I decided that because I was physically healthy and mentally doing okay, I ought to take on a single college class. I'd do it online, because I didn't want to overwhelm myself by going to college in-person, where my social anxiety might shoot through the roof. Also, the flu season was gnarly, and I didn't want to ruin my good physical health and GPA by contracting the flu. Online college made the most sense, and I felt confident going into it because my professor had on-campus office hours, and I could get assignments and essays done whenever I felt like it, so long as I had an internet connection.
Understandably, I was very nervous prior to starting college, and it really showed. I knew everyone who was around me could sense something was off. Some were more quiet about it than others, but everyone basically had the same thing to say to me: "Relax! You'll be just fine!" and "You'll have fun!"
A part of me truly believed that they were right, and that I was just overreacting. But, a larger part of me wasn't so sure. My gut instinct kept telling me that it wasn't the best idea to start college yet, and came up with a million reasons why I should put it off for another semester. I just dismissed this sinking feeling as irrational anxiety. After all, everyone I talked to said that college would be much easier for me than high school was. Since I'd graduated high school on time and with good grades, I was now physically healthier than ever before, and I really didn't have too much going on in my life that could get in the way of college, I figured there was no valid reason to put college off for another semester. I actually couldn't wait to begin working towards another ambitious goal of mine. I felt ready to attend college, and was certain my anxiety was just my irrational side of me acting up.
Unfortunately, things didn't turn out the way that I'd hoped.
On the first day of college, I immediately knew something was wrong. I had access to the online course, but there was nothing in it. The professor hadn't touched the course at all. There wasn't a syllabus posted. The professor's email hadn't been posted. There were no assignments. The assignment schedule was bare. The only thing in that online course that showed any signs of life was the class list, which showed that other people in the class were logged on, and were probably just as confused and alarmed as I was.
I spent the first day of college desperately trying to get in touch with my professor, as well as with other staff members of the English department, trying to figure out when class would officially begin. I got no answers.
The "second" day of college was basically a repeat of the first day. My anxiety was through the roof that entire day. But, later that afternoon, the professor finally showed up! However, my anxiety didn't go away. A part of me desperately tried to get me to understand that something was very wrong, but I simply dismissed it as anxiety and not anything that had any real merit.
In the first syllabus, lecture, and in an email, the professor admitted that online course was the first online course he'd ever taught. He apologized for being so late and disorganized, and blatantly stated that he'd likely be a little more on the "disorganized" side of things during the rest of the course, but he'd do his best to keep it as organized and consistent as possible. This really rubbed me the wrong way, but because I was completely new to college, I didn't realize that was a major red flag.
I thought it was strange that the professor was so unfamiliar with the course he was supposed to be teaching, but I was more focused on finding out what my first assignments were than dwelling on my professor's inexperience. The assignments themselves weren't very challenging. Sure, I had to read things carefully and think things through, but the assignments weren't any harder than many English assignments I'd tackled in high school. A few college assignments were actually a little easier than some of the assignments I remembered tackling in English. However, a couple days after I'd completed the assignments, my professor replaced the first syllabus with a second syllabus, explaining that he'd changed his mind about some things.
That would've been okay to me, had the professor actually killed and replaced the assignments he said he had killed and replaced. When I checked, the "dead" assignments were still up and would soon be graded. I just didn't have access to them anymore, so I couldn't read directions or turn anything in. Panicked, I sent an email to my professor explaining what I'd discovered, and included the links to make sure he knew what I was talking about. A couple days later, the professor replied basically telling me he had no idea what I was talking about, and to rest assured that the assignments he "killed" weren't being counted against my grade, even though they clearly were.
When the second week of college began, I opened up to my parents about the issues I was experiencing in college. The course was more disorganized than ever, especially since the prof replaced the second syllabus with a third one. My parents, without outright saying it, encouraged me to drop out. But, a couple days later, after they had told other people what I told them, they decided to tell me more blatantly that I ought to drop the class. After all, sticking to a disorganized class with an incompetent professor was a bad idea. So, with a heavy and discouraged heart, I abandoned ship.
Just before I dropped the class, I checked the class list to see if anyone else had dropped the class. The class list had shrunk considerably, further validating to me that dropping the class was the best idea.
