A Jump into Adulthood
By: Charlotte Crockett
Tags: Depression, Adulthood, Growing Up, Washington DC, Eating Disorders

I feel that I’ve hit rock bottom more than a few times in my life.

I’ve stopped, given up, screamed, and raised my fists at the sky because I failed yet again. Nobody’s perfect; I am far from it. But my darkest worst moments have shaped me into someone more interesting and messy.

Memories; coming into adulthood.

I can start with where my dad died, but this I have already written about extensively. I prefer to start with my first major road bump in my adult life.

When I was 18 I went off to college. I started at Smith College in Massachusetts in the fall of 2016 and left a few weeks later. This was the beginning of a frightening roller coaster ride. My anxiety kicked in at 110%, I became severely depressed and I was having panic attacks constantly. My eating disorder was resurfacing and I was in plain and simple terms a mess. My dad died just a few months ago.

I had forgotten how to function.

I would go to the library to work on an assignment and end up staring at the wall blankly for 30 minutes. I would try my best to swallow food and fight my anxiety-triggered gag reflex, only to run to the trash can and throw everything up that I had so painfully managed to stomach.

I had an eating disorder but I refused to admit it. This is no small thing, and deserves to be acknowledged.

I have struggled with this for several years, not knowing what it was or how to define it. It was shameful, something I felt I needed to hide because others would not understand or they would judge me.

I have never written about this before. I have never acknowledged the fact that I had an eating disorder. I would always just say, “Oh, I have problems eating sometimes.” But because it wasn’t like the more well known anorexia or bulimia, I did not categorize it as such.

I remember this problem began in high school when I would get stage fright and performance anxiety before speech competitions or theatre shows. I would get nauseous and sometimes throw up. This soon turned into me always throwing up, to straight up not being able to eat at all beforehand. This was the first sign of me having problems with food.

When my anxiety got triggered and I started being anxious not just about performing, but about normal daily elements of life, my eating was severely affected. I would get nauseous for no apparent reason. Eating food became so hard for me that certain textures would immediately trigger a reflex and I would start gagging into a napkin, trying as hard as I possibly could to keep the food down.

Since I was able to eat so little, I was never full, always hungry, and always nauseous because I wasn’t eating, so therefore I could not eat.

It was a vicious cycle. I was ridden with shame, guilt, and feelings of worthlessness. I started having negative thoughts every day. I had trouble getting out of bed, I couldn’t focus or concentrate, I was constantly unhappy, nervous, anxious. I didn’t know what to do or who to turn to. I went to the counselor and they recommended me to a dietician who told me to eat little meals throughout the day, easy to swallow food, and not try to make myself eat big meals because I was setting myself up for failure.

I started spiraling. I tried what the dietician said but it felt like other aspects of my life and health were flying out the window at a rapid speed and I couldn’t slow it down. When you don’t eat, everything else becomes nearly impossible. I wasn’t able to do my work or concentrate. I was barely dragging myself along to class and I was barely present when I was there. My thoughts turned dark. I was constantly panicking for no reason, and had a billion thoughts whirling through my mind but could not voice them if someone asked me what I was thinking. This was my first glimpse at bipolar, though I did not yet know it at the time.

I went to the counselor’s office numerous times and told them I wanted to leave, that I couldn’t do this, that I wanted to give up and go home. I cried constantly, I called my mom and I begged her to let me leave college and come home. She came to visit me one weekend and I knew I had to leave Smith. I told her about my other friend whose dad died and who had taken a gap year afterwards. I called this friend and she talked on speakerphone to my mom and me about her experience: how she took time off to heal. This seemed like the best option to me.

I didn’t fully realize it at the time, but I was in terrible health: depressed, anxious, dealing with an eating disorder, and on top of all that I was grieving for my father. College didn’t seem like it was a good idea. So I left. I managed to convince my mom that this was the right decision for me. I hurriedly packed up my whole dorm room, stuffing items at random into bags and dashing to my mom’s car to shove them in. It was a mess.

I ran to the dean’s office and explained the situation. I had been going to see her frequently up to this moment about my depression and my course load, so she was already aware that I was struggling. She said she understood that I was under a lot of stress, and that yes, of course I could medically withdraw for the semester. I didn’t quite understand what that meant, and was envisioning rather a delayed gap year. In any case, my mom and I drove home. In the car I dreamed of running away, of going on a grand adventure, filled with fleeting hopes for what a year without college could be. But when I got home, the real world came crashing down onto me.

The next day I woke up in my childhood bed paralylzed. It was all a terrible nightmare, and I was the main character. But it was real, shockingly, numbingly, horrifyingly real. What had I done? I just threw away my life and my future. I left college. Me, straight A student, Charlotte Crockett, dropped out of college. How could I do this? I knew at this moment that I had made a terrible mistake. I talked to my mom, I cried a lot, I called the dean and I begged to come back. I couldn’t just throw this away.

So we packed everything back in the car and drove 8 hours back to Massachusetts. I thought this time around I would be able to make it work. That I would get my act together and force things to go my way through sheer will power. This was simply not possible. All of my health problems were still there, and they were getting worse. I remember one night when I felt so hopeless and helpless and alone and the counselor suggested that I go to the hospital. I was scared but this seemed like a glimmer of hope. Maybe I would be able to find some help there.

I checked myself into the local hospital in Northampton and sat in a waiting room for hours. Long enough to second guess myself and think that this was, once again, a mistake. I got up and asked an attendant if I could leave- I had changed my mind and didn’t think I needed to be in the hospital. They said no- a nurse had asked me some questions upon arriving about my mental state, and they had deemed that I required admission to the psychiatric wing. I could either sign a form and go upstairs with them willingly, or I could be taken there forcefully.

