In-Person College as a Mentally Ill, Disabled Woman

Week 1

I've been in college for about 3 semesters now. All of which have been completely online except for my ASL (American Sign Language) class over the summer. They've gone well. I'd gotten mostly As and Bs, one C (cause I switched majors and just decided not to do the final project, also I was in a mental institution), one F (due to a mental health crisis and an uncooperative teacher), so I'd say I'm doing pretty well so far.

I learn well online. I'm like a sponge when reading textbooks. And I take good notes and I suck up info when studying. I've always been a good student. That was never the problem.

The problem: my mental health issues

Selective Mutism

This is a severe anxiety disorder characterized by an extreme difficultly or inability to speak in certain circumstances (which is why I'm learning ASL). As you could probably imagine, that doesn't go over too well in classes where discussion and interaction are key. It's also very difficult to make friends or study buddies.

Major Depressive Disorder

This one I've got mostly under control with my meds and therapy. However, there are some times where I have a breakdown and go off the rails. I've had a lot of safety sleepovers with my brother.

Anxiety (Social & Other)

This is the major stressor for me. Social anxiety makes it extremely hard to ask questions, talk to my peers, do group work, even walk into the class or from building to building. I'm always self-conscious, always worried, also anxious. And on top of that, I get anxious about doing my schoolwork for seemingly no reason (at least I haven't figured one out yet). I get anxious to the point of anxiety and panic attacks and then I can't do any of my work at all and I fall horribly behind.

PTSD

This affects me mostly at home, at night, but triggers at school do happen, sending me into fight or flight mode, putting me on edge, causing panic attacks or flashbacks. Loud noises and being touched, aggression, and even hints of anger all send me reeling into the past.

OSDD

If you aren't sure what this is, check out this article on DID/OSDD. This doesn't affect my schoolwork too much, other than when the other identities come out that can't do schoolwork. That could cause critical delays, but it doesn't happen too often. We actually have an identity whose sole purpose is to do schoolwork (created during our summer semester crisis). But he hasn't come out in a while

On top of all those mental health issues, I also have Chronic Fatigue, and this, like anxiety, is a huge hindrance.

Chronic Fatigue

I spent most of my high school years just trying to survive depression and continuous, repetitive trauma while also dealing with school and my messed-up family. I didn't have the mental capacity to worry about my physical health or the state of my body. I tried to do sports, but the chronic fatigue was already pretty bad and during cross country, I ended up vomiting and nearly passing out every practice. In volleyball, I almost vomited, collapsed in the middle of the court, and got extremely dizzy several times. Needless to say, I had to quit those for my own well-being. The stress of the physical strain atop everything else going on was too much. But not taking care of myself physically had its consequences.

I don't regret anything. I did what I had to do to survive and I know there wasn't any other way to make that happen. But I do wish I was stronger, healthier, fitter.

I'm physically as weak as anyone possibly could be. I joke about my noodle arms, but it isn't funny anymore. I can't even do one normal push-up. I can't walk up more than two flights of stairs without my legs nearly giving out underneath me. My muscles are practically nonexistent.

I don't hate my body, but I loathe its incapabilities.

And I want more than ever to change that. And now that I'm healthier mentally and no longer facing daily trauma, I think I can take on that challenge.

I made up a fitness routine, nothing too grueling, can't overdo it. I organized my college classes, my morning and nightly routine, my daily to-dos, and my weekly assignments.

And then it was time for the semester to start.

Day 1

I woke up at 9am. My only in-person class for the day was Dance at 10:30. But I knew later I'd have to set up all my other classes for the week.

I got ready and got in the car. I felt nervous and excited. I didn't exactly feel ready, but I knew it was time.

I followed the cars in front of me once I got to campus to find the parking deck. Then I talked to the guy at the information table to find my classroom. And then I was in.

And that was when the anxiety set it.

There were two other girls. They were stretching. Was I supposed to be stretching? Where in the room was I allowed to sit? Anywhere? Did I bring the right clothes? My shirt was a bit loose. They were wearing socks. Should I have brought socks? Where do I set my bag? Theirs were over there, but I had a bench closer to me.

These thoughts spun through my head faster than I could physically think them. By the time class was about to start, I was a wreck, and then the teacher singled me out about getting the syllabus and my stomach about tore itself apart. I scrambled to my bag and quietly popped some of my anxiety meds into my mouth.

Then we got to work.