I took it really hard, even though I knew I logically shouldn't have. I knew it wasn't my fault that the course was so disorganized, and that I'd made the right choice by dropping out of the class in time to get a refund. But, I still felt horrible about it. I knew feeling that terrible about dropping a shitty college course was not normal. So, I scheduled a few therapy appointments to see if I could shed some light on where the pain was truly coming from, so I could solve the problem, or at the very least diminish it, before I headed back to college.
Unfortunately, no amount of therapy seemed to be doing the trick. No matter how much I vented out my frustrations, or had those frustrations validated by someone who understood, or told that I did the right thing dropping out of college considering the circumstances, I only felt worse over time. Physically, I was still doing amazing. But, my mental health was getting worse at an alarming rate.
My anxiety no longer manifested itself through anxiety attacks and the "what if?" question. Now, I just felt stuck, lost, and riddled with guilt of all kinds. I felt guilty for dropping out of college, even though my parents would've just spent a thousand bucks for me to fail had I stayed with the course. I felt guilty for being so physically healthy, but not being overjoyed by it. I felt guilty for having access to Trikafta in the first place, when everyone else in the world didn't have it because their country's universal healthcare plans didn't include new and expensive medications for rare genetic diseases. I felt guilty for being too lonely and socially anxious to reach out and serve others, like so many Christians in my life were telling me I ought to do. All of this guilt just weighed me down. The harder I tried to plaster a smile across my face and talk about all the things I was grateful for (which, for the record, I was genuinely grateful for my health) instead of paying attention to the things that were weighing me down, the worse my mental health got.
As my mental health worsened, so did my physical health. I never had a hard time breathing or stopped gaining weight. My physical health was still better than ever. But, I started taking afternoon naps again, and had little to no motivation to do anything enjoyable for myself. I had the energy to get chores done, spend time cooking good meals for myself, going to appointments, and exercising outside, but that's about it. I didn't spend much time paying attention to hobbies or hanging out with other people, and I had such terrible writer's block that I couldn't even type down a paragraph a day, which made it impossible for me to make much progress on my book.
The people around me could tell that I was pretty out of it. But, their "solutions" did almost nothing except for upset me even more. Many of their solutions, such as going for long walks, listening to upbeat music, and keeping the house clean were things I was already doing. I listened to feel-good music several hours a day, completed daily chores, and went outside everyday. Yet, none of those things made me feel any better. I didn't even get the slightest feeling of joy or satisfaction whenever I came home all sweaty after another long and successful walk/run, or when I stood back to admire the house after I was done cleaning it, or when I listened to music that usually got a smile out of me. Even when it snowed, and I spent an hour and a half clearing the snow off the driveway, sidewalks, and mine and my mom's cars, I didn't feel even slightly satisfied after all that hard work. I just went back to my bedroom, where I took off my snowy clothes and curled up under a couple of thick comforters for a few hours.
At least, I recognized that I was depressed and wanted to nip it in the bud, instead of ignoring it until it completely ruled over me. I made sure to tell my therapist and parents exactly what I was feeling, and also wrote down a note to ask my psychiatrist if I could get on medication the next CF doctors appointment I had. I knew medication wouldn't solve my problems, but it would at least make things a little easier for me to deal with.
My grandpa came over one day to see how I was doing, and noticed that I wasn't my usual positive self. He offered to take me out to lunch to talk things through with me, and I agreed. I got in the driver's seat of my truck, and my grandpa got in the passenger's seat. I wasn't entirely "with it", but I was okay to drive. I just wasn't as aggressive as I usually was, and I wasn't cracking deprecating jokes regarding the bad drivers around me, when I usually had something to say about pretty much everyone and their vehicles.
At my favorite local sushi restaurant, my grandpa brought up how unusually quiet I was, and asked what was getting to me, if anything. I admitted to him that I was pretty unhappy, and gave him a list of possible reasons as to why I wasn't feeling good. My grandpa seemed to sympathize with me pretty well until I mentioned that I'd likely be going on medication. My grandpa perked up a bit when I mentioned the medication, and then asked me if I'd exhausted all other possible solutions. After all, medication wasn't a fix-all, and sometimes it actually made things worse.
