I have been out of school since December of 2017. This
September was my first time in higher education/college since then. And since
then, let me tell you what has changed.
But first, a little backstory on me.
I was an avid activist in my undergraduate years. Absolutely
fucking relentless. I did more outside of class than all of my (146 credits of)
classes combined. I was part of committees, organizations, hiring committees,
student representatives, protests, and a part of a small pool of people who
just fucking knocked on the administration’s door every day of their lives,
causing hell for them. I am proud of my background, and I am proud of all I
accomplished in my undergrad.
Needless to say, not everything was always great and
wonderful. I developed anxiety, depression, and a horrible alcohol attachment.
Not only this, but I developed physical ailments that I can say, were directly
attributed to the massive amounts of stress that others and myself put upon
ourselves to be perfect, to be always in the loop with what was going on
outside and inside of campus. People left and right of me were dropping like
flies, and I was wondering how long it would take until it would claim me into
silence (or death) too.
Many activists over the course of their lives develop
physical ailments that affect them for the rest of their lives. Diabetes, high
blood pressure, cancer, heart problems.
For me, it was chest pain. I would wake up nearly every
morning and feel pain in my chest, like weights had been piled upon them in my
sleep. I felt as if my chest was caving in on itself and that I was dying. I
told my doctor about it, but they couldn’t find anything wrong with it, because
whenever I conveniently showed up to my doctor’s appointments, it would
magically disappear.
This affected me from my junior year up until the moment I
graduated. Once I graduated, it stopped. At first, I thought the chest pains
were from the massive amounts that I drank, but I continued to do so after I
graduated and it did not return.
My conclusion was that it was from the presence, the stress,
and the anxiety that institutions of higher education instill in their students
of marginalized identities.
If this conclusion couldn’t be proved before, it’s
definitely proved now.
I’ve been in my graduate program for almost a month now. My
drinking habits have died down (see my blog post here about that journey) and I’m
adjusting greatly to my new place, the new area, and the new institution.
Despite this, I woke up a few weeks ago with a familiar chest pain. As I write
this blog post now, I can feel my chest caving in. I breathe and it hurts. I
lay on my side and it hurts. I lay down and it hurts. Everything I do to make
it subside does not work. I have to wait for it to fade away by itself.
I haven’t been doing any wild activism since being here. I’ve
taken on meetings, had my schedule relatively booked with time for some me
time, but I still feel it. The tremendous amount of pressure I have to be
completely involved in this institution still eats at me, and maybe that’s why.
But maybe it’s also because for marginalized students attending a PWI that
doesn’t seem to care about them, simply being on these campuses is killing us.
I work for an amazing office. I am surrounded by people who
support and validate me. I love what I do. I love everything about my job and
would readily quit school to simply work in this position for the rest of my
life. But the work that my office does is taxing. The work that my office does
takes a tremendous toll on my coworkers’, supervisors’, and students’ bodies.
The institution outside of our office is not as validating as the environment
we have made for ourselves. The institution still hates people like us. They still
try to wait us out.
I’m not afraid of my health deteriorating and spiraling, but
I am afraid that this pain is something I will not be able to escape as I
continue to work in higher education and pursue a career in it.
I have talked to many activists about the physical ailments
that have killed people, have impaired their lives, and continue to plague them
as we exist in institutions that readily seek to kill us and silence us. This
is not a new issue. And I don’t have the answer to make it better.
As the semester continues, I don’t know how to monitor my
health. No matter how much “self care” we do for others and ourselves, the
institution will still exist to try to kill us and silence us. Sometimes in
that order. It is called self-care, because the institution will not care for
us—we have to.
