It’s Okay to Ask for Help

“There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.” —Leonard Cohen

When I first wrote this post, I realized that there were going to be two versions: Lex’s Version, and the Safe For the Blog Version. Sometimes there’s things that are just too personal to put on the internet for anyone to read. At least for right now. 

I’m hesitant to write this post because it is so personal. I know that I’ve talked about other personal things on PomSeeds, but this is a little bit different. It’s about my health, both physical and mental, and how those two are very much linked together. 

I finally had a reckoning with my mental health the weekend of my birthday earlier this year. I felt like the rope I was hanging onto finally snapped, and I spiraled. I had been in the Cincinnati area to celebrate my birthday with friends, but I ended up driving home earlier than I had planned. I was nauseous, shaky, and starving. I called my mentor and “big sister” Emily while crying as I drove home that Sunday morning. I honestly don’t know how I didn’t crash while on the road. Small blessings, I guess. I remember sobbing as I drove, all because I didn’t want to go home, but I had to go home. 

And now I think it’s time I backed up even further to clarify some things. 

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Throughout my later years of high school, I struggled a bit with food. Not an eating disorder, but I slowly became distrusting of food. I came to the realization that dairy had a negative effect on me, so I cut out a lot of my heavy dairy consumption. I cut out soda after middle school, and I refused to eat at greasy fast food places and heavily greasy foods. 

When I went to college, my distrust of food grew. (Being told that several people had gotten sick or gotten food poisoning from the main dining hall didn’t help.) I found safe foods on campus and didn’t venture out much beyond that. I bought a lot of food from the store, even though I had a huge meal plan for school. 

I’ve never had an eating disorder. I love food; I love my body. But, I started to have disordered eating. I would become so hungry but have little appetite. I knew when it started because I could physically and mentally feel myself slipping into that rut. I tried to stave it off with apples and pasta and other safe foods, eventually I would be in this place where I was starving but unable to eat. Somehow, someway, I would be able to pull myself out of the rut and eat again. 

I honestly forget if I had this kind of disordered eating when I was home that winter break, but when I went back to school for the 2020 spring semester, I was not doing well within a few days of being back. I remember calling my mom a few days before my twentieth birthday crying because I didn’t feel well. It was quite hellish. While the pandemic has been horrific, it was a small blessing in disguise for me, as I got to fly home March 11th. 

I think I was fine those four and a half months I was home. I got to eat my mom’s cooking, and that made everything right in the world. However, things really took a downturn when I went back to school in the fall. It was horrible. That’s when my eating really started to affect who I was as a person. When I came home for winter break my sophomore year, Emily told me that I was a completely different person that fall semester. I didn’t know quite how to take that. I hadn’t seen a difference within myself but she had—just over the phone calls and texts between us. I wonder if I was to ask my friends today if they noticed anything different about me, if they would say anything. 

When I came home for that winter break, I was coming home to be home for nine months. All of my classes were remote, and I couldn’t justify spending money to stay in the dorms and eat subpar food when I could come home, sleep in my own bed, eat my mom’s cooking, and be with my cats. So I came home. And that’s when I snapped. 

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It’s Sunday, February 7th around 11:30am. I’m driving on I-75 North, clutching my phone with one hand, the other on the steering wheel, as I sob to Emily. The road is blurry, and I remember saying over and over again, “I don’t want to go home.” Yet I wanted to go home. But I didn’t want to be home. 

Isolation and anxiety were gripping me in a chokehold. I was going to be home for nine months, two hours away from any of my friends, ten hours away from the community I had built at Hofstra. I was isolated. 

I had been dealing with decaying relationships and I think that was the largest source of my anxiety—which I think in turn fueled my disordered eating. At that moment, in my car, everything just seemed to come crashing down. 

And I spiraled. 

I realized that I’m not okay. And I think Emily realized that, too. She, as the voice of reason and comfort, stayed on the line with me for an hour. Finally, she gently suggested that I talk to someone, to a therapist. And I agreed that I should. Y’all, Jesus saves, but therapy helps wonders. 

When I got home, the house was empty, as my parents were still at church. I unpacked and showered, putting on my comfiest pair of sweatpants and a tank top. I ate some safe food and watched TV. And when my mom came home, I knew she was very concerned for me. Later that night, after my dad had gone to bed, I told her what happened. I told her that I wasn’t okay and that I needed help. I wanted to talk to a therapist, even if it was just for the duration of my time at home. 

So, I found a wonderful therapist named Sarah. She’s helped me so much with my mental health these past six months. I also went to the doctor to see if anything could be done for my physical health. I saw a nutritionist, and I’ve been taking better care of my body. I’ve started going to the gym, now that I’m back on campus. I haven’t found my stride but I’m hoping I will soon. 

My last major disordered eating episode was in late April. I haven’t had one since being back on campus for the 2021 fall semester. I’m learning things about myself and my relationships with people that I didn’t know before. It’s been a process, and while it’s been a hard one, I don’t know if I would change anything about it. Does it hurt grieving for a friendship that’s over? Yes. But I’ve also rekindled old friendships and made new ones. 

It’s okay to ask for help. In fact, it’s more than okay to ask for help. If you need help, I implore you to seek it. 

“Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves.” —Henry David Thoreau

“In the middle of winter I at last discovered that there was in me an invincible summer.” —Albert Camus