Some weird variant of sit-ups was involved, and then the dreaded pushups. Everyone else could do regular pushups, but I had to go down on my knees. I felt miserable and embarrassed. I could feel myself getting weaker and weaker, but I had to keep going. I was too anxious to tell the teacher about my chronic fatigue, too anxious to ask for a break. I felt ashamed.

I couldn't wait for it to be over, which made me feel even more miserable because I absolutely loved dance. It was one of my greatest passions, even though I wasn't a technical dancer. I had always wanted to be.

Back at the parking deck, I couldn't find the elevator and settled for the stairs. Up five flights, and by the fourth my legs started to lose feeling and I knew I couldn't go much longer. I barely made it to the top, then to my car, and I leaned against the back of the car for a minute before rounding the side and getting inside. I caught my breath and held back tears.

I'd never hated my body so much before that moment.

And I'd never felt more motivated to change it.

Day 2

I woke up at 8am, as per my alarm. I started on my morning routine, meditated, brushed my teeth, got dressed, made a kale and green apple smoothie. I got to work on schoolwork and knocked out half this week's biology work.

Then it was time for my ASL II class.

The drive was familiar. It was in the same place I took ASL I, but there was a different teacher, and I felt a little sad. My former teacher had been amazing, funny, understanding, and laid back. This new one provided a whole new set of unknowns I didn't want to confront.

I'd taken my anxiety meds beforehand, but anxiety still plagued me. I hadn't studied last semester's signs enough. I wasn't proficient. I barely scraped by. I felt woefully unprepared.

But class went alright. I was able to communicate and understand the professor. We went over expectations and how to submit work and what the class would be like. Then it was time to head from this campus to the central campus where I would have biology class 2 hours later.

The city made me nervous, and even though I should have gotten dinner, I didn't want to venture through unknown parts of the city, so I just got some coffee to keep me awake and toughed it out.

When I got to the campus, I circled around a bit before finding a parking deck. Then it was time to search for the building my class would take place in.

That's where things started to head south.

I pulled up google maps and still proceeded to go the wrong way. The walk was only 20 minutes, but I'd already done a lot today and every activity, even mental, contributed to the fatigue. I was growing tired, but I didn't realize how much until I tripped on the edge of the sidewalk, and my legs completely gave out underneath me. I tumbled to the concrete, on the ground before I even realized what had happened. My backpack was lying on its side, my water bottle rolling around, my granola bar on the other side of the sidewalk. I didn't bother picking anything up. I sat back in defeat, numb to what I was feeling.

I sat there for several minutes. I didn't know what to do with myself. I was in a bit of shock. I hadn't expected my body to fail so suddenly. I hadn't expected to practically nearly blackout because I tripped and couldn't catch myself.

A part of me was furious. A part of me wanted to cry. A part of me was hysterical. But most of me was just numb.

Eventually, I got up and I wandered across campus until I finally found the building where my class would take place. Then I meandered back to the library I'd found earlier. I found my way to the study area and settled in, and then I started writing this.

Soon it was time for Biology and I made my way to the building I'd hunted down earlier. I found a table with people that seemed approachable and sat down. The girl beside me was named Lily too and I felt an instant connection with her. She liked to read and had anxiety and we bonded over our awkwardness. She seemed like best friend material, and I longed for a best friend ever since my former one had left me because I was 'too much to handle'.

Biology went by smoothly and I exchanged numbers with my tablemates before walking back to my car.

I held my car keys in my hand as I walked, the key held in between my fingers like a weapon. As a woman alone in the city at night, even on a college campus, you could never be too careful. Dangers lurked around every corner. We were taught at a young age what could happen to us if we weren't careful, of what could happen to us even if we were. Fear was a part of a woman's life. And that disgusted me.

But I encountered no trouble and I hopped in my car and set off home, but something felt wrong inside of me.

I turned on a different playlist than what I had been listening too and I felt a hundred emotions rising up within me.

And then I was crying, sobbing, gasping for air. My eyes blurred over with tears and squinted down at the road.

I didn't know exactly why I was crying. I just knew that it hurt. Everything hurt.

My best friend was gone. Maybe forever. I didn't have a family. I had been psychologically abused my whole teenagehood. I was trapped in a house that felt like a prison. I was weak and unable to defend myself. Things had happened to me that I couldn't cope with.

My barriers had broken down, the walls of dissociation that separated me from the pain dissimilated, and all I could feel was agony.

