The Voices in My Head Nearly Cost Me My Life – Then I Decided to Pursue a Doctorate in School Psychology

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We never know what life has planned for us, and it is full of trials and tribulations. Reflecting on my life, I never expected to be in a doctoral program for school psychology, and I never thought I would make it to 28 years old.

College can be a harrowing experience for many, especially those from marginalized backgrounds. According to some studies, the rates of depression in college students have doubled over the past decade. I was one person in a sea of others who struggled with depression during this period. I almost did not make it, but with the support of my counselor and family, I am here today to help children and adolescents navigate the same troubles I had.

Depression is something I have struggled with since childhood. Constantly, I would call out in class and make inappropriate jokes, to my teacher’s dismay. Teachers didn’t want anything to do with me and would send me to the back of the class. I disrupted class as a way to distract myself from depression, and I hated myself for it. I was insecure and I never felt good enough to be a friend, brother, or son. I thought that being a class clown demonstrated my value, and that I was worth something to others.

In high school, I hated myself for playing the buffoon. Nobody cared about me as long as I made them laugh. Nobody wanted to know the real me. I viewed my depression as a malicious entity, a specter haunting my mind. It would always say to me, “You are not good enough,” “You are worthless,” and “People are no good.” Most days, the specter would whisper those thoughts to me. On other days, it would shout, and the sound of doubt and hopelessness would reverberate in the halls of my mind.

I wanted to escape from my family, friends, and, most of all, myself, so I decided to live in the dorms during my first year of college. I wanted a fresh start; no longer would I be the class clown I was in middle and high school, but someone completely different. I thought getting away from everyone would be an opportunity for growth. I could return as a triumphant hero by throwing myself into the unknown.

I remember entering the dorm my first year and seeing so many unfamiliar faces. I was frightened, and I did not know what to expect. I had always been an introvert, so making the first move when meeting new people was difficult for me. However, I decided to leave my comfort zone and began conversing with my dormmates. They all seemed nice, giving me hope that I would make lasting friendships. But real life is rarely that kind.

Past the friendly exterior of most of my dormmates laid a deep-seated vanity and superficiality. The dorms were rife with gossip and rumors; each bit of gossip was more negative than the last. I hated being around those people. I thought to myself, “How can people be so phony? This is just like middle school all over again.” The specter laughed spitefully at me, exclaiming, “I told you so!”

Compounding my depression and isolation was my newfound racial visibility. I am of Afro-Latino descent and grew up in a diverse community. I had always felt different, but never due to my race. This was my first time feeling like an outsider.

I recall walking to the bookstore, and white students would look at me as if they had seen a monster. They would gaze at me with this apprehension and anxiety as if I would attack at any moment. I dreaded entering the common areas and feeling their cold stares at me. I had never felt more alone until I set foot on that campus.

My new racial awareness exacerbated my depression. Other students of color on campus told me they experienced the same feelings of being an outsider. Even after befriending these students, the loneliness never subsided.

As the year went on, my depression intensified. Every night, the specter would shout in my head, “You should just die. Nobody wants you here. You don’t want to be here or anywhere. Why don’t you do what you have wanted to do all your life?” I would twist and turn in my bed, trying to block out my tormentor’s words. I would yell at him, “No, this isn’t true!” But those words rang hollow.

Eventually, the isolation and the psychic torture wore down my spirit. It became difficult to attend to basic living activities. It was hard to shower, brush my teeth, groom myself, or socialize. I was truly alone. I began to believe the entity’s words. Maybe he was telling the truth, and I shouldn’t be here anymore.

I remember sitting in my dorm room contemplating death. I wanted to die. But I was scared. How would my mom react if her oldest son took his life? How would my dad and brother feel? I began to cry and realized that I couldn’t do it. I picked up the phone and called the college counseling center to reveal that I was having suicidal thoughts.

Soon after, I began therapy sessions with a counselor on campus. I credit her with saving my life. She would listen to me with compassion and kindness I had never known. Gradually, the entity’s voice became quieter to the point where he became a murmur in the breeze.

I reflected on my childhood while in therapy. Sigmund Freud was right when he asserted that many current psychological problems in adults stem from childhood experiences. I realized I experienced depression in middle school, and it caused me to misbehave in class. My teachers could not stand me. They thought I was a bad kid. Not a single one asked me, “Are you alright?”

It is funny how basic questions like “Are you alright?” are never asked of children. Some teachers will declare students “bad kids” and give up on them. In particular, Black students are disproportionately disciplined compared to their white counterparts.

How many children labeled “bad kids” struggle with undiagnosed depression or other mental illnesses? This realization inspired me to pursue a doctorate in school psychology. Rutgers University has one of the country’s most rigorous school psychology programs, so I knew I had to go there. Getting accepted into the doctoral program was one of the greatest moments of my life.

With my training, I can provide services to all students. After completing my degree, I plan on working in a public school district for several years before opening my community clinic, where I can provide therapeutic services to children. Having my own private practice has always been a dream of mine.

School can be rough for kids if they feel no one cares for them, and I know that better than anyone. If I can make one student feel like they matter, my 28 years on Earth will have been worth it.

I am thankful for my experience with depression. It has given me greater empathy and compassion for those who suffer, especially children. Carl Jung once wrote, “Only the wounded physician heals … and then only to the extent he has healed himself.” I don’t think my depression will fully heal, but I can help children heal from their sadness with my old wounds. This is what allows me to wake up every day.