing and worked to create a smiling “mask” that I could wear when I didn’t want to show my true self to the world. By doing this, I thought that I was protecting myself

from further pain, but I unintentionally created a prison that I could not escape from. Sharing my truth

enabled me to reclaim control over my mental health and begin accepting my honest self, but not before I experienced the repercussions of unbridled vulnerability. It is so scary to let your guard down because being vulnerable can burn you. It can make you susceptible to being taken advantage of or giving too much of yourself to someone, but sometimes in order to heal you need to take the risk.

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Hate Myself Myself (Less) (Less) II Hate

e was visiting Michigan for the weekend and things leading up to his arrival weren’t particularly bad but they had not been amazing. There had been some distance between us, not just the physical distance that had always been there due to our long distacne relationship, but emotional too. We used to have non-stop dialogue, but through most of our conversations I have to stop and catch my breath from laughing so hard but I really didn’t feel that this particular weekend. We essentially live two completely separate lives, mine on my campus and his on a campus in an different state. We were no longer just a 15-minute drive away from each other, I couldn’t just text my mom that I was staying after school for some fake club event and then drive to his house instead. There was no spontaneity anymore, our relationship had to be scheduled and was based around logistics, less and less around our relationship with one another.

I knew that I loved him, oh my God I loved him so much but I was also beginning to resent being tied to someone that was never around. I would go out with my friends and be overwhelmed by the feeling of guilt for the boys coming up to talk to me or dance with me. I knew that I would never cheat on anyone I made a commitment to, but it was hard not to be drawn to the feeling of being wanted that I was receiving from boys around me.

We broke up on a Thursday

I had never really received attention like this, I had relationships with other people before and I knew that I wasn’t unattractive but I was discovering that in this brandnew alcohol-fueled hookup culture landscape that can sometimes come with college life, I was desirable but I could not participate. Thoughts began to creep in my mind like maybe I was missing out on something. I didn’t want to believe it. My mother had warned me that it could be nice to not go into college with a boyfriend, a fresh start. There are so many new people to meet, why would I want to be tied down she would ask me. “But Mom I love him,” I would plead like something out of a YA romance novel. I don’t know how many mothers have been successfully able to convince their teenage daughters that their relationships should probably end but I can’t imagine that number is very high. He’s the first person I ever truly loved and Who Loved Me, the first person I told about my deepest insecurities and fears, the first person I ever had sex with, the person I so wanted to make happy that I ignored any skepticism or feelings of discomfort I had about parts of our relationship.

I Hate Myself (Less)

The two of us spent a lot of platonic time together before anything romantic happened between us. We grew up together in church and we began to pile up mutual friends without really getting to know one another. He was an extra in the movie of my life until he wasn’t. He became my co-star, a main character that was starting to occupy almost every scene. We began talking the summer before senior year of high school. We joked around together, got lunch, played Frisbee golf, and just enjoyed each other’s company. He began stopping in to the ice cream shop I worked at during my shifts, at first bringing his friends, and then just him. He asked me to his school’s homecoming dance with flowers in our church’s parking lot and I eagerly said yes. As we spent time together as friends our feelings for each other deepened, we spent every moment we could together and our mutual friends began to tease us and mockingly ask when we were gonna start dating already. Blushing, I would yell some retort back at them to mind their business and I would turn my attention back to him, my attention seemed to always be on him.

Our first kiss was in November on my parents couch. I had asked him to come over while my parents were

away. We laid next to each other on the couch watching a movie, we inched closer and closer towards one another as the movie played out on the TV that we weren’t paying any attention to. When the credits started to roll, I couldn’t take it anymore, I spun around to face him, touched my hand to his leg and I made a move.

We broke up on a Thursday

As we entered into a prototypical passionate high school make out session, I felt euphoric. I had kissed a few boys in my day but this was boy different. This boy wanted me more than the others seemed to, he made me laugh more than the other boys did, he made me feel more free than the other boys did. In that moment, on my living room couch, our completely clothed bodies tangled, my mind was completely at peace in a way that I had not experienced in a very long time. This kiss marked the beginning of our relationship and I was now a part of an official packaged deal. I spent my last months of high school doing all the things that you look forward to as a 17 year old on the cusp of adulthood with him by my side. After school, I would tell my mom I was staying after for Model UN or volleyball practice when in reality I would drive my 2007 GMC envoy across town to his house where he would be walking out of his garage onto his driveway as I pulled up. It was always the same, I threw the car in park, left my backpack on the passenger seat and I would exit my vehicle and throw my arms around him because the 24 hours we had been apart was simply too long. Our reunion would continue in his basement where we would stay for the next hour alternating kissing, talking about our days, making each other howl with laughter at some new bit we had started until we would emerge from our subterranean layer, greet his mother and sister who had returned and I would drive home. I loved those drives home. With the windows rolled down, the lingering high from being with the boy I adored still consuming me, and most likely a Black Keys CD blaring through my speakers, I entered full main character mode on that 12 minute drive back. Nothing else on the entire planet mattered, not the fact I had not unloaded the dishwasher earlier when my mom had asked, not college acceptances that I had yet to receive, not the centerpieces for prom that I was in charge of selecting, only him.

