Anxiety unmasked

The water rushed from my bathroom faucet as I washed my hands. The soap burned, and it dawned on me what I had done. It wasn’t large — a single Band-Aid covered it — but it was something I had never done before. 

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I was scared.

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I told myself it was normal. I hadn’t hurt myself enough to cause concern. Maybe it wouldn’t even leave a scar.

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But who was I kidding? This was rock bottom.

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Maybe it was time to finally reveal what I’d been hiding for the past 10 years.

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*****

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This wasn’t my first idea for a long-form piece. It wasn’t even my second or third. I’d planned to write a reported story — anything to avoid introspection. I’ve always despised talking about myself, especially when it comes to things like this.

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Let me preface by saying that I am not better than I was before I started this project. In some ways, I’m worse. This isn’t a triumphant story of conquering my demons. It’s a story of how I hit my lowest point.

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Earlier this semester, I realized I couldn’t keep hiding from my mental health. I needed to confess what I’d buried for years. For once, I could label what I’d avoided.

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I have anxiety, I am depressed and I’ve had passive suicidal thoughts since I was 18.

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*****

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My goal from day one at Miami University was to have a “fresh start.” Compared to Michigan State, where half my high school class went, I knew no one in Oxford, and no one knew me.

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No one knew that I was the second-oldest of four and the only one in my family not studying medicine. No one knew how many scars I had, that I struggled to sleep and focus or that I spent more time imagining my funeral than my graduation, my wedding or any other future milestone.

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I told myself I didn’t need to be the same anxious and nervous guy who avoided attention. I could put on a facade of confidence and create a whole new character for myself, like I’d made a new profile on a game.

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I moved into Hillcrest Hall in August 2022, my first time seeing Miami’s campus. The first person I met was Jack Davis, one of my roommates in our triple dorm. Immediately, I thought Davis was effortlessly cool. He bantered with our neighbors and took me to Armstrong Student Center for dinner. Then, I drove my mom — who was recovering from surgery — home right after moving in and missed every Welcome Weekend event.

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I never introduced myself properly to anyone in the hall. By spring, any weak connections I’d formed throughout the fall had vanished. Davis rushed with a fraternity, and suddenly, the one person I spoke to was gone most nights.

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One Saturday in March, while he folded laundry before going Uptown, he asked, “Do you want to go out with my friends and me?”

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Since I’d gotten on campus, I’d dreamed of anyone asking me to join them going out.  I accepted his invitation before I could change my mind. He left, and I started getting ready.

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Several questions raced through my head. What would I wear? What sneakers could I sacrifice if the floors were as sticky as I’d heard? Would a hoodie be too warm? Would I be OK without a fake ID? Is cologne a good idea? What would his friends think about me?

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What would his friends think about me?

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As much as we got along, Davis and I were two completely different people. He was confident and knew how to talk to people. He seemed like an all-around cool guy. On the other hand, I worried to the point of throwing up about brushing my teeth in front of other people in the communal bathroom.

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While I waited at my desk, a wave of nervousness choked me. I could easily be an outlier among his friends. People would know that I didn’t belong there.

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When Davis came back, I wanted to urge myself to go with him, but I couldn’t. I told him I wasn’t feeling great, and even though he assured me that I was welcome to join him, I stayed behind that night.

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A week later, I began looking at transfer applications to the University of Michigan. I’d told my friends back home that the Miami experiment had failed and that I was coming to Ann Arbor.

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However, I confused its arts and business schools deadlines. I was stuck at Miami for another year.

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“I didn’t notice it,” Davis said. “You seemed more outgoing. I don’t know whether that was you putting on a mask. I didn’t notice it, and I’m sorry that I didn’t.

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“Like you said, it was a mask,” I said. “I wasn’t trying to get anyone to notice it.”

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“You fooled me.”

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*****

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I knew I’d need to make serious changes in my sophomore year. The “fresh start” experiment had failed, but I wasn’t ready to give up.

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I added journalism as my second major, spent more time in The Miami Student’s newsroom, joined the debate team and Toastmasters – a public speaking club – and pushed myself to talk to at least one new person in every class.

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By October, my increased effort paid off. Jack Schmelzinger, the sports editor for The Student at the time, texted me one night asking if I wanted to be his assistant sports editor and eventually his replacement.