I was shocked. What the hell was going on and how had I gotten to this point? Just a few months ago I had been celebrating high school graduation jubilantly with friends and been solo traveling in France. Now I was locked up in a mental hospital.

Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw there. One woman screaming hysterically for no apparent reason. A man talking to himself and pacing back and forth angrily along the hallway. Old folks with extremely limited cognitive functions. A girl who had attempted suicide the night before. A gaggle of people with incredibly different problems and needs all thrown together in a little hall.

I was allowed phone calls. I was embarrassed beyond measure and did not call any of my friends from back home. I didn’t know how I would begin to explain what was happening to me. So I called my mom, who was back in Virginia, and begged her to come back and get me.

I talked to the doctor and the social worker in the hospital and pleaded with them to release me. “I don’t belong here!!! Can’t you see, I’m not crazy!? I just want to go back to school!” They wouldn’t listen. They said the only way they would agree to let me go was if I was released into the care of my mother. So she came and saved me.

Once I was out, that was the end of that. I’m going home, I’m not staying at Smith, this is too much, I am traumatized, there is simply no way. I was defeated.

So for the second time, I packed up my stuff and we drove home. And this time I stayed home. What happened next? I descended further and further into my depression. I was in my own eyes nothing but a failure. I refused to acknowledge that I was dealing with serious health problems that were to a certain extent beyond my control.

Depression is real. It is serious, it is dangerous and it is not to be taken lightly.

My thoughts were nothing but darkness. I had descended into a dark pit and I could no longer see the light. How do I get out?

I wanted to kill myself. There was no hope. None. There was a time where I did nothing. I tried going back to the theatre department at my high school for advice from my teacher. She said I should get a job, so the next day I hopped on a metro to D.C. and went to the first place I could think of- a French café that I had stumbled upon months ago in Dupont Circle: Un je ne sais Quoi.

I walked past the café and sat on a bench a few paces away, mustering up the courage to walk inside. When I finally did I talked to what must have been the owner and asked, “Est-ce que vous embauchez maintenant ?” Are you hiring now? She said yes, you can come tomorrow for a trial run. Amazing.

This place would fundamentally alter my existence. That sounds dramatic, but it’s the truth. It wasn’t easy at first, or honestly for a good several months. I was still incredibly depressed, walking in a fog, trudging along through life. But now I had at least one reason to get up in the morning. I had a place to be, surrounded by other people. I was incredibly, painfully awkward. My depression made me close up, inhibited my social skills, and made me come across as extremely shy and unconfident. Because what did I have to be confident about? I had left college. I was no one.

I didn’ t know how to open up. Because I didn’t feel at all like me. What happened to the normal Charlotte? The crazy, exuberant, bubbly extrovert who is all smiles and laughter? She is gone, replaced by a quiet mouse who skirts about trying not to get in anyone’s way. I saw how my bosses were kind and funny, yet I struggled to connect. I thought, “There’s no way they like me. I don’t know what to say.” I was paranoid and I always thought that I was doing something wrong. I was constantly scared of messing up. I was discouraged. I thought about quitting.

It took me a week to work up the courage to quit. At the end of my shift I walked up to Aude and François and asked if I could talk to them for a minute. I told them that ever since my dad died, I find it really hard to smile and be happy around other people. And that I don’t think it’s working for me to work here. Aude’s reaction changed everything.

She started crying and she told me that she and François had also lost their dads. François said that they understood. Aude hugged me. I was shocked. Completely and utterly taken aback. Here I was this whole time thinking that they hated me, that I wasn’t a good employee, that I couldn’t do anything right. And here we were having this emotional connection.

I came in to work the next day and I spontaneously burst out, “Actually, can I stay? I don’t want to leave.” And that was the beginning. My new beginning.

Weeks passed and I started getting closer with Aude and François. I started opening up. I became more confident as I had been working there for awhile now and I was used to the job. François told me one day, “We’re glad that you stayed.”

Things started turning around. I started listening to music again on my way to work. I journaled often. I went out with my mom and enjoyed the fresh air. I started posting on social media again. I reached out to friends that I hadn’t spoken to in ages. Little by little, the shame that I felt for leaving college all those months ago was melting away. And why, how? I was undergoing a transformation as I was taken in by a French couple. I had a reason, a purpose, and I was no longer just trudging through life. I was starting to skip, run, gallop.

I looked forward to working with Aude and François every day. I loved the witty banter, the inappropriate jokes, the love and support I felt from them. I loved speaking French and feeling like I was improving. After months of depression, things were finally turning around. Little by little my anxiety floated away, my eating improved, my negative thoughts all but disappeared. I was once again excited for the future.

And what did my future hold? I had reapplied to colleges because I didn’t want to go back to Smith for various reasons. I ultimately needed a fresh start and I wanted to go somewhere closer to home. I got accepted to William and Mary for the fall of 2017. But for the time being I was flourishing at work and planning the next great adventure: a return to France.

Now that I was doing better I thought that I needed to have one crazy wild adventure before I went back to college. So I planned to go wwoofing (working on an organic farm) in a little town called Réparsac for a few weeks.

In the spring of 2017 I hopped on a plane and left for France, round 2. I felt infinitely more confident and sure of myself than I had just months ago and than I had the first time I had gone to France about a year before. I was ready.

To be continued…