When Not Fine is Fine

Fact: There is no half-decent place to have a panic attack at Harvard.

During Opening Days, this was one of the first things to occur to me. Everywhere I turned, there they were: people. I had a roommate. I shared a bathroom with seven other students. I ate every meal at Annenberg Hall. I was constantly surrounded by people I knew.

The first time I went into a music practice room and found silence for the first time in weeks, it occurred to me to stop by the Music Department next time I knew it would be a rough night. I began cataloguing places where no one would engage with me: the corner of Tercentenary Theatre, the east side of Widener library, the upper levels of Lamont. Quiet, solitary areas were few and far between. Even if I found a moment to myself, it was only a matter of time before it was replaced by the constant stream of activity that defines this campus.

I’ve dealt with an anxiety disorder since the beginning of high school. While I’m not currently taking medication, my anxiety is something that impacts my life every day. When I’m out with friends, when I’m sitting in class, when I’m writing an essay, the question is always there: What do I do if things get bad?

There’s an expectation that if someone looks upset, you help them. That ideal, though well-intentioned, is also often misguided. Most people cannot tell the difference between someone who is crying for personal reasons and someone who is having an anxiety attack. People think that their “being there” is inherently helpful. And, for some, it might be.

For me, however, it is not. If I’m breaking down, I don’t expect someone else to put the pieces back together. Over the past few years, I’ve become quite good at doing that myself. I don’t need someone to sit with me, or stroke my back, or tell me that things are going to be okay. Instead, more than anything, I need to be left alone.

Yet, I can’t say these things when I’m in the middle of having an anxiety attack. Dealing with my own situation requires all of my energy; I don’t have any to spend on another person. After all, it’s hard to speak when you’re hyperventilating.

And then, here’s the thing: When you tell someone you’re fine, and you’re in the middle of having an anxiety attack, they don’t tend to believe you. Which is more than understandable, seeing as you’re crying, shaking, breathing heavily, and exhibiting other tell-tale signs of “not-fine-ness.”

This is why those two words—“I’m fine”—require a bit of translation. Because “I’m fine” does not mean that I’m fine. It means that you can’t help me.

In fact, the only thing that will truly help me is the one thing that is not accessible: a private, secluded place to take a moment, regain my footing, and return to business as usual.

To its credit, Harvard does have a wide variety of resources available for people with anxiety disorders and other mental health-related concerns. In fact, I lose count of the peer counseling groups that I see advertised on bulletin boards across campus. However, counseling is, by nature, discussion-based.

For some, discussion may be productive. Yet, I don’t want to talk to someone about my situation; I want to do the opposite. While a designated quiet space might help me, Harvard does not currently provide this resource. In this, while Harvard’s services are helpful to some, they don’t fit my needs. I don’t need help or guidance. I simply need privacy.

My anxiety disorder is no one’s business but my own. So much so, in fact, that I’ve become quite good at hiding it. The fact that I have anxiety is often one of the last things that people learn about me. This isn’t because I’m ashamed, in denial, or avoiding the issue. It is simply because it is private.

So, when I say “I’m fine,” understand that I am dealing with something that does not concern you. Understand that, though I may not truly be “fine” at the moment, I eventually will be. And understand that the best thing that you can do for me is believe me.

Abigail G. Sage ’21 is a Crimson Editorial comper in Hollis Hall.