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