In the waiting room, I sit hunched over a magazine I am quite conspicuously using to obscure my face from the others waiting to be attended to. I jump as the student two seats over clears her throat, interrupting the pure silence. I contemplate the tinting of the windows and consider if I’ve ever seen eyes through the glass, frightened and anxious, while previously walking past House Four of Foster-Walker.
This is step three of three, the breath of fresh air before the real trouble begins. I’ve talked it out via phone conversation, detailed my motivations for calling CAPS in the first place (“A preventative measure?” the doctor on the other end suggests, and I nod wordlessly before realizing he can’t see me) and in a survey, selected bubbles on a variance scale indicating my self-awareness, reaction to stress, home life, etc. There’s bile rising in my throat as I consider the number of people who can potentially see my anxiety-ridden face peeking through the hanging blinds in the waiting room.
Are these windows tinted?
It is my first visit to NU’s Counseling and Psychological Services, and I am approaching some level of mortification as I consider the prospect of someone I know seeing me. I practice excuses, laughingly explaining that Medill had finally pushed me over the edge. No, I’d exclaim, I’m really just here for an article. It’s not like there’s, you know, something wrong with me! I’m not one of the 6.8 million American women diagnosed with General Anxiety Disorder, one of the 6 million afflicted with Panic Disorder or a disordered person in general. So what if almost one-fifth of people age 18 and over suffer from anxiety?
I’ve resisted visiting CAPS for the last two quarters, maintaining that, despite my averse reactions to stress and over-involvement and an inability to say ‘No’ to extracurricular opportunities, I am too well-adjusted for counseling, I think to myself. The stigma of a visit to a psychological professional terrorizes my ego more than any of the problems I have encountered since I have begun college. Truly, what will my friends think?
The answer, I suppose, is not much.
According to the American Psychiatric Association, one out of four young adults will experience a depressive episode by age 24, and nearly half of all college students report feeling so depressed at some point in time that they have trouble functioning. With the rigors of curriculum and extracurricular involvement, NU students are surely not exempt from these statistics.
I certainly am not.
My name is being cautiously murmured by the young woman in the doorway, one of 15 CAPS staff members on call. I mechanically stand up, force a smile, say hello to the girl to my right whom I recognize from a film class earlier this year. I pray she doesn’t remember my name or my face before realizing she too is here for a reason. She appears sheepish but confident, her assured countenance contrasting the complete apathy I’m forcing myself to display.
I follow the young lady stumbling over my name down the hall into a brightly lit office. She shuts the door and motions for me to take a seat. While she fiddles with my paperwork (“FREAK,” I imagine the top reads, “HELPLESS.”), I take in the tidy room I now occupy. The light is natural, I notice, not the harsh fluorescents I expect from doctor’s offices. Her expression is warm and welcoming, but I am suspicious. She begins by discussing the survey I’ve completed just moments before, and my brain fumbles to recall the questions. The phrasing, my logic argues, was misleading, so any problems in my survey were a direct result of poorly-worded prompts. I am well-adjusted, I repeatedly try to emphasize, but I can see the pitiful skepticism edging her eyes. Her forced smile does little to mask the lack of sincerity.
Conversation comes easily, though the constant buzz of repetitive “Mhms” the trained facilitator utters are simultaneously aggravating and comforting. I find myself content to tell the mysterious details I keep even from my closest friends. I feel like I am the narrator in a made-for-TV Lifetime melodrama, but the room is warm and bright and comfortable. I let myself fall into my tale of truth, word vomit expelling from my mouth as every anxious thought bouncing around in my head spills out. Suddenly, every minute detail of my otherwise mundane existence seems imperative to dissecting my personality, my problems and my alleged hostility, all divulged by that stupid survey. I was supposed to record my actions over the course of the last two weeks. TWO WEEKS! I was home two weeks ago. Of course I was aggressive – my parents instituted a bedtime.
I have an adverse reaction to stress, I hear myself saying, excusing myself for sharp tongues and intoxicated hide and seek. I just can’t control my responses. The floodgates are open, and the levy’s going to break. I can feel it. The facilitator’s face is contorted in concern and empathy, and her hand is moving a mile a minute as she scribbles down the memories I’m recalling from somewhere deep within.
My nerves are winding up again as I watch her flip through page after page of notes on me, and I feel my thoughts lagging as all of the memories halt as suddenly as a poorly paused game of musical chairs. Again, it hits me that I’m revealing my deepest, darkest secrets to an utter stranger, and the level of complacency I have relished for the last hour is replaced by a stifling feeling of panic as I await her diagnosis.
She confirms my worst suspicions by voicing her concerns with some of my living habits: lack of sleep, poor eating habits, failure to organize and prioritize properly. Well, of course. I’m suffering, she alleges, and it’s her recommendation I talk to someone. I nod robotically, convinced I cannot again stomach the rising discontent associated with the fear of reaching out for assistance. She hands me a card, offers words of solace and consultation and shuffles me out the door.
Her voice lingers as I consider the psychoanalysis she has just employed to explain my idiosyncrasies. Textbook words hang in the air, tossed out effortlessly like she’s said the same words a million times to a million other students. My stomach is in knots as I peer out the door, casually shove my hands in my pockets and walk from the building. I hang my head low, but I am awash with a feeling of undeniable relief. For all of the writing I do, expressing these thoughts of real importance is more alleviating than any flowery pop culture rhyme I could tap out. The feeling of dread is gone, and the tinting of the windows is no longer of no importance. I take the steps to class, one foot after another, feeling gently lighter, a real smile plastered upon my quiet mouth.