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I accepted immediately, but only after a panic attack that left me vomiting in the dorm bathroom.

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At first, I was thrilled; someone had noticed me, considered me a nice enough guy and invited me to spend more time with them and their friends. But excitement quickly turned to worry. I was still quiet and awkward. I convinced myself that I was a diversity hire: I was chosen because I stood out in the room, not because I was talented.

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“I walked on eggshells,” I said to Schmelzinger. “I didn’t really talk up during meetings. I knew if I submitted a story, it had to be the best story you get, or else it’s strike one and I’m out.”

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“You honestly never gave off the impression that you were super anxious,” Schmelzinger said. “I guess there were times when I would try to talk to you, [and] your speech would be maybe a little faster. You could kind of tell based on the way you were talking to me that you were nervous … I just honestly thought that you were a quiet, reserved, but smart and conscientious guy.”

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When I finally became sports editor, I didn’t feel ready. I barely knew the other staff members. Sitting at my desk in the middle of the newsroom, I felt stranded, convinced that everyone thought I was weird.

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I hated how I put myself in this position where I was too uncomfortable to say anything to anyone. I hated how I convinced myself that everyone noticed how quiet I was and thought I was weird, talking about me behind my back when I wasn’t in the room.

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Everyone later assured me that they thought I was just quiet. They really wanted to get to know me more than anything else. They didn’t think I was weird; they just didn’t know what to think about me.

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“Taylor and I had been talking from January until then,” Kasey Turman, the editor-in-chief of The Student at the time, said. “She would randomly come up to me, and other people would tell me this too, like, ‘Kethan hasn’t said anything at these meetings. Do you know anything about him?’ I was like, ‘I know as much as you guys. He hasn’t said much, but he seems like a cool guy.’”

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By year’s end, I still didn’t know anyone well enough to attend social outings. When they announced there would be an end-of-year party, I forced myself to go and crawl out of my shell.

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On the afternoon of the party, a wave of anxiety smothered me. My chest tightened. I tried to stand up, but my legs let me down. I decided to clear my head and leave my dorm, driving aimlessly through the rural fields outside Oxford, blasting “Don’t Stop Me Now.” I convinced myself that the lyrics, “I’m having such a good time, I’m having a ball,” were a premonition for my night.

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I’d made this mistake before: saying no to Davis and staying in. Not this time. I forced myself to show up.

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I played cornhole with Kasey, chatted with editors and even joked with the designers. Toward the end of the night, Taylor Stumbaugh, the Campus and Community editor, asked if I had a southern accent. I laughed, but I realized she asked me that because I didn’t talk a lot, and she had barely heard my voice.

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“I remember her talking to me at that party like, ‘I’m gonna confront Kethan, I’m gonna tell him he needs to talk more,’” Kasey said, “because everything he says is funny. He just needs to add to the conversation.’”

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Their words stuck with me all summer. 

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*****

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When junior year started, I felt both hopeful and uneasy. I was halfway through college, but I still couldn’t name a single person I truly called a friend.

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I threw myself into work again, joining The Student’s Recruitment & Retention committee, traveling to nearly every football game with Kasey and spending hours in the newsroom. But the familiar worries returned. Had I waited too long to speak up? Was I permanently the quiet one?

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I began having problems sleeping. Sometimes it was from workload; other times I lay awake, replaying every conversation from that day to see what I’d done wrong.

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I’ve lived with what was likely diagnosable anxiety since I was 6. I still didn’t want to label it, but the sleeplessness, nausea and shaking made me believe there was more going on beyond general nerves.

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If I’d changed so much since high school, why did I still feel the same? What if I always did?

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The fall of junior year was supposed to be different. I was the sports editor now. I had friends in the newspaper. I had an assistant sports editor, Jeff Middleton, who became my best friend during long production nights. I felt more comfortable going to dinner and parties with them. I spoke up during meetings in the newsroom. But the harder I tried to hold myself together, the more I came undone.

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Football season flew by in long weekends on the road. Between classes, writing, editing and long production nights, I barely noticed how empty I felt until I got home at night. Then, the silence hit like a wave.

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What if no matter what I did, I’d always be the same, scared, awkward kid? Why keep reading the same chapters over and over? Why not just jump to the conclusion sooner?

