Essay #3
As an assignment in my art-therapy group, I was tasked with creating a collage inspired by one word and its meaning. I used scraps of my own paintings and images from magazines to construct the word coalesce. To me, coalesce symbolized the reunion of my thoughts, feelings and actions–my past and my future, humility and confidence, rejection and acceptance. After adding the final details of ornate flowers and a splash of glitter, I glanced around at my peers and smiled.
Prior to therapy, I sulked around my school, hiding in my secret room next to the library during lunch to avoid the social turmoil I was facing. The poignant pang in my heart from fractured friendships alienated me from my classmates, little consolation in sight. I channeled my anguish into text wars and cathartic rants. Maintaining composure throughout a single school day felt like a victory. As the morose weeks turned into months, it became clear to me that mental illness was not a guest, but an unwelcome resident in my mind.
Multiple therapists. Ambiguous diagnoses. Potent medications. Adverse side effects. Soothing meditation. Profound discussions. Bold transitions.
Therapy built a microscope through which I scrutinized my identity. In a dimly lit room, I listened to my peers, many of whom I would view with judgmental eyes elsewhere, unravel their raw truths. Their different stories offered me alternative perspectives on my own complex issues. I guided those with difficulties similar to mine, reminding them of the importance of self-care and the need for self-advocacy. I adhered to my own advice and concluded that for me, switching schools before starting junior year would be the best pathway forward.
Zealous to interact positively with the dynamic B-CC community, explore my artistic passions, and improve my well-being, I genuinely engaged in my environment–social, extracurricular, and academic. Propelled by the desire to initiate the genuine friendships I lacked at my old school, I joined Best Buddies, a club that encourages interactions between students with and without special needs. I also lent my melodic soprano to Chords of Glory, a singing group that performs at assisted-living communities and shelters for those who have endured hardships. I expressed fervent emotions through elaborate modern-dance routines and dramatic theater performances. My less-than-stellar mastery of the ukulele didn’t prevent me from using it as a creative outlet while jamming to “Dream a Little Dream of Me.” Fueled by the do-it-yourself slime trend, I thrived on the tactile, aromatic, audio-visual amusement of slime as a stress reliever. During intense situations, I calmed myself by watching mesmerizing videos of rainbow slime and manipulating homemade crunchy slime. My once-sunken eyes now twinkled with optimism, and my renewed energy for my academic work felt palpable.
On a crisp fall afternoon, I perused the lesson titles of worksheets I’d been asked to sort during my internship at Street Law, a program that empowers vulnerable communities through law education: Dating & Sexual Assault; Child Abuse & Neglect: Building Resilience; and What Does a Good Citizen Know, Believe, and Do? I envisioned myself as a family lawyer, working with kids and adults, indirectly teaching these lessons. I would devote my attention to every client, listening attentively to their thoughts and feelings, regrets and fears, goals and resolutions–much like I did in therapy. I would advocate for their legal needs with the same robust voice therapy granted me years ago.
I continued assembling the Life Skills binders, my hopeful vision etched in my mind. Without therapy, my now-vibrant world would have remained fixed in a grayscale pattern. My ignorance on how to maneuver complicated relationships would have prevailed, and my career aspirations would have been far less defined. I check another item off my Street Law to-do list, more focused than ever. My past challenges and my future goals coalesce.