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The first time we had sex was in February. We had

talked about it before, we were both virgins and several months before while we were playing tonsil hockey in the back of his Jeep I told him very matter-o-factly that I had I wanted him to be the first that popped my metaphorical cherry in the near future. After carefully reflecting on my proposal, he agreed so we both know that the “doing it” would occur soon. I am not too sentimental about sex, I think that any sex between two consenting adults is great but I knew that I wanted my first time to be with a person that I didn’t hate and I wanted to it maybe be little special. I made a playlist, I had always imagined there to be some candles tastefully lit in the corner but I had grossly underestimated the power of lust between two teenage lovers because we ended up not being up to keep it in our pants long enough to execute any romantic plan.

It was early afternoon on a sunny, but chilly day. We sat alone in his basement like we had done dozens of times before. Before we could participate in anything we had planned for our hangouts, we darted downstairs turned on the TV to anything that was on and what would start with a shared glance would inevitably end in someone’s hands being in someone’s pants. But this time was different, we were entering the big leagues. Both of us were pulsating with unadulterated horniess and my plan for a fairytale deflowering was thrown out the window as I whispered a request for him to enter my no-no square. At a little after 1:30 pm, less than half an hour before I had to return home to run errands with my mother before a babysitting gig, my leggings were being yanked off, Trojan wrappers were getting ripped open and all of a sudden my title of virgin was wiped from my resume.

I Hate Myself (Less)

The whole experience was not incredibly long, this is not a slight on his part, nothing larger than a Tampax Super Tampon had ever entered me before and his member was quite a bit larger. This made for a lot of pain rather than pleasure so we went through the motions before I ultimately waved my white flag and asked if we would try again another time. For such a short month, a lot in my life happened, I got my first tattoo (a very handmade looking stick and poke, but a tattoo nonetheless), I lost my virginity and my grandfather died. I was juggling all these and more thoughts in my head as I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, wiping the mascara that had begun to run down my face before making my way back to him. I am sure that I am not alone in having a rocky first sexual experience, I mean what was supposed to happen? We were two horny virgins that

were about to recreate what we had seen in pornos and raunchy movies so we were not set up for success. Without going into a lot of

detail, we eventually figured out the tricks of the trade so don’t y’all worry.

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I Hate Myself (Less)

As the end of high school came and went, we transitioned into summer where we could spend every waking minute together. Our days were filled with roller-blading, bike riding, and hooking up in local parking lots. Every day with him was so fun and he made me so great that I could ignore the occasional coerced blowjob that I would begrudgingly participate in because I didn’t know how to say “no.” The moments where it was just the two of us hiking through the woods of the state park were so joyful, I could ignore that I held back tears every time he forced my head into the pillow and thrust himself into from behind when we fucked. Every once and a while I would make a few half ass excuses for why I couldn’t but most of the time, I gave in to his advances no matter how I felt because girlfriends like being intimate with their boyfriends.

Girlfriends feel safe with their boyfriends and girlfriends put out. My own pleasure was the furthest thing from my mind.

The plan was to meet after he saw his friends and after I was done at the frat party that I was attending. I had a pretty hefty liquor blanket on when I stumbled out the front door of the fraternity house when I saw him standing on the sidewalk. He was not sober, but seemed to be in better shape than my sloppy self. We made the trek up to my dorm room where we chatted with my friends and got ready beside my roommate and her boyfriend. The four of us were packed into the tiny room, two people in each of the half lofted twin beds, and someone shut off the light. In the darkness, he began kissing the back of my neck and running his hands down my body. My mind was swirling from the $15 vodka I had been sucking in the previous hours and I could not have figured out the basic mechanics of sex if I tried. I took his hand in mine and told him that we could tomorrow, but I just wasn’t up for it tonight. He politely moved his hand and gave me a kiss on the cheek. We laid like two perfectly fitting spoons and until I drifted off into a drunken slumber.

We broke up on a Thursday

I’m not sure what woke me from my tequila induced coma but my eyes opened and I realized that I was naked from the waist down and he was right up against my backside, his penis inside me. I was so discombobulated I didn’t really realize what was going on. My feet kicked off of panties that were now around my ankles and I crane my head back towards him to ask why he was doing. He quickly removed himself from me and began apologizing. “I’m so sorry,” he said “That was super creepy, I don’t know why I did that”. I was still in a bit of a daze. I just kept saying “What the hell?! I was asleep, what the hell?!” He began fumbling under the covers to get his own underwear back on and he gave me some soft kisses on my neck. I tried to get out of the bed but he pulled me back, my vision still blurry from the alcohol and abrupt awakening. I began to feel cold all over, my skin was crawling. I couldn’t put into words the exact feeling I was having but it was overall profound discomfort. He kept whispering his apologies to me and that would never happen again. I laid facing away from him, trying to wrap my mind around what just happened.

