Month: November 2019

In undergrad, my lab had a fantastic post-doc who made everyone (including the undergrads!) feel like valued members of the group. He not only organized the group to get work done efficiently, but also created a warm and friendly social atmosphere with regular group lunches/dinners and just a general sense of belonging and family. The culture of my lab here at Princeton is vastly different. Grad students often feel a lot of pressure to get work done unreasonably quickly. We set unrealistic goals and then constantly feel like failures when we have to report at group meetings that we didn’t meet our deadlines. Expectations are often unclear and the majority of the burden of the lab’s work usually falls on only a few graduate students. It can be difficult to value one’s own time and to set healthy boundaries when that is not the culture of the group. Individually, the people in the lab are wonderful, lovely people, but together, we have created a somewhat toxic environment. It has taken me quite some time to recognize that I can’t be dependent on my advisor or post docs to guide my education and career trajectory. As grad students, we are not technicians in a boss/employee model. Our purpose is not to churn out work for our advisors (especially not at the expense of our sanity) but to learn and grow so that we can prepare ourselves for our longer-term careers. We are in grad school because we decided to be here to better ourselves. Realizing that has been incredibly empowering and liberating for me. We shouldn’t have to be afraid to tell our advisors that we don’t want a career in academia or that we dislike one aspect of lab work and would prefer to focus our time on a different set of tasks. Something that has helped me feel better is to try to be more like that post-doc I admired so much in my undergrad. I don’t get to work with him anymore, but perhaps I can be some approximation of that person for the younger students in my lab, and that gives me hope.

Towards the end of my first year of graduate school, I tried to commit suicide due to isolation from friends, the loss of a support network, and the pressure of ‘not good enough’. Ultimately, what helped was finally being on the proper medication. Just like any physical illness, being on the correct medication is important. And being on medication doesn’t mean you’re ‘weak’. Being mindful of burnout, of needing space, of disconnecting your worth from grades and numbers, eating and sleeping well — those can help, but just like how drinking orange juice won’t cure cancer, pharmaceutical treatment can be a necessary component of mental health.

In my second and third year of graduate school, my research was under a tight bottleneck. Together with other stress both in academic and in life, it made me lose 10 pounds in 3 months, face interpersonal issues, and led to suicidal thoughts. Unfortunately I didn’t have enough support at that time. Questions from people close to me such as “I don’t understand why [what you are working on] is it so hard” and “I can’t believe a Princeton graduate student has nothing in their mind” were hurtful and made me blame myself for procrastinating and not working hard enough. I was living in perpetual guilt. One day a professor saw me much thinner than before, and asked me to take care of myself. I immediately cried. Someone cared about me! Later on, I got better or worse from time to time. In the Spring of my fourth year, I once again had a lot of trouble concentrating and suicidal thoughts returned.  I decided to go home for 10 days to take care of myself. It turned out to be much needed. After I got back to Princeton, I decided that I didn’t want to buy an expensive plane ticket to go home every time I’m not feeling well, so I finally turned to CPS for help. Since then, I started learning more about myself and methods to help myself. I also became more open with friends and spent more time doing what interests me rather than being the person other people expect me to be. These changes  made me feel more powerful day by day. I’m still on the journey of recovery: I’m worried that the change of season and shortened day time will reignite my depression, and the discouraging voice from the past is still in my head to this day. The good thing is I can finally openly talk about what I’ve experienced.

Yes. Parenting is SO hard. Princeton does not do enough to support parents, who are juggling being a graduate student and parent. We need AFFORDABLE on-campus daycare and a much bigger childcare allowance. The new graduate student college should have ON SITE daycare. I should not have to own a car to bring my child to daycare

In my department, I have my usual morning routine. I post the day’s meeting schedule; refill the coffee dispensers; distribute the mail; answer my emails; review my calendar and prepare for the day’s tasks as a faculty assistant. On a particular Monday afternoon, my usual weekly meeting with my department manager runs slightly overtime and we both have to rush to the same staff training. As I walk brusquely beside her, I feel the gulf between us. I hastily enter the classroom for the Princeton Distress Awareness and Response training for administrative staff, squeeze into a seat in between two desk armrests and rest my notebook on top of one of them ready for the notes I will not take. I notice the empty chair in between my manager and me. Once settled, I surreptitiously glance around the packed room and take in about fifty people some of whom I recognize. The ratio of 1 to 5 reverberates in my mind. I quickly calculate ten. Ten people in this room have a diagnosable mental health difference according to the National Alliance on Mental Illness. I refocus and hear the Director of Counseling and Psychological Services at the front of the room state assuredly that we will be given the tools to provide support to students by recognizing the signs of distress and knowing the resources for action. He then takes a fresh piece of white chalk out of a box and writes methodically across the top of the chalkboard from the left side of the room to the right in tall letters three headings, Academic – Emotional – Physical. As I participate in answering each question that checks off a list of warning signs under each heading, I think of which ones I have experienced, withdrawn – check, crying spells – check, sleeplessness – check, and wonder if anyone else in the room self-evaluates in their seat. In my mind, I recall my own suicide attempt and previous hospitalizations. I listen as one by one other staff confidently volunteer answers for each list as if to reinforce that they are not the ones in distress including me as if with each answer I could increase my chances to be seen as one of the majority and deny that I am one of the ten.

What does that mean? Every weekday I wake up and go to work and execute my responsibilities to the best of my ability, but I also live with the fear that if I ask for accommodations or reveal my disability that I will be treated differently, discounted or viewed as a ticking time bomb. What is my disability? I was diagnosed at the age of 24 with bipolar disorder I, mixed episode, meaning that I can simultaneously experience depression, mania and delusions as the spectrum shifts. But I have been in remission for eight years and depend on daily medication, exercise, healthy diet, adequate sleep, therapy, psychiatric care, support from family and friends, and art.

I am part of a community of sixteen artists that have studios housed in a building called Art Station located in Hightstown. There in my studio I sculpt with prescription bottles and draw on a collection of medication guides to create work with mad pride that not only addresses my mental health experience, but also through interaction invites people to consider their own and how they support others. I have given artist talks at chapters of the National Alliance on Mental Illness and at national conferences like the College Art Association and exhibited my art across the country to break stigma, fight prejudice, and dispel stereotypes. People have confided to me their own experiences as a mental health survivor or the challenges they have faced in understanding a family member with a mental illness. I believed I was an advocate for neurodiversity, but I was confronted by my own silence at Princeton University until now.

I self-identify as someone with an invisible disability of bipolar disorder who is Thai American, a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a friend, an artist and a survivor. My disability of mental health difference is a part of my cultural identity through which I view the world and has given me the ability to empathize with others who have disabilities. I hope that the other nine people can read this and know that it is okay to be in the minority and they are not alone. We are a part of the rich diversity of this campus community. I am not brave to come out if it is not out of the ordinary, but accepted and embraced. I am your colleague and I am bridging the gulf.

I was so stressed that I couldn’t do anything anymore except for lying on my bed. Seeing someone at CPS improved my condition very quickly.