I
planned out everything I wanted
to say and how much I wanted
to reveal about myself in this
personal statement the entire week
prior to the moment I sat down to write.
I would pretend to write it in my head
during class, dictating telepathically
to someone somewhere with a pad and
paper. I expected to wake up and have
all of my emotions and experiences
laying on my lap typed, double-spaced
and stapled with eloquent prose to
boot. Sadly, I had to do the heavy lifting
myself.
If you read my columns, you’ve
probably gotten used to my meaningless
rants
on
music
and
second-hand
embarrassment. This is not that. You’ll
just have to wait another week for the
goofy, cheerful facade of Matt Harmon
to return. I’m honestly on the edge of
my seat, waiting for him to come back
with another playlist and an amusing
tale of woe. I prefer that Matt Harmon
as opposed to this one: introspective
and brooding. At this point, I expect
Godot to show up sooner than the
happy Matt Harmon.
Whenever anyone has approached
me looking for solace, my response
has always ended with, “Just try and
concentrate on the happier moments
of life.” Am I proud of that response?
Hell no. I’m actually ashamed of it. But
it shows how I dealt with problems;
I
suffocated
them
with
smiles
and extraversion and just general
clowniness.
I’ve always assumed all of the
problems and situations I’ve been
through with family, relationships (or
lack thereof) and anxiety were solely
my burdens to bear. I was the camel and
every straw broke my back repeatedly.
If I couldn’t keep up, it was my fault.
I don’t mean to let my column seep
into this piece too much but sometimes
song lyrics hit a little too close to home.
I hear a line, a certain chord in my
heart is struck and my eyes open wide.
I become obsessed with the song for
weeks, expecting more to be revealed
about myself through that one line.
While music can’t respond or listen to
your problems, it channels what you’re
feeling into something that makes
sense.
Music was my first therapist.
“I say the loudest in the room / Is
prolly the loneliest one in the room” -
Tyler, the Creator
“Lovin’ you sure makes me afraid of
losin” - Field Medic
“I’m not the only man who’s scared to
be alone” - Joe Hertler and the Rainbow
Seekers
For years, instead of seeking the help
I most definitely needed, I receded
into a den of music and emotional
suppression. When my heart sank into
the bottom of my chest and my breaths
became short and sharp, my hand
would immediately fly to my pocket
where my earbuds resided. I’d plug in,
listen to something positive and wait
until I regained control of my body and
could smile again.
The first time I realized what I was
experiencing was a genuine mental
health issue, I was driving in my
hometown — a less than ideal location
for a moment of self-discovery and
trauma. I had received a very alarming
text from someone — specific details
are not important — but someone I
cared about was not addressing me in
the greatest of lights. As the yellow
line dividing the road hugged my tire,
my chest grew heavy. I was scared.
What if I genuinely hurt someone and
lost a friend? What did I do? What if
they hated me? A barrage of questions
in this vein swirled about in my head,
tormenting me and gnawing at my
sense of self.
I pulled over to the side of the road
and tried to recoup. In the suburbs,
it’s safe to say many people do not like
cars with their lights on pulling up and
waiting outside their house. Though
they expected to see someone in a full,
black and white-striped burglar’s outfit
with mask and all ready to ransack
the place, what they would’ve seen is
a 17-year-old boy with tears streaming
down his face, a shock in either case.
When homeowners would come to the
door to see what I was doing, I would
get scared and pull off, searching for a
new street to park on and breathe.
I called my best friend Michael and
practically forced him to come with me
to a diner so I could talk out what was
happening to me. He didn’t hesitate and
I’ll always love him for that. Sitting in
the booth for what seemed like hours,
I ranted and raved and tried to make
sense of how I was feeling. Though he
didn’t have any answers, he sat and
listened and made me feel like I wasn’t
alone.
My second therapist.
That was a year-and-a-half ago. My
first taste of what it could be like to talk
about my feelings and try to improve
my mental state. After that night
with Michael at the diner, I was more
conscious of my emotions and anxiety
even though I didn’t know it was called
anxiety at the time. I began to notice
when I was distressed.
One of my problems is I unconsciously
sabotage chances for me to experience
some form of happiness because I’m
afraid I will hurt people in the end. The
last thing I want to do is be the cause of
someone’s pain. I’d rather cry for hours,
filling an ocean with my sobs, than be
the root of one person’s single tear.
I spent so many years with my
emotions bottled up in my chest, hiding
behind jokes and a wide grin. This new
mode of self-reflection was incredibly
foreign. Still, I believed it was a solitary
effort to conquer these fears. I can talk
to friends about it but in the end, it was
my psyche and I should probably be the
one to make myself well again.
I had never even considered the
idea of official therapy until my friend
mentioned it during this past winter
break.
“Have you thought about going to
CAPS?” she said.
The short answer was no, I hadn’t.
The long answer was I had, deep in
the back of my brain, but was terrified.
I thought the moment you entered a
bonafide therapist’s office was the
moment you announced to the world
something was wrong with you. I
couldn’t bear the idea of sitting in that
room, having someone not only listen
to my troubles but try to find the cause
of them. They’d tell me things I already
knew but didn’t want to admit, not even
to myself. It may sound irrational but
it’s how I felt and sometimes still feel.
No one wants to admit their happiness
is being hindered by their own actions.
After many days and nights of
wrestling with the idea while Frank
Ocean helped the stress leave my body,
I entered the Michigan Union, ready
to find the CAPS office and jump over
the first hurdle. Every tour guide and
campus representative will say CAPS
is on the third floor of the Union.
However, the third floor was an enigma
to me. I had never been there before. I
didn’t think I had a reason to.
I walked in the front doors of
the Union and saw a mass of people
studying on the first floor, a common
sight for any U-M student. I climbed
the stairs to the second floor. Again,
Wednesday, February 21, 2018 // The Statement
6B
This isn’t easy to write
BY MATT HARMON, SENIOR NEWS EDITOR
ILLUSTRATION BY EMILY KOFFSKY