I agreed that medication wasn't a fix-all, and that it sometimes made things worse, but I reassured him I wouldn't be going on anything particularly strong or harmful. Doctors could actually use information gathered from my DNA to get a rough idea of what medications may or may not work, which reduced the chances of me getting prescribed something that made things worse. Plus, I knew I'd only be on the medication for a few years at most, so I didn't want to go on something that was practically impossible to get off of. Still, my grandpa was very alarmed that I'd be taking medication to make my depression and anxiety a little easier to cope with, and again asked if I'd exhausted all other possible solutions to my problems.
I knew where he was going with this, and didn't like it. Even though I reiterated that I'd done everything I knew to do to escape my depression and anxiety, I knew based on my grandpa's expression, what was going to come next.
"Have you tried praying for God to take away your anxiety?" my grandpa asked.
"Everyday and night." I sighed, "It hasn't gotten easier."
"What about socializing?" my grandpa asked.
"Yeah. My mom hosts and attends dinner parties that I go to, but that hasn't put a dent in my anxiety either." I answered.
"Well, have you tried putting yourself out there more?" my grandpa asked.
I cocked my head a little bit, "What do you mean?"
"Well, I like to entertain people by playing the accordion and the piano. People love music. I know you can play the guitar and the piano very well. Haven't you thought about playing a song for two for people? I also find that people everywhere like to talk. I can strike up a conversation with almost anyone, and can usually get a lot out of them. Have you tried to strike up a conversation with any strangers?" my grandpa asked.
"You know me." I smirked, "I can't even talk to the waitress without having a mini anxiety attack. There's no way I could ever get myself to entertain people with music or hold a meaningful conversation with someone I've only known for a few minutes. I admire your ability to do that, but I ain't like you. Plus, my problems are largely genetic. There's no coping skill in the world that can treat my genetic problems."
"Well, it doesn't hurt to put yourself out there every once in awhile." my grandpa replied, "Maybe you just need to leave your comfort zone instead of going on medication."
"But my problems are literally genetic." I replied, doing my best to suppress my growing anger and frustration, "Both of my parents have anxiety and depression issues that they're on medication for."
"I'm not denying that genetics play a part in your issues, Maya." my grandpa said, "I just don't think you've tried every possible thing besides medication yet. Plus, I think you'd be surprised by how easy it is to be more outgoing."
"Trust me, I've tried to be more outgoing before. It didn't go very well." I growled.
"What about going outside? Have you tried that?" my grandpa asked, just as the waitress brought our food.
"Yup. I'm out there everyday. Snow or shine." I nodded, "It literally has no effect on my mental health."
"What about music? What kind of music do you listen to?" my grandpa asked.
"Almost all of the music I listen to is upbeat. But, it doesn't help." I said as I broke apart a pair of chopsticks and prepared to chow down on my raw salmon sushi rolls.
"But is it Christian? Sometimes, music can have a negative effect on us, regardless if it is upbeat or not. You don't listen to too much secular music, do you?" my grandpa raised his eyebrows
"Are you suggesting that I'm depressed and anxious because I like secular music?" I asked, getting offended again.
"Well, not necessarily." my grandpa shook his head, "I just don't think it's a good idea to listen to that stuff all the time. Christian music really helps to ease the mind when it gets anxious."
"Again, I've tried listening to music, including Christian music, to ease my mind when it gets anxious. And, again, it doesn't have much of an impact." I sighed again, now visibly frustrated.
"Well, what does have an impact on your anxiety and depression?" my grandpa asked.
"Nothing much." I replied, "That's exactly why I think medication is the next step. I've tried literally everything else, from exercise to a good, healthy diet, to socialization, to prayer, to meditation, to music. Literally nothing seems to help diminish my anxiety."
My grandpa again asked if I was sure I'd exhausted all other options, even though I just reiterated that I indeed went through every other possible treatment for anxiety and depression that I could think of. It was clear, at least to me, that at least some of my mental health issues were a physical problem, much like how Cystic Fibrosis and Pulmonary Atresia were physical issues. Unfortunately, my grandpa really didn't agree with me, and I eventually stopped trying to argue with him.
