by Sara Ackerson
I take photographs to capture the moment, the memory, the crease in a person’s face, the sparkle in their eye. But more importantly, I take photographs so that I do not forget.
I typically refer to my memory as Swiss cheese-like. It has a lot of holes. Memories for me are triggered by smells, by sounds, by certain expressions. Without those triggers and my photographs, I’m not sure what I’d moments I’d hold dear.
by Jessi Robinson
Recently, I stepped outside of my comfort zone and did something I have long wanted to do: I got my hair foiled in non-natural colors (blue and green, to be specific). My hairdresser and I were both excited about the adventure, and we were pleased with the result. My wife was beyond happy; knowing this was something I’d hemmed and hawed over for a while, she was not only happy I did it but also loved the outcome.
Three days later, I arrived in my office. I knew that the color wouldn’t be an issue, no matter what anyone thought, but I was nervous about those thoughts and reactions. The compliments came rolling in. EVERYONE loved my hair; even people I don’t interact with commented positively.
by Kristen Abell
Recently I read Jenny Lawson’s Furiously Happy which chronicles her life with mental illness, and I found myself actually jealous of her for a moment. Not, as you might think, because of her spectacular writing prowess. That would have been far too logical. Instead, I was jealous that she has such a fascinating array of disorders. I mean, who was going to want to read a book about someone with a measly little case of depression when they could read about someone with depression, anxiety, and a whole host of other issues? Yep, you read that right – I was jealous because this chick has more crazy than me.
Something I try to remind myself of when I start to feel discouraged about sharing my story is how there is no one else who can share it quite like me. Continue reading
This post originally appeared on Tenure, She Wrote on June 7, 2016, and we received permission to cross-post it here.
by Acclimatrix
Last year sucked for me in an epic way. Health problems and personal losses, compounded by a long-distance spouse, made me realize just how tenuous pre-tenure life is. When your everyday status is “barely treading water,” there’s no leeway for life to throw curve balls*. I was already overcommitted and doing too much service. Then I hurt myself. My dad got cancer. I had a string of demoralizing events. I ended a couple of long-term close friendships that had become toxic over the years.
by Carly Masiroff
Acceptance.
This word keeps popping up in my life like one of those moles in the whack-a-mole arcade game. But why? What does it mean?
It’s no secret my mental health has never been on the straight and narrow. I try to hide it as much as possible and pretend my two friends, Anxiety and Depression, are not sitting on my shoulders at all times asking me to come out and play. But they are there. I’ve accepted they will always be a part of my life. But that doesn’t mean I have to accept their offer to play.
by Sue Caulfield
Today, I called in sick to work.
I don’t have a doctor’s note (although I could probably call my therapist to get one). I didn’t really give a concrete reason, just, “I’m not feeling too hot.” When my boss says, “It’s quiet here, don’t worry,” it should make me feel better.
Instead, I feel guilt. I feel shame. I feel weak. I feel useless.
by Alexandria Pizziola
The task of creating a life for oneself is hard work, and it’s a task that I and people my age are faced with on a daily basis as we move to make the world view us as adults. The stress and pressure that accompany this act of finding our footing are large and unrelenting factors, and when I get together with or phone my friends, a variation of the following is nearly always uttered:
Why do I feel this way? This isn’t how I should feel; my life is great! Maybe I just need to try to be happier. I must be doing something wrong.
by Lisa Latronica
If you’re like most people, you have a picture in your head of what treatment for mental illness looks like. Maybe that image is a counter full of pills. Maybe it’s lying on a couch talking to a doctor with a clipboard. Maybe you think of stark white walls and people in hospital beds. And successful treatment means you don’t need medication or a therapist any longer.
There’s a whole list of stereotypes when we think of mental health treatments, and just because we’re in higher education doesn’t mean that we don’t have assumptions, too. I’ve been in treatment for anxiety and depression for four years and for an eating disorder for almost a year, and even I fall victim to jumping to conclusions about my own treatment. Like a lot of people, I thought that once I started medication and talked to a therapist a few times, I would be magically better and back to “normal.”
by Kristen Abell
On Saturday night, Santa Ono, the president of the University of Cincinnati, shared with an audience of 200 people – and then later with his Twitter audience of 70,000 – that he had tried to commit suicide at two different points in his life. Because of the work I do with mental illness in the higher education profession, it doesn’t feel like I can let this pass without comment. That being said, there’s something absurd about the fact that we get excited and celebrate someone in a position of power sharing such a difficult personal story of mental illness. Continue reading
by Sarah Wilson Merriman
There is a fine line between efficiency and mania in my book. I want to think that all I do is efficient. The shakiness in my hands and feet tells me that it’s sometimes mania, though. My body literally cannot keep up with my brain. I spend my days exhausted and unable to sleep for longer than a few hours at a time. On the other end of the spectrum, I have been described as the melancholy to a colleague’s sunshine. It was said with kindness and truth, as I am often melancholy, but is this the image that I want projected of me?