Author: bromer

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.

When I first started the program, I felt excited – but soon became discouraged by the constant need to shape and reshape my project as it was only getting underway. There was a lot of guesswork, a lot of adjustments, and no path taken seemed correct. I felt like I didn’t know anything, didn’t belong, and couldn’t stand the fact that things were changing every day. I was feeling hopeless and anxious about my future, and decided to start seeing a therapist. My therapist helped me understand that I should be reaching out to people instead of isolating myself. Due to their advice, the annoying changes became adventures. The project didn’t seem so daunting once I had people to share my thoughts with and to reach out to for help. It sounds simple, I know – but it took me a long time to get here. And now, I feel excited again.

It’s hard to figure out what kind of relationship I am supposed to have with my classmates. We’re sort of like co-workers but it also feels like we’re expected to be friends. When I first got to my program, I felt like a black sheep. All of my classmates seemed to be from the same wealthy neighborhoods and were just out of college. I had a family, was used to working in an office and maintaining some separation between my private and professional life, and had different cultural norms that seemed to clash with what the rest of the students did. The first year, where we’re all trapped in classes together, was especially hard. I felt judged for not going out with them every week and for not being as open about my private life as they were. I hated feeling like we HAD to be friends — with that heavy pressure to overshare to create closeness — a tactic that I remembered others using during my freshman year of college. It got worse over the course of the year, where it was clear I was being excluded from things. The work in grad school was already very demanding and isolating me from my friends/family outside of school. To also have to deal with these weird social politics in my department was hard. I figured I had to accept it for what it was and powered through the work and the discomfort.

By my second year, I knew more of the older students and finally felt like I had some friends. I also had more control over my schedule and could study things more closely tied to my interests, which helped enormously. I had the “aha! This is why I am doing this degree!” moment for the first time. It got a lot better, even though some of the weird social stuff remains. I just try to stay focused and curious about what is to come. I make sure I get enough sleep and I exercise regularly to deal with the anxiety and doubt that comes with grad school. I try to be open with my family and friends about what I am going through so they can support me in the ways they can. I found this last part is especially important — I tried to protect them from it for a long time, but that damaged my relationships. They wanted to be there for me and it seemed like I was hiding something. Sometimes I just needed to say aloud, “I feel sad and scared,” and they would acknowledge my feelings and tell me it was normal to feel that way. Those moments made me feel less lonely.

My roommate seems to have a very exploitative advisor, who won’t let his students take a break from working, even on weekends. She got depressed over her years at Princeton and has been seeing counselors for a few years. I’m trying to be a very supportive and caring roommate but I don’t think that is enough and I don’t know whom to turn to for help.