On the weekend of this past Halloween, I ate shit on the stairs of a frat party. In the 30 seconds it took for my friend behind me to realize that I was sprawled on the floor, it took just as long for everyone to realize they needed to ignore the fat girl on the ground. I didn’t know what just happened to me, but I was embarrassed, in pain, and scared. I was also ignored.

Later in the party, I moved around from group to group trying to awkwardly join whatever conversations my friends were having. I don’t hate parties, but I was pretty fucking uncomfortable. I don’t fit into the white standard that’s present at my PWI, no matter how diverse it may pitch itself to be. I told myself that’s why people probably think I don’t belong here. I believe my constant discomfort everywhere I go stems from my inability to let go of whatever I am feeling.

This whole entire semester I’ve been letting go. Letting go of anger, depression, hobbies… anything that could stop me from focusing on getting my degree. When I do “feel my feelings”, I tell myself it’s the paranoia talking. Worrying about which friend cares enough, or how much someone has wronged me has done nothing but make me spiral. I don’t talk enough about my feelings, I shove them down like I have since I was 3. I never let the people around me know how much I wanted to die everyday in elementary school and that it’s a feeling that has never left me. The abuse of my adoptive aunt stays with me today because of the moments she told me I deserved whatever pain was coming to me, pain that I ignore.

I don’t exactly love to talk about my childhood, but there was also a time when I was in therapy after my mother’s death. I vaguely remember the hours after school between 6PM and 8PM where I would sit in a room playing with toys, refusing to acknowledge my therapist who had eagerly wanted to talk to me. 

My relationship with therapy has never been an easy one. On one hand, my family’s culture has led to internalized feelings about therapy that I can’t ignore. On the other, I know it’s important for me to address the issues that hinder me. Is paying someone to talk to about my feelings really worth it if that was not an accessible resource to my ancestors? They had to overcome so much worse than me.

I think that comes down to the responsibility of our generation. Most of us have dealt with overbearing parents, ones that project onto us, and haven’t acknowledged any of their own trauma. At the end of the day, we are the only ones that can solve our problems… therapy is just a way to do that.