She buried her face in her hands, shaking uncontrollably. “Crystal, I don’t know if I can make it through the year.” 

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I felt my own tears glide across my cheeks, but the words seemed to stay stuck in my throat. 

She had several symptoms consistent with anxiety disorders and ADHD, even having experienced multiple panic attacks over the years. But she remained undiagnosed– not because she lacked the awareness, but because her family refused to admit something was “wrong” with their daughter. 

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 She hadn’t done anything wrong. Yet she was forced to take a punishment she didn’t deserve. She was forced to meet the same standards that other neurotypical students were being held to without any support or appropriate treatment, forced to operate in a system that simply doesn’t impart any forgiveness for impulsivity, inattention, extreme anxiety… 

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You wouldn’t be able to tell. Not from watching her usual behavior. She’s the most bubbly, compassionate person I know, always greeting the world with an infectious smile and bright laughter. You may not find a stellar report card, but she is an exceptional artist and designer. She could spend hours hyperfocused on a piece of art, and her works are beautiful. Yet her talents stayed buried under the demands of reality. 

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In our rigorous school environment, academic excellence was the world. Her first panic attack was triggered after receiving an unreasonable grade on an essay that served as the tipping point after years of suffocating under unwarranted criticism and shame.

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It was late at night, before our supervised evening study sessions. Talk surrounding the unfair grades that had been given out over our latest essay assignment had been circling all afternoon, but I had no idea how much it affected her. Until I found her sitting on the benches outside our classrooms, holding her head in her hands, surrounded by a group of our classmates. I felt a sinking feeling in my heart. As I pushed through the crowd to sit next to her, my mind was blank and I felt the familiar feeling at a loss of words. She was struggling to breathe, and her hands shook in my touch. I knew she was having a panic attack, but I didn’t know what to do. That feeling of helplessness was like nothing I had ever known before– a heavy weight pressing down on my shoulders, and I wasn’t strong enough to lift it up. Each gasp of breath was like a knife through my heart. Eventually, someone was able to bring the school nurse. I don’t know what happened next, or how the attack subsided, because we were forced to return to our classrooms. 

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The next time I saw her was when I returned to our dorm room late at night. She seemed to have returned to her usual self, only I could see the exhaustion in her eyes. Tentatively, I asked her if she was doing alright. She gave me a quick nod and told me not to worry about her. I desperately wanted to do something to help.

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I soon learned however, that all I could do was be there for her. I vowed to support her no matter what happens, but I knew deep down that the power wasn’t in me to turn her situation around for the better. No matter the explanation, the evidence, no matter how many late nights she spent on the phone, her parents refused to recognize her struggles. Instead, they reprimanded her for finding excuses for poor grades, misbehavior, and for trying to spend their money on treatment…

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Therapy was “useless” and “a scam”. Medication was “bad for your health”. Their ignorance was deeply damaging, each word stifling the positivity of her spirit. When her aunt brought her to the doctors, they gave her a formal diagnosis: ADHD, panic disorder, and mild depression. Even then, her parents would not sign the papers allowing her to take medicine. 

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At the end of the school year, she transferred to a high school in the States. While the fresh, less stressful environment helped improve her mental state, she told me that her symptoms continued to persist, only in a milder form. In her calls, she sounds happy. Her new school helped nurture her development in art, and she was able to discover a newfound passion for nutritional science. Yet I can’t help but wonder what her life would have looked like, what experiences she would have had, if years ago, she had received proper attention and treatment. How many intelligent, talented young minds have been buried under discrimination and ignorance? Family was meant to be her backbone, a pillar of support and encouragement as she struggles with mental illness. Yet they were the ones who dragged her further down a spiral of negative emotions. 

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Protecting the mental health of teenagers and working towards destigmatization of mental disorders is the bottom line. Promoting the spread of mental health education is crucial in allowing the patient to understand themselves and in helping the people around them understand their circumstances. Mental illness is not a fault of personality, a lack of discipline, a sign of weakness, or an excuse for failures. It is merely the result of neurological differences and environmental influences outside of their control. She experiences ADHD and panic disorder, like many others around the world. But she also has the brightest personality and the most genuine passions, just like many others. A disorder doesn’t define them. It doesn’t make them any less talented, any less human. And they deserve our understanding.