I sobbed ugly, broken sobs all the way home, and as I neared my neighborhood, panic rose up in my chest.

I didn't want to go back. I didn't want to go back. I didn't want to go back.

But I had to.

I had nowhere else to go.

I pushed down the panic attack trying to break free and let the walls come back up. My expression went blank, my eyes emptied. The last of the tears trickled onto the backs of my hands. I pulled up into the driveway of my parents' house and pulled down the mirror, doing what I had done a hundred times before: wiping away any remnants of my tears, of my distress, of my pain. And then I went inside. And I pretended nothing had happened.

And to the rest of the world, nothing had.

Day 3

Right now, I'm sitting on a bench in the lobby of my dance building. My legs are curled up underneath me because if I don't put weight on them they'll start trembling, and not like the little shakes you feel when you're trying to balance but full-on earthquake shaking. I could barely make it from the classroom to the lobby. I don't know how I'm going to walk the ten minutes to my car.

I woke up fatigued. It happens. I did a lot yesterday. And it carried over into today. Then the wandering around campus to find the building only added to my exhaustion so by the time I got to dance class I was already fatigued like I'd just finished it.

I fully intended to tell my teacher about my fatigue and ask for some breaks if I need them, but I was late and when I walked in the door he pointed at his wrist and said "Late" just to add to my suffering like I didn't already know. My anxiety spiked and I felt like crying. I felt like I couldn't get anything right. I felt like I'd tarnished my reputation and he'd never look at me like a good student again, especially because of my weakness.

Then the work began and my body nearly broke. I felt faint and like I was going to pass out. My legs trembled and I could barely stay standing. Everything ached. I fell doing a grand plie. I knew I was pushing myself too hard. My body screamed and screamed at me to stop, to rest. But I couldn't. My anxiety prevented me from talking to the teacher, my shame at not being able to do what the others could do holding me back from giving myself what I needed. I ignored my body and I pushed through. And I did it.

But this is not a success story.

My actions will have consequences today and tomorrow and the day after that. I won't be able to do what I can normally do on a bad day. I'll be weak and sickly and need my crutch just to get around the house.

I won't be able to work out tomorrow because I'll collapse if I try.

I didn't listen to my body. I forced myself too far. And now I'm going to pay the price.

I changed campuses and hauled out my crutch after I parked. I hooked my backpack over my shoulder and traveled across the parking lot inside.

The crutch didn't seem like it would do much, but it helped immensely. My body felt normal when I used it, like I could walk without weakness and shaking. When I tried to walk without it, my body slumped into itself. It felt weak and helpless, and my legs would ache and burn and shake.

Sometimes the crutch would help so much I'd fool myself into thinking I didn't need it. But as soon as I'd put it down the fatigue would cripple me and I'd snatch back the crutch like it was a lifeline.

My philosophy teacher was late, which amused me greatly. It was a sure sign that this class would be casual and laid-back.

And casual and laid-back it was. We briefly viewed the topics we would cover and excitement and anticipation stirred in my stomach. These were things I'd never really questioned, never really thought about, and facing these dilemmas and questions made my head spin. I wanted to learn. I wanted to think. I wanted to find my beliefs.

I didn't want to be a mindless societal drone.

I wanted to have my own mind.

And I will.

Also, it will help me with my writing.

Needless to say, my day spun on its heels and ran in the opposite direction it started in. I was still weak, still hurting, still paying the price of pushing myself, but I was excited. I was happy. I was motivated.

I couldn't wait to really get started on these classes. I couldn't wait to dive in headfirst and learn.

But first, I had therapy to go to where we would undoubtedly be talking about my trauma, and I would leave with a body like jello because working mentally almost always affected me physically.

Then it was home and more schoolwork.

Day 4

It was 11:46. Class started at 11:30. I was fifteen minutes late.

I was a little bit rushed that morning, spent a little too long scrambling to find breakfast, took an extra minute to pet my dog, and then I arrived at campus and couldn’t find a parking deck.

I nearly turned down a one-way street in the wrong direction as I circled the building where my class was twice. Finally, I found the parking deck, and I had to go all the way up to level four before I found a spot.

I yanked out my bookbag and snatched up my phone, pulling my crutch out of the passenger seat. And then I couldn’t find the elevator.

I’d pulled something in both my thighs last dance class, so walking was painful. Going up and down stairs was agonizing. But I was late, and the elevator was nowhere to be seen, so I opted for the stairs.

