TO THOSE FILLED WITH DOUBT

To Those FILLED

WITH DOUBT,

Written and illustrated by Katie Herrick, Culture Editor

My sophomore year in college I called the suicide hotline, moments away from doing something fatal and long-lasting. I have only ever told one person this.

Every morning I woke up and wanted to cry about what I saw in the mirror. I had acne, I was “fat,” my boobs and ass too small for my “huge” stomach. Every morning I woke up with crippling depression and anxiety. I told myself I wasn’t enough and I never would be. I was never the smartest student in the class, the best writer at my magazine, the best dancer in my organization, the happiest in my friend group, the most artistic and creative, nor the funniest when I cracked jokes.

I self-harmed all throughout high school and a good chunk of my college career, trying anything to make the pain I woke up with every single day go away. This is the part of the story where everyone says, “one day I woke up and decided to change everything.” But that didn’t happen. That’s not how it works in real life for most people.

When I hung up the phone with the random woman who saved my life on the other end of the hotline, I wasn’t cured. I wasn’t better. I woke up the next morning with the same crippling pain and nervousness that ate at me every day.

I told myself that I was dramatic. At the end of the day, I wasn’t stupid nor was I unhealthily overweight. I had friends who loved me and supported me, a (then) boyfriend who supported me and a family that wanted to see me thrive and would do anything and everything to help.

That wasn’t the issue. The issue was that I didn’t care if I thrived. (Oh, so this is the part where she details her turning point.) I hate to break it to you, but there is no turning point in this story. Like any physical ailment, mental illness is forever, regardless of if you can see it or not. You just learn the ways to deal with it, and the ways not to. me more in the past four years than anything I could have dreamt of affecting me growing up (and I have daddy issues, so). Though I am saying farewell to my friends, family and beloved home, a piece of me will forever be here, and with all of the people who wiped away my tears when I couldn’t.

I went on medication. I attended group therapy. I went on another medication. I changed my birth control from the pill to an IUD. I upped my medication dosage. I went to group therapy again. I upped and changed my medication, again. I lost my health insurance several times in between and went cold turkey off medication.

Now a ripe 21-years-old, I have realized that my depression and anxiety are just two friends that will be with me throughout my whole life. Yes, friends. When I stopped looking at my mental illness as an attack, as an evil cloud raining down on me, I stopped letting it have that effect on me.

There are good days, and there are bad days—and there are REALLY bad days—but they are just that—days. I learned to go with the ebbs and flows, to stop expecting a cure for something that didn’t have one.

The months I spent living in Spain and in New York may appear to be my best from the outside—or my Instagram grid—but they were some of the darkest moments of my life. I had just been hurt in ways I never imagined possible, and was filled with loneliness, doubt and anxiety. I woke up every day filled with pain, yet at the same time so happy to be able to be living in my dream city with an amazingly supportive host mom and new friends.

I have improved since then. I have realized that if you put all your self-worth in someone else’s definition of you, you will never be happy, and that sometimes your best friends aren’t even your friends at all. I have learned to stand up for myself, to stop crying over things I can’t change and to appreciate all the small moments sparsed in between the bad ones.

I have been sexually assaulted. I have been laughed at. I have been disrespected. I have been hurt and broken. I have been called a wide range of names, both loving and hurtful. But I have not, and will not, be dead until fate takes me. That is my “one day” line. One day, after almost dying—you can, in fact, accidentally overdose on anti-depressants—I realized I didn’t want to die. I just wanted the pain to stop. And dying wasn’t the only way to do that.

So, if you have doubts that you can’t do it—whatever it is— know that maybe you can’t. But maybe that’s okay. You don’t have to be able to do everything. Maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe it just takes time. Maybe you will never get it and should try something else. Maybe you will get it. I am here today because, on the days that I fell, there was always a hand there to pick me up. I stand tall because for years I had people supporting me and preparing me to do so on my own.

To my mom, for supporting me endlessly for years and years and loving me no matter what. Because of you, I knew that I would have unconditional support, through my triumphs, and most importantly, my failures. The lessons you have taught me are infinite, I cannot describe them all in one paragraph. You are my biggest fan, supporter and best friend. I would not be who I am today without you. Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without you. I love you.

To my grandma and grandpa, you have been a part of my development since I was little, and have shaped me more than you know. You’re a lot tougher with celebrating success than mom is, and that is something that pushed me to be better than just acceptable. To our endless hours in the car, the hours spent online shopping after surgeries, to the countless items of borrowed furniture, and all the laughs and songs in between—thank you. I couldn’t have done it without you. I love you.

To great grandma and grandpa, I really wish you could see this. I know you’re proud of me. I won’t spare everyone with memories, but know that I am who I am, mostly because of you. Thank you for instilling love, compassion and hard work in me—among so many other things. On the days that were the hardest, I kept going because I didn’t want you to lose me. Thank you—I couldn’t have done it without you.

To my best friends and roommates, the ones who have picked me up every single time I fell, the ones who have seen me cry and held my hand. Thank you. You helped me blossom into who I am. You told me the truth when I didn’t want to hear it, you called me on my shit when I needed it most. You watched me act a fool and dance like a freak, snugged with me in the mega bed, and bought too many (disgusting) drinks at Monday’s with me, all while cracking the stupidest jokes in between. When I laid in bed staring out the window depressed, you brought me in the living room and forced me to laugh. The memories we have curated carry me through the worst and best times—This is America choreography, Facetime calls every hour, blankets as dresses, Animal Crossing nicknames, Gossip Girl marathons, every single episode of Drag Race (at least once or twice), diet coke and gummy worms, sleeping on the stage at Whiskey’s, sending TikToks across the hall, latenight chats in our beds inches away, deep talks in grungy, floral living room chairs—and everything else in between. I couldn’t have done it without you. I love you.

To my dad and stepmom—in the nicest way possible—thank you for teaching me to act a fool. There is a balance between spending life just achieving and spending life actually living, and you taught me to live. You taught me to not take everything so seriously, to let loose and laugh, to do what makes you the happiest. Jen, thank you for reading everything I write. Thank you for welcoming me as your own child, and treating me accordingly. I love you. Dad, thank you for teaching me how to care for plants, instilling me with good music taste and showing me the value of friendship by treating your friends like family. I couldn’t have done it without either of you. I love you.

To everyone else—the professors and mentors who believed in me and pushed me to be better, the friends that have come and gone, the exes that helped me mature and grow, the people who brought out the worst in me, my kitten that gives me purpose—thank you. And to those who doubt—don’t.

Katie Herrick