I Hate Myself (Less)

Across the room I saw my roommate and her boyfriend living peacefully together asleep. He had her in such a warm embrace; they look so comfortable and fit perfectly together, the antithesis of what I was experiencing just a few feet away. Every time he tried to move closer to me, which was often in my little twin bed, I winced and I closed my eyes, trying to will the morning to come. Eventually, the effects of the alcohol set in again and I dozed off, only to awake in the morning with partial recollection of what happened the night before. He woke up a few minutes later and started asking about our plans for the day. He began putting on his jeans and rummaging through his backpack to find his toothbrush. We began to move so quickly into our activities for the day, the events of the previous evening kept getting pushed further and further into the back of my mind but I couldn’t completely forget. At some point, I chose to ignore my gut feeling and fall back in our usual routine, I refused to put any sort of label on what had happened the night before, least of all a potential assault. He was my boyfriend after all and I did not fully comprehend that perhaps I had experienced something traumatic so I just moved onto the next thing.

We broke up on a Thursday

The rest of the weekend was a bit of a blur, there

were no more miles between but I had never felt farther from him. Our conversations with each other got shorter and shorter until his goodbye on Sunday afternoon. He left for his parents house but he said he would be back the next weekend to celebrate my birthday a bit early before his spring break was over but that didn’t end up happening.

We broke up on a Thursday. Well, maybe calling that

moment a break up is inaccurate but I’ll get to that. He had left 4 days before to go back to his parents and our text message thread had been radio silent for most of that time. It was eerie, it was four days of going through the motions of my everyday routine with the feeling of heartbreak looming over me. This was not us. Throughout our entire relationship I had always been astutely aware, of at least I thought I had been, of how he felt about me, and that feeling was infatuation but when I called him in tears asking him to come back and talk that Thursday, I had no clue. For the first time in our relationship, I felt like I had no idea what was going on between. The elevator ride I took from my floor to the lobby to meet him felt like it was hours. I stared at the glowing buttons as I began to lurch downward, growing ever closer to a conversation that I was not ready for. The doors opened and he was standing in front of me, his pale blue eyes met mine and a nervous smile crept across his face. Without saying a word, we embraced each other and made the journey back to my dorm room to talk.

I Hate Myself (Less)

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We sat on a bed for a while before I broke the silence. Slowly I began talking about how things between us felt off and I wanted to know how he was feeling, I could feel my eyes welling up with tears and I tried to force them back down as I continued to list my concerns about where our relationship was heading. I told him that I loved him and that he was important to me and he seemingly echoed the same sentiment. He told me how much he loved me, how we were meant to be together but perhaps we needed some time apart. I must have looked concerned when he said that but he quickly grabbed my hand and reassured me that if we were to talk a pause from “us” for the rest of the school year, we could pick up right where we left off once summer began and we were back in the same location. He kept saying that this would help us and we would come back together stronger than ever. My mind was racing, I couldn’t keep up with what he was talking about, were we breaking up? Meekly, I asked what the rules were for a “break” in our relationship, could we hook up with other people, were we not going to talk to each other? I

was having a hard time coming to terms with the proposal I was being presented with here on my half-lofted twin bed.

I Hate Myself (Less)

My heart was breaking because in my head I knew what this meant. I have seen America’s favorite sitcom “Friends”, I know what a “break” means, but he kept reassuring me this was temporary and began putting the broken pieces back as talking about how important our relationship was to him and so I wiped my tears and I agreed. Quickly working to convince myself that this is what I wanted, I told him that taking time apart from each other would be good. I told him that it was what I wanted too even though the thought of our separation filled me with complete dread. Our conversation slowly faded and we just laid next to one another in silence. He reached his hand over to me and gently grabbed my face and pulled me in to kiss me. For a half second, I tried to pull away, but he whispered that we were still together right now, let’s make the most of it so I gave in. I kissed him just as I had a

thousand times before but this would be the last one we would share.

I am not sure how much longer we stayed in my room. It could have been 2 hours, it could have been 15 minutes but at some point, we emerged and made our way down the stairwell out on the sidewalk. He had parked across campus by his friend’s dorm and I was prepared to send him off when he took my hand in his and asked if I could walk with him to his car. I nodded and I walked with him as he began talking about what was happening in his life, all the exciting things we were gonna do this summer, I occasionally chimed in with a short affirmation or approving head nod but my mind was elsewhere.

We broke up on a Thursday

I Hate Myself (Less)

Once we went to his car, he offered to give me a ride back to my building on his way out of campus, so once again, the start of our “break” was slightly delayed as I opened the passenger door of his Jeep as I had so many times before. On a normal day, I would immediately plug my phone into the aux cord and begin blasting our latest favorite song so we could sing at full volume, with him pausing every once and awhile to turn and laugh at me. I was thinking about those car rides as we made our way to West Quad with the radio silently accompanying us. Normally, my eyes would be fixed on him as he drove, I would listen intently and laugh hysterically as he made joke after joke that left me struggling for air. I would run my fingers through his fluffy blonde hair or put my hand on his thigh in an effort to just try and get a little bit closer to him but not this car ride. I laid my head against the window, feeling the cool glass on the forehead as my dark and quiet campus whirled by. I didn’t look at him when he arrived at the side door of my building. I took

a deep breath as I felt the car slow to a stop, it was time to go. I stepped out of the car and walked over to the rolled down driver’s side window where he was waiting.