Down four flights and out the door, across the street, through the first set of buildings to the one I was looking for (almost went into the wrong building too), up the elevator, down the hall, and into the classroom.

Everyone stared at me. The teacher greeted me and I tentatively said hi. I quickly rushed to an open seat in the back and propped my crutch up against the table. And then my crutch fell and clattered to the floor. I grimaced and placed it behind me against the wall as my tablemate got me the papers I needed to work on. She told me where we were and I got to work.

Oh, and did I mention? This was the class I’d taken online in the summer and brutally failed. And I had the same teacher.

So much for impressions.

The rest of the class went by smoothly until it was over and I realized I had half an hour to get to my car, drive 20 minutes to an alternate campus, and get to my next class. I booked it, walking faster on my crutch than the people on the sidewalk. I threw my things in my car and sped out of the parking deck.

I got to the next campus right when class started and in my hurry, I opted to leave my crutch in the car since the building was so close.

Immediate regrets.

I felt weak and frail and in pain, but there was no turning back now. The stairs were faster, but I had no choice but to take the elevator. I got to class and thankfully, it hadn’t started yet. I settled in and took a sip of water, and then we began.

Halfway through I started to feel weird, bad weird. I knew this feeling. I didn’t want to be here anymore. Everything in my body was resisting being here. And I knew if I had to stay here much longer, it would get physical. I would get anxious and sick and antsy and irritated, and might even end up in an anxiety attack. It had happened before several times in this exact same class when I took the first section over the summer. I checked the clock, but there was still a ways to go. Eventually, we got a break and I pulled out my phone.

My stomach dropped.

2% battery.

I put it on airplane mode and tucked it back into my pocket.

Please stay alive. Please stay alive. I begged. I didn’t know if I knew how to get home and if it died, I knew the charger in my car wouldn’t be able to bring it back to life.

It died.

Class finished early, thankfully, and I got back to my car, pulling out my phone to plug it in. It was still alive. 1%. I reached for the charger and the screen went black.

I plugged it in, and it said it was charging, but every time I tried to turn it on, it turned off almost as soon as the lock screen loaded. I exhaled in frustration. I’d driven this route many times, but it’d been a month since I’d last taken it. I wasn’t sure if I knew the way home, but I had no choice. I had to try, and maybe get lost and have to stop at a gas station and ask to use their phone which I probably couldn’t do because anxiety.

I pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road and I’m lucky I wasn’t in the city when my phone died because then I would have never gotten out. This route had only a few turns, very straightforward and I made it home unscathed.

After that, I ate a snack, pet my dog, and took a much-needed nap.

I had some homework to do before next week, but I didn’t start on any of it. The philosophy textbook that I’d ordered was in the wind, and I didn’t have the mental energy for chemistry, and biology would be so easy, I wasn’t worried. It was week 1. No need to stress.

I was so stressed.

And I worried. I was taking a lot of classes, and I didn’t know if I could do it, and on top of trauma processing in therapy…. Over the summer, I’d had a complete breakdown because of trauma and school, and I couldn’t afford that this semester.

I needed to graduate this December. I needed to get that job I wanted by spring. I needed to move out next year.

My mental health, and my life, was on the line.

My house was not my home. I lived with my parents, one of which had emotionally abused me for years and the other had backed her like a loyal dog. My house was toxic and tense, unpredictable and unsafe. I needed out. And so did my brother, who had it even worse than me.

My parents wanted us gone almost as much as we wanted out.

They claimed they loved us, and I truly believe they think they do, but it isn’t true. You don’t treat people you love the way they treat us.

I have to get my older brother out of there. He isn’t mentally healthy. He needs a different environment. He needs to get away from the main source of his awful, severe OCD. He needs to escape.

But what kills me is that my little brother needs that too. He’s 15 and he still has a few years left of his childhood. He’s lived an awful, traumatic life, subjected to the worst of my other brother’s OCD, emotionally abused and neglected by my parents, alone without friends, struggling with school and anger issues and depression and anxiety. He doesn’t even know he’s been traumatized.

I swore to myself when I got out I would take him with me. I would save him. I would give him the teenagehood I had never had. And when I turned eighteen I tried to do just that. I got a job and I worked, but my disabilities got in the way. I couldn’t make enough money. I couldn’t support myself, much less a minor. I was stuck, and he was stuck, and it killed me.