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I thought a lot about death in middle school. It started as curiosity, but as I grew up, I began to fear the aftermath of death more than death itself. When I became more stressed and anxious throughout high school, that fear of death was almost replaced by a longing for it.

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I didn’t necessarily want to kill myself or die, but I found a peacefulness to it. I wouldn’t have to worry about college admissions, AP classes, missing my friends or stressing about a job.

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I thought I had stopped having those thoughts at Miami, but the truth is, I just got better at ignoring them. Eventually, those same thoughts reappeared in a new form. Before, I had accepted the peacefulness associated with death, but it ended there. Halfway through that fall semester, I started hoping that I wouldn’t wake up some days.

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I could sense my own decline, but I couldn’t stop it. Despite these developments, I refused to tell people about it or seek help. I grew closer to some people, including Sarah Frosch, the digital media editor for The Student, who told me on multiple occasions that I needed to see a therapist, a doctor or both if I was averaging four hours of sleep.

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Some things went well in my junior year. I had people I could actually call friends, people I could go to parties with and spend time together outside the newsroom. I got to travel all over the Midwest covering football and basketball. I even flew to Arizona with Sarah, Taylor and Kasey, which became one of my favorite college memories.

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But no matter how many good or fun times I had, I still hated myself. I became wary of those brief escapes from hopelessness. I couldn’t rely on them to last; they were only temporary. Sure enough, that short-term happiness would be replaced with emptiness.

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I refused to tell anyone this willingly. My parents always told me that I, or any of my siblings, could talk to them about mental struggles, but personal feelings weren’t a common topic at the dinner table. I couldn’t bring myself to add to their troubles, not when I’m four hours from home and had told them I wanted to be independent. If I could handle my issues on my own, I would.

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I wrote ambiguously about my depression for a journalism class with Fred Reeder Jr., who I had once as a sophomore and again as a junior. I didn’t make any direct admission, but Reeder was concerned enough to email me separately and ask to meet to make sure I was okay.

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“It’s hard to read you, Kethan,” Reeder said. “You always came to class. I think that’s when my red flags come up is when a student starts missing classes or starts not participating in class … But no, I don’t think I noticed that from you.”

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Occasionally, when drunk, I would text Sarah and Kasey, asking them for confirmation that they actually liked and enjoyed spending time with me. Once, I hinted to Sarah that I wouldn’t be mad if I didn’t wake up the following morning, but I refused to elaborate.

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Those thoughts worsened over the spring semester. I started asking myself how people would react if I stopped showing up to production nights or disappeared. I wondered who from the newsroom would show up to my funeral and how different people would act.

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By February, those thoughts became a daily occurrence. At the time, I told myself I was just down — maybe stressed — and I would snap out of it at some point.

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“When you think about that, do you think of it as, ‘If I never existed, this would be fine,’ or, ‘If they all knew me, and I simply was not there?’” Sarah asked.

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“Sometimes it’s, ‘If I hadn’t joined the paper, they’d be OK,’” I answered. “It got to the point of, ‘If I disappeared tomorrow, if I didn’t wake up and I stopped showing up, people may feel sad … but they would rebound quickly.’”

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“You’re not in the newsroom one day, and we’re all like, ‘Where the hell is Kethan? He’s here every day, why is he not here?’ We come in here, and we want to chit-chat. You’re trying to write a story, and I’m not gonna let that happen because I’m gonna talk to you for like an hour and a half.”

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“For the record, those talks save me. I hope you know that.”

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“It’s not like people aren’t actively looking out for you. You just don’t see it because you hate yourself, and you’ve decided that everyone else also does in some weird, twisted way. You would not have that RedHawk Swoop plushie in your hands if I hated you.”

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The anxiety continued, and the suicidal thoughts became a regular affair. During production nights in the newsroom, I would catch myself drifting away from everyone and thinking instead about how I would feel if I got hit by a car on my walk home. Oftentimes, the first answer was “relieved.”

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I refused therapy before, but I started to worry that people were picking up on my self-hatred. I didn’t want anyone to worry about me, and I certainly didn’t want to show those feelings outwardly. If a biweekly counseling session would help me to hide it better, I could concede and give it a try.

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Before trying therapy, my answer was to keep myself busy with work. I wrote four or more articles each week, had homework for six courses and served as a UA for my old business professor, Jake Matig.