We broke up on a Thursday

What before had felt like a goodbye that just would not end was now over in the blink of an eye. We told each other we loved each other and he took my hand and looked into my eyes. Then we broke our gaze, let go of our hands and the window went up. I stepped back onto the sidewalk and turned around as I heard him slowly accelerate and drive away. I made a conscious effort not to turn back. Even as I heard him drive off farther into the distance, I kept my eyes focused on the door. I kept my head high and my momentum moving forward as I swiped my ID to open the door. I stayed upright and pulled together as I traveled down the long halls and up stairwells until I got inside my room and into the bed we sat in together less than a half hour before. As I stared up at the ceiling I began to cry. I cried because I knew deep down that our relationship was over, I cried because the person that I loved and trusted with my most personal demons had appeared to drive away from our relationship without seemingly batting an eye. I cannot say that I know how he felt at this moment, I cannot assume what he was going through because I do not know. Maybe he was hurting the way I was, maybe he felt a sense of relief for finally leaving my anxiety riddled self behind, I don’t think I’ll ever know, we never really

talked again.

Ok that is a bit dramatic, I have spoken to him, I’d

venture to say we are on good terms, good but very few terms. We say hi and exchange a brief hug when we run into each other but the small talk we exchange might as well be from old work colleagues at not two people that used to be convinced they would be together forever. For a long time, I reflected on our relationship as rose colored glasses; I began to idealize our time together and suppress the moments that showed a more dysfunctional side. This is not to say that any of the happiness or nostalgia I experience when reflecting on our relationship is a farce, I really did love most of my relationship with him. I loved most parts of him and I know that he loved most parts of me but at the end of the day, we were not a synchronous pair. Neither of us has been a part of something so serious and emotional and I let myself get lost in it, choosing to ignore situations and behavior that made me feel uncomfortable. I gave myself to him completely and at times passively which I think that a lot of other high school boys would have taken advantage of as well. I tried to reach out in the months following our split and my texts were returned with short, unsubstantial replies and then silence. I even wrote him a letter, in an effort to get some things off my chest and I even wrote something to the effect of “the way

you treated me will set an example for the rest of my relationships.” All I wanted was to feel like I was being

heard and that we could have some sort of real good bye. He was such an important part of my life and at this point, one of the only people that I have disclosed my struggle with self harm to and I just wanted to at least have him as a friend in my life, but that feeling was not reciprocated.

We broke up on a Thursday

Our non-break-up did little to satiate my desire for closure and for our friendship to stay intact. I knew that our romantic relationship had run its course and that was perfectly fine for me. I liked being single and being able to experience college with my heart on my sleeve and my legs spread. Sure, I still had an incredibly unhealthy relationship with sex and completely neglected my own pleasure for a long time after our relationship ended but I felt free. I could choose when I wanted to have sex and when I didn’t. I had no emotional attachment to the partners I was selecting so I had no problem neglecting any one of them if I chose to. It was difficult to attach myself to someone in the first place and he had even talked me out of ending our relationship on good terms before parting for our respective colleges, more than 250 miles away from each other. I bared my soul to someone else for the first time and it had not turned out as I had hoped, which was ok, I was going to lick my wounds and lift my guard up a little bit higher and reap the benefits of all the attention from the male population I could receive as newly initiated freshmen sorority sister. Now, this is the perfect transition into my next chapter but I just want to let everyone know that this has a happy ending so do not stress. I appreciate what I learned from my relationship with him and how much I grew as a person and in no way regret that it happened. I wish that certain elements had not taken place and I have had to do some hard work to heal myself, but even those less that desirable moments led me to where I am today.

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As of March 2021, I have come so far in my relationship with sex and trusting my partners. I have been my boyfriend now for more that two years and I think that I can confidently say that how I am treated in this relationship is a lot more empowering. This comes with communication and trust and undoubtedly a lot of hardships and maturing but in finding out who I was and that I was worth actual unselfish love, I found what I thought that I had 4 years ago. I now know that I don’t have to give all of myself to someone else, I am my own powerful and deserving person that can choose to share my life with someone else that makes me feel powerful and deserving everyday. I hope that he is doing so well, I hope that he is able to accomplish the dreams that he shared with me years ago. I hope that he is able to find the person that he thought I was going to be for him and I hope he treats that person with the dignity and respect that they deserve. I want him to be so happy and fulfilled because while I am in love with someone else, I’ll always love him, not what he did to me, but what our relationship did for me.