I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t protect him. I couldn’t help him. I had to watch, helpless as he endured the same traumas I did with no one but me at his back, and I wasn’t even enough. I was closer to my older brother, and that put a rift between us. We had nothing in common and that drifted us apart. He didn’t come to me anymore. He didn’t talk to me.

I missed him. I loved him with everything I had. When we were younger, I raised him. I parented him. I was there for him when no one else was. I was more of a mother to him than ours ever was.

But now? Now I’m just his distant older sister who he says hi to when we pass in the kitchen, who he barely speaks to, who he probably thinks doesn’t love him enough.

I wish I could do more.

But I don’t know how.

And when I graduate with my associates, when I get this job and finally move out, I still won’t be able to save him.

I’ll only have enough money to support one other person. And I don’t know if my older brother will be able to support himself if I get him out of the house so he can get better. I don’t know if he will get better.

I have to choose between the people that I love. Which one gets to be free and which one remains trapped. Who gets abused and who gets healing. I have to choose one brother over the other.

And that tears me apart.

But there’s nothing I can do.

My disabilities rule my life right now. I haven’t found a way around them. I’m managing them. I’m working on learning how to live with them. But they hold me back. They stop me from doing the things I need to do. They stop me from living the life I want.

They break me into a thousand little pieces because of all the things they’ve taken from me.

But I don’t fall apart.

I pick up my pieces and I keep them in a baggy close to my heart.

One day I’ll glue them all back together.

I’ll never get back what I’ve lost.

But I’ll be damned if they take anything more from me.

Day 5

I feel broken.

Last night I emailed my dance teacher about my chronic fatigue. It made me more anxious than anything and I had so much trouble hitting send, but I did it.

This morning I brought my crutch and I laid it outside the dance studio door. I felt embarrassed and self-conscious. Who brings a crutch to dance class? It was only more proof of my incompetence, of my incapabilities.

Dance went well…at first.

I even managed to do all 25 push-ups (on my knees of course) with arms burning and body about to give out underneath me.

When we got to the tendus, things started to go south. I felt wobbly and shaky. But I kept going.

I knew I should stop, but my anxiety prevented me from taking that break I direly needed. My teacher hadn't talked to me about my email. I didn't know if I was allowed to stop. I was scared and anxious and self-conscious. So I kept going, knowing the more I pushed myself the worse and worse I'll get.

But I had the weekend to recover. That's what I told myself. But I knew the weekend wouldn't be enough.

Then we started on jump turns and I got nauseous. I leaned on the wall in between each time we went across the floor, breathing heavily, eyes dazed. But no one noticed.

I was quiet, invisible, and they were oblivious to my suffering. No one had any idea what I was going through. No one had any idea how much I was tearing myself apart inside.

You're okay. You're okay. I chanted to myself. You're a strong, independent woman. You got this. You can do this.

You're okay. You're okay.

But I wasn't.

I finished my across-the-floor work and my gaze went black for a split second. I stumbled, but I caught myself, grabbing onto the blocks stacked against the wall. I leaned onto them, barely seeing anything, my heart pounding away in my chest, and no one noticed.

I had to stand up for myself or I would hurt myself.

But I couldn't.

My anxiety wouldn't let me.

And so I kept going.

I worked myself to the brink and I kept going.

And I was not okay.

I am not okay.

When I left class, I timed it so I was alone in the hall. I snatched up my crutch which my teacher had drawn attention to as a joke.

"There's something disturbing outside." He said.

"Who would leave a crutch out there?" He said.

And I looked away. My body grew hot and my hands shook.

They didn't understand. They would never understand.

What I need, what I go through, how I live, they would never understand.

I walked back to my car in shame.

I felt like crying. I felt like I shouldn't be doing this. I felt like I'd made a mistake.

What had possessed me to do this? To try and achieve a childhood dream? Why would I do that? Why would I go after the one thing I loved almost as much as writing? Why would I put myself through this?

Why did I think I could get it?

I was such a fool.

I couldn't have my dreams. I couldn't have my fantasies. I couldn't have my happiness.

Why had I ever believed otherwise?

I feel broken.

I'm not like the others.

But I'm not going to give up.

I might kill myself trying but I'm not going to give up.

I need this class. Not just for me, but for the credits. If I'm going to graduate this December I need those credits.

I can't wait any longer.

It's now or never.

I shouldn't be doing this to myself. I know I shouldn't be doing this to myself.

I've done this before and it never ends well.

But I don't have a choice.

This is the end of an era. It has to be.

Because I can't live like this anymore.

I won't.