“You have reached the Sprint voicemail box of: 917...”

While hanging up the phone and rolling over in bed, I looked at the alarm clock sitting on my nightstand. The rigid red lines blinked a menacing 11:50 PM back at me. There was nothing wrong with this time. I was 17 years old, and close to midnight was when I’d usually be finishing the 500 word essay I’d put off till the last minute. Now, at 20 years old, close to midnight is the time my friends and I head out to go to parties and other events. It’s also a pretty good time to start a new series (or watch The Office for the sixth time) on Netflix if you’re having trouble sleeping. But at that moment, all 11:50 PM meant to me was that my dad wasn’t home from work, so he must’ve fallen off a building and I’d soon be getting a condolence call from the hospital. He wasn’t home by the time he said he’d be home by? Well, guess I’d never see him again!

Times like these made me assume I was different from everyone else. Not in the “I’m desperately trying to be quirky” way, but more so in the “I feel like I do and think really weird things that no one else does or understands” way. My sister would be out late with her boyfriend and I’d be checking my phone constantly for someone to tell me she’d gotten into a deadly car accident. If I sent someone a text and it took them more than ten minutes to respond, you’d bet I’d already arrived at the decision that they literally never wanted to speak to me again, and that I’d ruined whatever relationship I’d made with them. Negative events that were minuscule to others were earth-shattering to me. I had unstable relationships with friends throughout high school because rarely did anyone understand that my brain was telling me to be “dramatic”, and that I wasn’t just seeking attention.

During registration for my second semester in college, I planned to just follow the four year course plan my school had set up for all students in my major. With my hand poised over the mouse, I thought I was ready to blindly add every course number into the little boxes. But with each press of a key and each click of the mouse, I began to feel as if I was forcing myself into a similar little box. As I looked out my window at the seemingly naked wooded area behind my dorm, I decided I wouldn’t let myself feel as empty as the barren oak trees I stared at. If I wanted to feel full of life, I’d have to branch out and grow my own leaves. I hit the back key and scrolled through the course categories, feeling my horizons opening up as I sifted through courses offered in sociology, philosophy, acting, economics, and whatever else I felt would be useful or fun to me. Finally I landed on a basic level psychology course and copied the course number into one of the little boxes (boxes that now felt much bigger and less suffocating).

Psychology had always piqued my interest because of the heavy influence that mental illness had on my family dynamic. The poor mental health of those preceding me ceased to be a hushed or taboo subject, and had become a force to be reckoned with. Now at the forefront of my life, this issue had become personified as Mental Illness, butting its nose into every nook and cranny of my life like the overbearing aunt who gives unwarranted criticisms like, “You probably didn’t get that internship because you didn’t try hard enough”. Excuse me, I haven’t seen you since my favorite TV Show was "Full House". Bye.

My grandparents on my mother’s side both suffered from depression. Two of my uncles and my mother suffer from depression. Substance abuse has presented itself at times. I have relatives with anxiety and hypochondria. Multiple Sclerosis. Dementia. I was told as a child I had ADHD. When I finally found out I had anxiety, I never knew if I should feel comfortable or uncomfortable with the fact that I wasn’t alone. Because at the end of the day it terrified me to know that my issues were rooted in the very part of my body that controls everything I do. I began to realize all of the ways that anxiety had intruded in my life. I saw the ways it had been detrimental to my success, which consequently made me even more anxious. I felt as if my head was disconnected from me at times, having some of my worst first panic attacks my first semester. These moments left me not only embarrassed, but scared. As if I wasn’t already going through major life changes, my own body was holding me back from dealing with them properly.

The semester I took Intro to Psychology with Professor Flusberg not only changed my perspective on what I wanted to do with my life but changed my perspective on myself and others. Learning why I get anxious and what tends to trigger anxiety helped me slow my life down, concentrate on what I could fix and better myself by no longer putting myself in situations that made me anxious. But I think the most important way in which psychology has helped me grow was simply by forcing me to accept the things that I can’t change. Understanding the likely force behind someone’s actions based on the experiences they’ve had, or their learned personality traits, opened my eyes. I learned that people could only change if they wanted to, and I'd have to learn to deal with this if I wanted to keep them in my life. Seeing the stubbornness of others motivated me to be the opposite. I refused to be someone unwilling to open my eyes to the things I could change for the better. Additionally, realizing that we’re all humans and everyone is wired differently has helped me repair relationships that I previously thought could never be repaired without some sort of left over animosity. I’m so grateful to have found a passion in understanding one of the coolest things in the world: the brain. The brain is literally the root of all human activity and therefore the central piece of existence. (I know, deep. Thank the whole brain thing! Hopefully one day my brain will learn successful humor).

It’s taken a lot of trial and error--a myriad of cringe-worthy Instagram posts from my high school days--but I'm finally comfortable giving a more honest public portrayal of myself. It feels as if it took a great deal of time and effort, but getting closer to finding my identity is something that has made me much happier in life. Essentially psychoanalyzing myself pushed me to recognize different aspects of my personality and pushed me towards the acceptance of them, good or bad. Let’s be honest, pretending you’re someone you’re not is too tiring. How are you supposed to really understand yourself if you’re too busy creating a separate persona for others? Identity is something I found through psychology and I encourage everyone to take a psychology course at least once in their lifetime. Especially if you find yourself feeling like the world is passing you by and you’re barely grasping the tail end. One class changed the course of my entire life. Although I can’t promise taking psychology courses will change everyone’s lives, I can promise it will be a better use of tuition and brain power than crying, for the fifth time, over the Facebook video of a puppy learning to walk would. And you probably won’t cry as much, so that’s always a plus.