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fter we broke up, I was sad, sure, but I was mainly overwhelmed by my feeling of freedom. All of a sudden, I belonged to no one but myself and I felt compelled to act on every impulse I had, especially when it came to men and alcohol. We broke up on a Thursday and by that Saturday I was hyped up on coke with my tongue in some random boy’s mouth. I became a force of complete slutty chaos. I thought that I was empowered, having sex with people that I didn’t have feelings for and then moving onto the next one when I was bored. Perhaps I had transcended monogamy and had become a well adjusted renaissance woman, but I very quickly began slipping down a dark hole. I seemed to be devoid of any emotion and as I hooked up with anything that had a pulse, I began to feel less and less. It didn’t seem to matter how I was treated by these men or what they wanted for me, I let it happen and I put on the disguise of a free spirited, sexually experienced goddess when in reality I was a fragile child who needed constant validation. During this sexual bender, I was very fortunate that I did not experience any real trauma or assault, but the sheer bizarreness of some of the romantic encounters I had caused me to think about making some different choices. While each were special in their own way, like the post Jimmy John’s midnight fuck I wore my Crocs and brought a bag of hot Cheetos too, or using the promise of getting to play with my hamster (rest in peace Honeybaked) to invite a member of the boxing team over for a quickie. None of these escapades could compare to the “John Kasich” incident.

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I don’t know what it is, but there is something about a frat basement that just makes me want to create mayhem

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Allow me to set the scene for you: it was a warm

September evening. After an afternoon of day drinking and shenanigans, I went with my friends to the basement of our favorite fraternity, conveniently located 4 blocks from my home. The outfit I had chosen for the evening was a low cut black bodysuit and bluejeans. This was the unspoken uniform of a sophomore sorority girl who was on the prowl for free beer and someone to make out with. The night began as many do on a college campus, with beer pong, the game of kings, and not to toot my own horn but I was on fire. Perhaps this is what my time as a high school varsity athlete had trained me for, beating a bunch of over intoxicated boys at a sport played with ping pong balls and plastic cups. I was not the only one who seemed to recognize my Michael Jordan level excellence on the pong table because soon enough, a boy who I will call Derek, wandered over, asking if I could be his partner for the next game. I liked Derek fine enough. We had talked a lot at a few tailgates and he had even drunkenly kissed at a party a few weeks earlier out of the blue so I knew if I wanted him, all I had to do was make my move. I thought he was pretty cute, but if i’m being honest, at the stage in my bender that I was in, he could have looked like Shrek and I would have still allowed him into my no fly zone.

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After two lackluster games and an unbelievable amount of sexual tension, he grabbed my hand and led me to the basement where we were going to retrieve more beer. We never crossed that task off our to do list because as soon as we were out of sight of the rest of the party goers, we began kissing and groping each other in the stairway. We gradually moved the make out session to behind the DJ booth and then on top of a homemade bench that did not appear to me to be structurally sound. It only took me a few minutes to decide in my head that I was definitely going to have sex with Derek so we might as well just do the damn thing now. I whispered a proposition in his ear in my very best sexy voice and we sprinted up the stairs to his bedroom. This was always something I kept in the back of my mind when choosing a potential partner, how close is their bed to where I am right now? Throughout my years of research, I have found that there is in fact a correlation between the proximity of a potential sexual partner’s bedroom and my willingness to spread my legs. When we got to his room, we began the traditional “try to make out whilst simultaneously removing one’s clothes’ ‘ that so many couples have attempted before us.

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Throughout this delicate dance, I would like to point out that Derek was very courteous and asked me for consent at every step along the way. It was “is this ok?” and “is it ok if I do that?” and I found it endearing at first. But was the questions kept coming, and the minutes kept ticking on I was wondering if sex was in fact going to happen at all. My drunkenness was beginning to ever so slightly fade away and my instinctual desire to obtain a snack and get in bed was slowly overtaking me. After many minutes of the most consensual foreplay I had ever had up to that point, he sat up and told me that he thought we were both too drunk and we probably shouldn’t do anything further. Although slightly disappointed, I was more relieved that I had a definitive answer as to whether intercourse was happening and I could go home. Before I had time to say anything, he started kissing my neck again and touching me in that special way so I thought it was back on. I stopped putting my bra back on and unbuttoned my freshly put on jeans, preparing again for another mediocre sexual encounter in a fraternity bedroom, when he yet again removed me himself from me and sat up. He said again that he didn’t think we should have sex and I was overtaken with confusion. I was being the most mixed signals a purpose could receive and I had begun to realize that what I had initially identified as the beginning of sobering up, was in fact the cruel birth of a dizzying blackout.

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I was fading and fading fast when Derek laid me down next to him on the bed and began explaining that the rising “Me Too” movement that was dominating our culture and giving rise to women being able to stand up against abusive men, he did not want any of his own actions to be misconstrued as any non consensual. He then began briefing mentioning issues that he had in the past with “hooking up” with other girls and the him “being blamed” for things, but as soon as it was mentioned, Derek quickly rerouted the conversation to his more “liberal” political persuasions than I might have previously realized. What had once began as my attempt to get some emotionless sex from, who I used to think was, a reasonably unassuming partner, had turned in him launching into a tirade against FORMER President Trump and how he was giving all republicans a bad wrap. Derek was more of a John Kasich republican and he told me this fact very proudly. My head was on his chest at the point and I felt my eyelids getting heavier and heavier as he stroked my hair and reassured me that he knew how liberal I was and that he “totally understood me”.

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I can’t blame him for assuming that my political affiliations were of the

leftist persuasion.

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I was not sober nor conscience nor interested enough to question how he could possibly have any idea about my own ideologies when 97% of our very few interactions up until that point were under alcohol-less circumstances, but nevertheless he continued to shower my leftist ideologies with praise and talked about he was doing a lot of research about socialism, to which I replied that I wasn’t sure I considered myself a socialist. Derek seemed shocked by this, as if my art student status, piercings and propensity to dye my hair unconventional colors are unequivocal signs of the socialism fanhood. I do not remember all of the details of the following conversation because I fell asleep for the middle 25 minutes of Derek’s monologue, but from what I remember before I lost consciousness was him discussing how new thinkers like him were needed in Washington to clear out the bureaucratic mush and then the next thing I remember I was waking up in a puddle of drool on his chest while he speaking passionately about the fate of our nation. I’m not sure if it was instincts or divine intervention but at that moment I knew that if I didn’t leave now, I was going to be trapped overnight in the bed of a self identifying moderate Republicans who likes to tell women about how he understands our plight, so I needed to act quickly. I mustered all the strength I had to stand myself up and find my clothing. As he questioned my sudden departure as I made up some half-assed excuse about how I had work in the morning as I rummaged around the dark and messy bedroom from my jeans and underpants. I wasn’t able to find the shirt that I was wearing when I arrived at the fraternity but before he could offer to help me look for it, I sacrificed the Forever 21 frock as a casualty of the night and I rushed for the door. I denied his offer to buy me an Uber, despite the only thing gracing the upper half of my body was my blue Victoria’s Secret pushup bra.

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It was a warm fall evening (or morning depending what type of person you are) and I felt very comfortable walking the 3 blocks back to my house, despite my lack of clothing. I thought that walking would be my quickest escape from my situation as well as a cathartic experience where I would reflect on the event that had just transpired in peaceful solitude. We exchanged our farewell pleasantries as I weaved my way in and out of drinking games and made out sessions. Derek took the time to tell me how he’d love to hang out with me again as I avoided stepping in beer puddles in my air force ones like the roadrunner avoided landmines placed in my path by Wiley Coyote. I felt instant relief as I opened the heavy front door and a warm fall breeze greeted me as I finally liberated myself from my botched dick down (sorry family this is a bit vulgar but it is truly the best way to describe the situation). As soon as my feet hit the pavement I began to pick up speed. At first, my pace could be described as a brisk walk but as the reality of how entirely bizarre and awkward my rendezvous was began to set in, I broke into a bit of a trot, then jog until I was in an all out sprint down hill st towards my house. I was no longer concerned with how I was going to preemptively manage my inevitable hangover or the fact that I was half naked, utilizing my best track and field skills in front of the law school at the butt crack of dawn. In that moment, I was overtaken by a desire to be in my bed that was so strong, I was unable to even acknowledge the world. I am not a religious person, but I swear to whatever God is listening, I have never traveled past a Jimmy John’s sandwich shop without bottlenecking and longing for a #6 with hot peppers and Kickin’ Ranch. This was particularly dangerous because my house was 1 block from the nearest Jimmy John’s but in that moment, as my shirtless self hurdled down the sidewalk towards the intersection of Hill and Packard, I did not even bat an eye at the red glow of the two J’s that graced the establishments sign.

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My front door, which only several minutes before seemed so far away was now approaching rapidly and I could almost feel my down comforter start to wrap around me as I dove into my surprising comfortable twin bed. I knew that I did not have my key on me but I had told my roommates that I was still out and would take care of locking the door when I returned so they could leave it unlocked. The details from this incident are fuzzy and no definite suspects have ever been identified but somehow, while the deadbolt was not locked, the door chain was in place. This enables the door to open just a crack, enough for me to fully see my sanctuary, but completely unable to cross the threshold. It was late and I did not want to bother my roommates unless the situation got really dire so before panicking, I was cool as a cucumber and checked all the other entrances to the house. The backdoor, the basement door and the side door were all locked and I realized it was time to start calling for assistance. One by one I dialed each of my roommates and one by one their phones kept ringing and ringing and ringing before going to voicemail. I tried banging on the door and calling out through the crack in the doorway, but none of my efforts elicited a response. As disappointing as this was, I was not surprised that no one heard my calls. It was a Friday evening before a game day, this meant that everyone was either passed out from drinking and would rally in the morning for more drinking before the football or the slightly more responsible individuals that refrained from completely blacking out the night before a game, went to bed early in order to wake up early to be able to get shitfaced before going to the game.

