According to a UCLA study conducted in 2014, one in 10 incoming college students struggle with depression. I happen to be part of that statistic.
As I've mentioned in a previous article, I have a history of major depression. It's not something I try to hide; if someone asks, then I'm more than willing to talk about it. However, it's just not a topic that tends to crop up in every day conversations.
Even today, mental illness is still considered a stigma and a bit of a taboo subject. There's always cases of it being villainized when someone commits a violent act or--on the other end--someone treating it flippantly and saying, "Just move on. It's all in your head," when the whole point of mental illness is that it's in your head.
For me, It's been a difficult journey being more open about my depression and learning to manage it in a healthy manner. Shortly after I started college, I went to a therapist for a while because the emotional baggage from my culture shock decided to drop on me in the middle of the semester. Even then, I was reluctant to seek professional help because I felt like there was something shameful about needing a therapist. I don't regret it though, and while I still have bad days, weeks, or even months, I know that I can get help when I need it and that things can and will get better.
But as a college student, it can be really tough for me to keep my head on my shoulders and not be overwhelmed by the daily stress that school provides. My mental limits are constantly fluctuating, so I always need to make sure that I'm keeping them in check lest I trigger another depressive episode.
I realize that sounds scary. I suppose it is, but for me--and most likely anyone else struggling with a mental illness--it's the mental equivalent of making my bed, doing laundry, brushing my teeth, etc. It's something that should be done on a daily basis. Chores can be a huge pain in the neck sometimes, but it's necessary for one's well-being.
Last semester, I ended up hitting one of those limits. As a result, I chose to drop out of my university's honors program. Simply put, I had too much on my plate and it was on its way to becoming a serious burden to hold up.
Having been a part of the program for the past two years, it was a bit hard not to feel like I was giving up, because I just had to stick it out for another two years and then it would all be done, right?
Wrong.
It took my mentor personally showing concern about my commitment to the program for me to realize it wasn't worth my mental health. All the warnings signs were already there: I felt tired no matter how much rest I got; I had difficulty concentrating on simple tasks and my motivation had gone out the window. Otherwise, I would've tried, and then ended up crashing and burning.
When push came to shove, I instead decided to take a step back. And that's okay.
I left the honors program in good standing, which means I could return if I wanted to, but I probably won't. I learned many valuable things and made good friends while I was a part of it, but if it's not working, then it's not working.
That took some time for me to wrap my head around.
I think with many college students nowadays--myself included--there's this unspoken expectation to achieve life goals in a set amount of time and always be working your butt off. It's this weird pressure to get a head start on everything or else be the odd one out.
But it's okay to put yourself first. I chose to put myself first for the sake of my mental health, but it's something I had to learn to be comfortable with.
Everyone has different skills and different limits. Some things just take more time for other people. Sometimes you just need to take a break. Sometimes you just need to let something go.
Now that I've started my junior year, I feel more confident in what I can and can't handle. I'll still be busy, I'll still have homework to stress about and constant deadlines to meet, but at the end of the day, I know what my limits are and I'm healthier and happier because of it.
