A few years ago, this fun thing started happening: I cried every day over my family members’ inevitable deaths.

Not shockingly, I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder this May. After a trial round of medication and lots of consultation with my general physician, I’m feeling a lot better than I have in a long time.

I was scared to voice what I was going through around campus because, whenever I did, I was met with the typically well-meaning but rarely helpful solutions of incredibly healthy people. “Have you tried working out?” and “I think you should pray on the matter,” became the bane of my existence. So, I shut up.

I especially didn’t want to say anything once I got diagnosed. So many students here either operate like well-oiled machines or think self care is for the weak. One particular conversation I overheard outside of the Big Pharma CCA clued me into a sect of campus who think all mental illnesses are forms of demonic possessions.

 I’m — hopefully — not possessed, but I am fed up.

For people who spend this much time talking about the healing mercy of Jesus Christ, we tend to self quarantine from people with the slightest perceivable defects. Our capacity for compassion regarding mental illness extends to homeless people who talk to themselves outside of the bank, and stop when faced with a suffering peer.

 I’m guilty of this in the extreme. Some of the worst things I’ve said in my whole life were about “crazy” friends who I turned on when they probably really needed someone on their side. I’ve paid for those actions in spades at this college. It’s a verifiable purgatory of people who jeer at you and pull you down because you’re trying to get better in your own way.

 This isn’t to say I think everyone who feels sad should be in therapy or medicated — I’m just saying your 19-year-old roommate probably shouldn’t be your ultimate health authority… said the 21-year-old columnist you’re reading.

Go to therapy. Talk to your doctor. I guess there’s a chance Big Pharma is tracking me through my Prozac intake, but I’m not crying everyday anymore, so I don’t care. You might not either.

Claire Gaudet is a senior studying rhetoric and journalism.