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My roommates all fit into either one of these two camps which meant that, either way they would be unresponsive to my cries. The cold hard truth of the matter was beginning to set in and I began to realize that I might not get to sleep in my bed tonight and I had to come to terms with the idea of sleeping outside of my home. I considered just texting Derek and going back over to the fraternity, but I had no interest in attending another discussion with the Young Republicans club so I quickly dismissed that option as nonviable. I thought about other friends of mine that lived by, but my head started spinning and I knew that I would be unsuccessful navigating in my drunken state. I concluded there was only one option, I was sleeping outside.

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When we had moved into our house, there was a particularly gnarly pullout sofa that lived in our living room. This couch had been in a college house for a long time and it showed. I had found us a new, slightly less auspicious looking couch at my church rummage sale so we had no need for the pullout. We could not just throw away the couch because it belonged to our landlord so we settled on using it as porch furniture and now, several weeks later, I was going to sleep on that gnarly couch, outside. I curled up in a tight ball on top of the faded cushions. It was not particularly cold outside, but for a drunk nineteen year old in a crop top, it felt like the arctic. I closed my eyes and repeated to myself “fall the fuck asleep, it’ll be over soon if you just fall the fuck asleep”. My eyelids got heavier and heavier until everything was black. It felt like just a few seconds (it turned out to be an hour and a half) after I lost consciousness, my felt someone tap on my shoulder. I peeked my eyes open to see my roommate Jack standing over me with a very concerned and confused look on his face. “Betsy, what are you doing out here? Do you want to go inside?” he asked me in a soft voice as he helped me to my feet. Before I could explain that I was sleeping on the porch because the chain lock was up and I could not get ahold of anyone, I burst into tears of relief and collapsed into his arms. I thanked him profusely as he led me up to my room and I slipped under my covers. I pulled my comforter over my head and closed my eyes. I was alone, I was indoors and as I began to doze off, I made the promise to myself that perhaps I needed to change my approach with men and that I was never going to try and hookup with a

conservative ever again.

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deally, I could wrap up this book//project/ reflective journey by saying “I have been completely cured of my demons and the struggles that used to haunt me are now just a distant memory with the help of healthy life choices and 100 mg of Zoloft daily” but nothing is ever that neat. Sure I no longer cry when I see myself naked or cancel plans because I am too anxious to go out (the pandemic also really helps in that regard) but just the other day I got so stressed out about having to decide what I wanted to get at Trader Joe’s that I cried in my car and decided not to go at all. Healing is not a linear process in the slightest and it really took a lot of self reflection, bong rips and obscenely long showers, DJed by my “I want to cry” playlist on Spotify, to realize that I can’t cure myself. I need to be able to open myself up to others and allow myself to ask for help. It is complete lunacy to think that the same fucked-up brain that caused all my problems will be the same fucked-up brain, and that fucked-up brain alone will save me. I needed help and I needed to realize that I needed help on my own, which is a very hard thing for my loved ones to learn.

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Before I ever shared a lick of any of this to anyone, my Mom began to put the pieces of the puzzle together. She discovered little clues here and there like bloody paper towels in the bottom of my trash. It was a well known fact that I was an incredibly emotional young lady but, like the good depressed young adult I was, I worked very hard to make sure no one ever knew how broken I felt. When I could no longer hide the extent to which anxiety was controlling my life, my family tried to get me to talk to my doctor and other professionals but I had no interest in working on a mental health problem that was too painful for me to admit that I even had. I I know my mom blames herself for not knowing and wonders if there is anything that she could have done differently but the fact that I grew up with the most loving and supportive family on Earth and I am still as big of a nut job as I am shows how pervasive mental illness could be. I was so lucky to have loved ones around me that showered me with love and encouraged me to pursue my passions despite the fact that I was not being my most authentic self.

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In another life, I don’t know if I would have been able to make it to where I am at. If I hadn’t had parents that encouraged my artistic passions, I would have been able to build my confidence enough to pursue my B.F.A. If my parents hadn’t supported me going to art school (emotional and financially), I would not have been able to explore my creative practice and foster my love for art education. If I had not come to the University of Michigan, I would have missed opportunities like traveling to Nepal and meeting so many of my close friends that support and inspire me to be myself. If my Dad didn’t work insane hours to provide for my family, I would not have been able to find health care providers and medication needed to get my mental health under control. If my Mom didn’t take me to every soccer practice, art class, dance class, and chaperone every field trip, I would not have had a positive outlet to deal with my struggles. Perhaps I would have turned to more destructive coping mechanisms. If my parents had not found the note I had written about just how hopelessly miserable I was and how I didn’t know how much longer I could go on living the way I was, would I have in fact have succeeded in taking my own life. Maybe I wouldn’t be here sitting in front of my computer, trying to figure out how to write the ending to a story, that for the first time, I truly want to continue. I used to want to close the book entirely, maybe even tear out some pages before tossing my story into a dumpster but now I want to see how this life will play out. I have plans and aspirations I need to accomplish which is a bit of a new sensation for me. I feel immensely grateful to be able to recount my experiences good and bad in this way because there are so many folks that are suffering alone and that can be paralyzing. My ultimate hope is that in sharing my gospel truth, others might feel compelled to reach out of the darkness and confide in someone they love, or even just let someone else know that they are struggling. Having to carry the burden of depression alone is virtually impossible and I felt like I could finally breathe again once I decided that I wanted to help myself and confided in the right people around me.