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I thought I hid my mental struggles well throughout junior year, but some people started to pick up on it. My grandfather's death halfway through the semester only heightened those thoughts. I only told Sarah and Kasey, and told everyone else I was “OK.”

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“I don’t think you talked to me about that,” Matig said. “I wish you would have. I don’t want to get into the conversation of why you didn’t feel like you could talk to me about that. I will say that it probably felt like you were less invested than I had hoped you would be.”

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“I started going to counseling because I was at a point where I desperately needed it,” I said. “I just was not having a good time. I kind of woke up some mornings and didn’t really want to be there, but it sounds like I did a decent job of not showing that outwardly.”

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“Yeah, but I don’t know if that’s a badge of honor. I don’t want to sound dismissive, but the fear of showing weakness or coming off as depressed or anxious and wanting to be able to hide it is probably not the best approach in going through life.”

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It was nice to talk about myself — I’d never done that before — but the usefulness of counseling quickly diminished. I could put things on the table, but what I was really looking for was answers.

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How do I stop feeling this way? What can I do to not feel so empty all the time? How do I block out the desire to not wake up anymore?

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By the end of junior year, I had a million questions and unwanted thoughts, but no solutions.

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*****

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Last summer, I decided to stay in Oxford for an internship. The thoughts came back full throttle, but for the first time in my life, I didn’t have a consistent distraction each day. I didn’t have my mom to run errands with or my dad to help with projects around the house. I didn’t have my brothers to go swimming or play backyard soccer with. I didn’t have my sister to chauffeur for. My friends weren’t around for random drives or excursions.

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I immersed myself in my internship with the Oxford Free Press and played tennis with Taylor each week to keep my mind off those thoughts, but when I couldn’t rely on those, I spiraled alone in my apartment.

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Several times while playing tennis with Taylor, I wanted to tell her what I’d been thinking about, but I never did. I told myself I would tell her one day, just not on the court.

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When my senior year began, I felt OK for two weeks with the added stress. But in mid-September, the same thoughts began to take over my brain. Even with a packed newsroom, excuses to talk with my friends every day and 18 credit hours worth of classwork, I still wished I could slip away in my sleep.

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I gave up on expecting those thoughts to disappear. Everything about me is different compared to high school, except for the anxiety and depression living upstairs.

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Why can’t I just be happy?

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Early in the day on Sept. 24, I made a list of people I would write a note to in case I disappeared. It was another shovel that dug into the hole I had been in for 10 years. That night, I dug even deeper. I felt the need to punish myself for having these thoughts despite everything I’ve done to change.

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I cut myself, two inches in length, between my index finger and thumb.

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“That hurts, man,” Jeff said. “When I hear that … yeah, it really, that hurts me because obviously we’re very close now. I’ve had other friends [who] have done that to themselves, and it hurt just as much when they told me as it does now.”

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*****

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I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t upset. I just felt nothing.

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That scared me more than anything.

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I texted Sarah that same night, writing what felt like an essay. I told them I’d felt this way for years and that I thought about harming myself. They didn’t need to know I’d actually gone through with it yet.

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I signed back up for counseling with a new therapist. My back was against the wall, but I could still recognize that there had to be something I could do to rebound. My hopes were just lower than before.

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At the same time, my capstone professor had rejected my fourth idea for my long-form piece. I wanted to do a reported story, but he told me there must be some personal struggle or background I had to explore in a memoir instead.

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I initially rejected his proposal, but a voice in my head told me this was an opportunity. I told myself that maybe it was time to get over my fears and tell people close to me about what had been going on.

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*****

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I haven’t kept track, but I would gamble big money that I talked more about myself between Oct. 23-28, 2025, than in the previous 21 years of my life combined.

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I made a list of eight people I was close friends with and/or greatly admired. While I had prepared questions, these sit-downs were my opportunity to tell them about everything I’d gone through in the past four years. I decided these were conversations for me to confess everything I should have told them years ago.

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An early test for how honest I would be was when I met with Taylor on Oct. 23. I had hinted to her about my anxiety, but I hadn’t gone much further than that.

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“I wish I was pushier and not just accepting your lame, ‘I’m OK,’” she said. “Also, my first thought was, ