The first thing you need to understand is that in the United States, higher education is a business and they only profit when students attend. The university wants us to want to be there, but they also want to be just out of reach, satisfaction unattainable. If we find fulfillment we might not return, so they have to break us down, down, down, to leave us wanting more.

So that after you turn in that 10 page essay that your blood, sweat, and tears (oh so many tears) went into, that you now hate, because you spent the last hour tearing it apart to make it just right for them, despite the fact you loved it just a day ago when the idea was fresh and shiny, after you submit that wretched no good very bad paper to blackboard, you wait. Wait for them to tell you if you passed their test. Wait for them to tell you that your thoughts are good enough. That you’re good enough. That you matter.

Because my anxiety was made and manufactured by the school system, and they peddle the cure, too. Not a real cure. It’s only temporary. It’ll only last me long enough stay in the system. To want another dose.

And when you get that grade back, after living in the lowest low you’ve ever experienced, and it’s a brilliant shiny black 12pt Times New Roman ‘A,’ suddenly you’re riding high on the validation that you’re okay. And you wanna do it all over again. You want those “great work”s and “nice job”s, because you’re certainly not getting them from yourself. Because you spent your entire adolescence beating yourself into form so that an adult would give you a pat on the head. And now it’s an addiction. Your real life is filled with self-hatred and doubt, and then you have a weekend of papers returned and its like you’re on ecstasy. But then the next paper is due and you have to do it all over again.

And when you try to get real help. Long term help. Therapy. Accommodations. Medication. Then, the university turns on you. They’ll offer you three free therapy sessions in a 15 week semester and extended deadlines if you can get a professional sign off on it. So be grateful. Why do you want more? They’re helping you the best you can.

So you go to your professor and you say “I’m sorry for the inconvenience.” You say “I know this is my fault.” You say “I will do better next time.” You say “thank you” for the extension that you don’t have official accommodations for, because they’re really doing you a favor. How kind of them to extend you a little bit of undeserved grace. Because, really, you should be able to do this. Why can’t you do this?

And I love school. I really do. I love learning and talking and writing. I love exploring new ideas with smart, passionate people. But how much of it do I love because I’ve been trained all my life to find self-esteem in a teacher’s approval? I’m graduating this semester, and part of me never wants to go back. I feel like I’m standing in a doorway with one foot over the threshold but not sure of my next step. I had always planned to go back. Go to grad school, get a masters, maybe even a PhD, become a professor, and spend the rest of my life in this never ending cycle: write, edit, submit, write, edit, grade, write, edit, publish. Or maybe I could do something else for a little while. Be an independent adult, less needy of that praise, but also without something I truly love. Do I truly love it or do I just need it to be okay? I just want to be okay.

I don’t know.

For the first time since high school, a professor has asked my class to not use the bathroom. She claims its too distracting. The standing up, sitting back down, opening the door, closing it again, walking through the aisle. All of this would hinder learning, so she says. What’s really distracting to me is having to pee all throughout class and having to hold it in.

content warning: internalized ablism

I’ve never considered myself disabled. I excelled in school and when I didn’t, it was because I just didn’t put in enough effort. I didn’t do the homework. I didn’t study. I looked pretty and skinny, and therefore healthy, and when I hurt, it was because I wasn’t careful. I didn’t watch where I was walking. I didn’t exercise enough.

content warning: mention of rape and sexual assault

In this last year, I became more conscious of the male gaze in my life than I ever had before. I felt that the men around me saw me only as a projection of their sexual desire or as a figure of feminine comfort, and I couldn’t shake the constant feeling of being observed. In my struggle to assert my personhood, without being objectified, I felt paralyzed. If I wore a short shirt and crop top, I was hot, sexy, something to be desired, but if I covered up to avoid being sexualized, I was hiding from their gaze, cowering. If I was kind and empathetic, I was the girl next door, someone to take care of them, but if I was rude or blunt, I was a bitch. I felt lost. Alone I was safe, but the world of men held “the threat of being seen,” as Young described it (154).