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Riding on my mental health roller coaster has been tumultuous for the better part of the last decade but I refused to recognize that I needed help for the majority of that time. I lived in blissful ignorance of the fact that not everyone walked around everyday with a sense of impending doom that threatens their sanity and once my parents began trying to find me help, I pushed back hard. I remember having to force back tears in the car as my mother drove me to the office of the first psychologist I ever met with. They just wanted to help me but I was not at all ready to confront that part of my life that I never opened up to the doctor. I finally told my mom how much I hated going and she let up on the subject with the caveat that I was to continue to explore treatment options on my own until I found something that would work for me. I promised that I would do my research and seek out help on my own but again, I let my well being slip through the cracks. When I began college, my anxiety did not go away by any means, but my self-harms habits were beginning to fade and immediately equated this with the idea that I was healed. I know longer wanted to consistently slice my wrists open so, in my mind, I was the picture of mental stability. There was so much going on my first two years of college that I don’t even think I would have had time to spiral anyway. I didn’t let myself feel the pain of my break-up because I immediately declared

open season on any fraternity man in Ann Arbor that would stick his tongue in my mouth. I wasn’t able

to understand this bender I was on was not empowering me at all. When I met my current partner, and I was with a partner that I knew loved and respected me, the reality of everything that I had experienced came flooding back.

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Here I was being loved and supported in a way that I never had been before but all of a sudden, 2 years of heartbreak, self loathing, and repressed trauma began slipping back into my life. I felt so confused because on one hand, I felt like I was finally a part of a healthy partnership but on the other I was finally coming to terms with experiences that I had long tried to get over. One person can only take so much being pulled back and forth until they finally snap, and my snap came in August 2019, the night before moving into my new apartment junior year in the form of a butcher knife to my right upper thigh. I am unable to truly recount what actually happened because I blacked out during what I assume was a panic attack but after 2 years of being self-harm free, I gave myself a 3 inch laceration just below where my leg meets my hip socket. I could not believe what I had done. In my head, this was not an issue that I had anymore, I had outgrown it, but apparently that was not the case. This episode set the tone for the rest of my semester, I was hard pressed to go through an entire day without crying. I began to cancel more and more plans, I even skipped a studio class, which is a cardinal art school sin. I could tell my friends were concerned about how I was acting, but were unsure about how to help me. My interactions with my roommates got quicker as the semester progressed and I began spending more time alone in my room. Things that used to bring me so much joy, now left me feeling nothing, it was like a light went out. I wasn’t living, I was just going through the motions of life and it wasn’t until I began having thoughts that I didn’t want to live anymore that I realized I needed help immediately. I knew that I had so much to live for and so many people that loved me, but that was starting to not feel like enough to keep going and I needed to change something.

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My first action was to admit that I needed help. I

finally started seeing a psychiatrist on my own terms and began taking medication to stabilize my mood. I began to open up with my loved ones about my feelings more and even shipped off to Denmark for my second semester to study abroad. I could feel the clouds parting, the doom that consumed me was subsiding and I was in a brand new country with brand new people, experiencing a brand new version of myself and I was thriving; then the world ended.

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I don’t know if you have heard of the corona virus, but it really put a damper on my pivotal moment of personal growth because before I knew it, I was back on a plane to my parents house. Any anxiety I had about being thrust back into my childhood home and all members of my immediate family for the first time in four years quickly dissipated when I began throwing myself into my artwork. It seemed as though as soon as I stepped off the plane my mother had already set up a satellite art studio in our living room and I began creating for fun in a way that I had not done in years. I was able to reflect on my feelings through my art and then share the same feelings with my family. I was being open and vulnerable in a way that I never had and I felt it had direct correlation on my mental health. i felt a little guilty in the beginning but I seem to be enjoying my quarantine. Being forced to confront my struggles and find ways of healthy ways of coping through my creative practice was incredibly cathartic, like a huge weight was lifted off my chest. This personal creative self-reflection naturally transitioned into my IP project, and somehow this book emerged in all the chaos. Finally, I feel like I have been heard, even if noone were to read this the fact that I’ve been able to come to terms with things that were far too painful for me in the past. If one person were to feel inspired to share their truth with a loved one or reach out for help after reading this I would have considered this project a success. Mental illness is so lonely and suffering in silence only makes it worse. What keeps me going is being able to rely on the ones around me for support and to use my art as a tool for healing. Art is my purpose and without a purpose what do you have.

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