Hopkins is a diverse university where an incredible mix of cultures, academic interests and personalities coexist and thrive. Here is the section where you can publish your unique thoughts, ideas and perspectives on life at Hopkins and beyond.
It’s still one of those things you don’t talk about. Over three years since your break-up-versary, you still get the feeling of stumbling off of a high dive when your thoughts return to it: tennis, Seattle, Nike, the color blue.
We’ve all watched Mean Girls, and while it’s understandable that we would like to relate most to Cady Heron, even she did some pretty catty and immature things. In high school, for most of us girls, “gossip” was synonymous with “hanging out.” Seemingly harmless yet vindictive and downright bitchy comments were ubiquitous.
Myth: People with mental illnesses tend to be violent Those being effectively treated for psychotic illnesses are no more likely to be violent. Still, a 2006 survey found that 60 percent of people thought that those with schizophrenia were likely to act violently. Emma McGinty, deputy director for the Center for Mental Health and Addiction Policy Research at the Bloomberg School of Public Health, wrote in an email to The News-Letter that this belief is not true.
I wrote a piece. I was forced to throw it away, to delete it from my hard drive, to delete it from my mind.
Writing about mental health is a touchy subject for me. That’s not because I am dealing with anxiety, or depression or another form of mental illness myself. I am extremely fortunate in that I don’t, to my knowledge, have a mental health issue or disability.
When most TV shows or movies portray a character with obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), that character can usually be found washing their hands for 15 minutes straight or flipping a light switch on and off five times before leaving a room. And to most of the world, that’s what OCD is.
If you ever have the chance to peruse the “Parents of Johns Hopkins University Students” Facebook page, you’ll see more than one post from a parent whose child has developed anxiety and depression during their time at Hopkins.
The latest pop smash echoes through the room, shots of grapefruit-flavored vodka line the worn table and the scent of cinnamon wafts from a tray of snickerdoodles in the corner. One of these things is not like the others. What is a plate of freshly baked cookies doing at a college party?
Every single minute of every single day I feel like I’m walking around with a massive jug of scalding hot water balanced on my head. I’m afraid to spill a little tiny bit of that water because the whole jug will start to fall and burn the people around me.
The quick answer: It depends. It depends on the struggle. The enormity of this question paired with the spectrum of mental health issues, possibilities and struggles, makes this answer near impossible to tackle in a mere 1,000 words. My experiences as an A Place to Talk (APTT) trainer, QPR-certified member, Sexual Assault Resource Unit (SARU) hotline respondent, psychology major and hospice volunteer will hopefully prove useful, though.
Forgiveness is a complicated thing. It is touted as the one path to inner peace. Bitter people are never happy; angry people are never at peace. Accepting this was hard for me, because I am angry, and I am bitter, and I don’t think I want to let go of that. I think my anger is what drives me, and some may say that is no way to live your life, but I think it has been the only way to live mine.
I usually don’t like to tell people I’m dating about my struggles with mental health for a couple of reasons. For one, it’s something that I’ve learned to cope with mostly on my own. With obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) and attention-deficit Disorder (ADD), difficulties mostly pop up on a brief, day-to-day basis, and I’ve adapted to handling small anxiety flare-ups and focus issues without too much help (though there is no downplaying the amount of help from family and friends I needed in order to get to this place of daily comfort with my disorders).
Sometimes it helps to set everything down and stare into space for a few minutes. If I’m at home, I like to open the window, sit on my bed and focus on something aesthetically pleasing in my room, like my succulent, Luna. I’d listen to something instrumental to slow down my heart rate and breathing: Studio Ghibli soundtracks, Hilary Hahn’s Bach recordings, Schumann and the “Peaceful Piano” playlist on Spotify are always helpful. Afterward, I always feel more grounded, alert and focused.
Humans, by nature, love to measure things. Throughout history, civilizations and individuals alike have consistently created systems of measurement: Ancient Maya charted the skies and compiled a calendar to measure time; physicists work to calculate the scale of our universe; English bishop John Wilkins invented the metric system in the 17th century.
Twist the burette, open the tap with your non-dominant hand, swirl the flask and voila! A quick and easy titration,” my chemistry lab professor said. He had been watching me do the lab and stepped up to teach me his titration technique. I observed with awe as he transformed a 10-second process into a one-second feat.
The moment my bus pulled away from the curb of Newark’s Penn Station — only late by a modest 12 minutes, impressively enough — I felt it. With only half a cup of coffee to assuage its relentless appetite, my stomach began to rumble in longing for the hometown staples I’d savored over Thanksgiving break.
In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I thought I would give you a story to be thankful for. A long time ago, two mortal enemies formed rival sororities for their high schools. They were each going to take 50 girls from their grades to form pledge classes. Who would recruit whom? Which would be more popular? Who would win?
I have to admit, this Thanksgiving was probably my favorite of all time. I talked to some family I hadn’t seen in years, had two Thanksgiving feasts, reconnected with former classmates at a Friendsgiving, and it was all topped off with a nice little $1.8 billion cherry from Michael Bloomberg.
First of all, I’d like to say that I hope you all had a lovely Thanksgiving and a relaxing break. Secondly, I would like to tell you about mine.
About three weeks ago I made a Facebook post which, since then, has uprooted my life. When I made the post I did it with the intention of giving my friend a voice who had remained quiet for so long. What has followed has taught me a lot about what happens when you finally speak out about abuse — especially when explicitly stating the perpetrator.
