Guest Commentary: Challenging the stigma of mental illness

I remember the moment that things began to change. It was such an ordinary day. I was only 13, sitting on the edge of the porch of my cabin, enjoying the last few days of summer camp before returning home to enter my freshmen year of high school.

  My best friend of the summer chose the moment to confide to me her deepest secret: she had been struggling with anorexia for two years. She had only been allowed to come to camp because she was improving; she had reached a healthy weight, thanks to extensive hospitalization. As she took off her watch to reveal the large scar from the razor she had used to slit her wrist the year before, I didn't think, "how awful, how frightening."

  In some strange way, the whole idea appealed to me. In retrospect, I still really don't understand why I reacted that way. That should have been the moment I realized that I never wanted to go through what Ginny had. But a month later as I pushed through the crowd of students to find my first class of the new school year, a certain irrationality had already began to take over my thoughts. The absolute mental debilitation of the disease had already set in. I had already lost my grasp on reality. I wanted to be healthier, better. Had I only vaguely known the real meaning of these words, what being healthy and better really meant, I might be a very different person today.

  That year doesn't stand out very much in my memory. It flew by. I had all new friends, new classes, and new activities and I also had new eating and exercising habits. By the time I arrived at summer camp for another glorious, carefree month of youth, I had lost ten pounds from my already very thin frame, and was anything but carefree. Even worse, by the time my parents picked me up only a month later I had lost another fourteen pounds. I have always been tall and thin, but when my parents saw my 5'8" frame being supported by a mere 92 pounds, they were horrified.

  As I stared in disbelief at the weak and frail figure in the photo, I began to cry. It was the first time I had really understood how much I had hurt myself, and why my family had felt so much pain watching me waste away. After all, one out of 10 girls who experience anorexia die.

  I remember the first time I ever saw my father cry. My weight had continued to drop and I was totally unresponsive to my doctor's efforts. He pleaded with me to help him understand. I realize now that he was not just worried that I was unhappy or unhealthy.

  He was worried that I was going to die. I know that I am lucky to have survived those years of loneliness, self-hatred and destruction. At the time I was unable to grasp the consequences of my actions, but now I often think about how much those years have affected me. There are the physical consequences, but mostly the emotional and mental ones. You see, people often tend to see anorexia as being mainly physical. They see the weight loss as the major danger. But what I have come to realize, as I slowly understand more about myself, and my own experiences with anorexia is that the majority of the damage is mental. Your body will recover, but mentally it's almost impossible to heal.

The depression, anxiety and self-hatred that are so rooted in the mind of an anorexic are far more detrimental and long lasting. I suppose that I have been well, for lack of a better word, for over three years, but that is only because I have reached and sustained what my physician has determined a healthy weight. Yet I know that remaining a happy and rational person in regards to my own body image will be a struggle I go through daily for the rest of my life.

  And I know that many other students at Duke go through similar daily struggles. And this struggle can be a very lonely and exhausting one. I remember how tiring it was to be so depressed, so unhappy. I would spend all day avoiding any food, exercising, refusing to allow anyone into my life for fear of having to relinquish some bit of control over my routine, and then crying myself to sleep every night. I had not one bit energy left to feel happy, and nobody understood.

The worst part about those years was by far the loneliness. There were so many feelings and fears spinning in my head, but I had nobody to share them with, no ways to feel as though others were experiencing the same thing. Of course there were the doctors, the psychologists and the nutritionists I saw weekly, and my parents, but they were not trying to understand me, they were trying to cure me.

  Had there been open dialogue about mental illnesses, had they been common topics of discussion, I might have been better able to share and connect with others, and therefore better understand my own situation. This perspective would have made all the difference.

There is an alarming phenomenon occurring at colleges across the country. The incidence of mental illness, whatever form it may take, is increasing. In fact, it is estimated that one in four college students suffer from some sort of mental illness. Unfortunately, there is a thick silence surrounding this issue, especially in the highly motivated and overachieving culture of today's college students where mental illness seems to imply some sort of personal weakness.

  Therefore, the topic is not out in the open, and those who are suffering are hesitant to be forthcoming with their experience and to seek support both through counseling and within their peer groups.

Active Minds is a new group forming on campus dedicated to increasing awareness about the many forms of mental illness as well as encouraging public recognition and dialogue on the subject in an effort to decrease the stigma that surrounds it. We are developing a publication to share the stories and experiences of students who have been both personally and indirectly affected by mental health. If you would like to share your story please submit it to DukeActiveMinds@yahoo.com. All forms of submission, written or otherwise are welcome.

  Logan Leinster is a Trinity sophomore.