Adolescent Forms

By Sanya Afsar

Discussed: mental illness

A depiction of my journey in asking for help, this essay is my reminder that I deserve peace and welfare in a battle against the uncertainties and anxieties of my mind.

One of the most colossal complications of my generation is the notion of mental health. Oftentimes, we find ourselves unable to respond to a simple “How are you feeling?” or “Are you okay?”.  As a 16-year-old girl navigating a ruthless world, I’ve camouflaged my own emotions a multitude of times. 

Ever since I can remember, I’ve dreaded those God-awful adolescent forms at annual doctor checkups, never knowing if I should continue playing the part of perfect daughter or surrender at last.

“Do you ever feel down, depressed, or hopeless for a period of more than two weeks?”

Yes. “No.”

“Have you ever struggled with weight and body image?”

“No.” Yes.

“Is there anything specific you want to talk about with the doctor?”

Yes. YES. This is my chance. YES!

“No.”

Because what happens if I reveal the truth? What happens if I unveil my deepest, most profound, immeasurable secret? What happens to me?

Of course, these forms are meant to offer a place of support in a time of need—a feeble attempt at having someone to talk to. I won’t disregard it being a huge first step in seeking the proper help one needs, but it seems rather dispassionate nonetheless. Something about its directness makes it seem as if its only objective is to diagnose you and get on with life, making it impossibly difficult to open up. Nobody longs for refuge in a routine questionnaire.

I do not want to burst my bubble of sadness. There’s comfort in floating around in the air, drifting away from pesky doctors and therapists and medications stretching their arms wide open, ready to clasp their greedy hands around my heartache. I can be perfectly content with my forever promise of sorrow, with counting on a shoulder to cry on in the dark of the bathroom floor.

But not this year. This year I dove into a career in writing and found nothing more captivating to document than my own thoughts and feelings. This year I got a job at the doctor’s office, and this year I was the one handing out adolescent forms on a little brown clipboard. This year I watched referrals for psychologists and psychiatrists and therapists folded in half by the hands of parents and this year I asked for one of my own.

Giving out those papers and seeing those teenagers sigh but give back sheets indicating pristine mental conditions gave me a jolting sense of perspective. I know too many people struggling to believe that everyone scribbling “No” down those pages is fine. But the minority of people who walk in with their minds made up, answers to the questions chiseled into their brains after years spent in turmoil, gave me a new understanding of hope. Witnessing these children shove their fears aside long enough to cry for help, especially when they may have little disposition towards any sort of endeavor, shook something in me.

The constant voice in my head insists on convincing me I can fix everything myself. And it doesn’t help that opening up to a complete stranger sounds purely terrifying. Except I know I can’t do it alone. I’m fully aware of the consequences of laying back and giving up, and I’m willing to dive headfirst into a pool of healing despite the myriad of doubts swimming through my body.

Because if that exhausted 9-year-old has the courage to come in and speak up for her life on a random Tuesday afternoon, why can’t I? What could possibly go wrong?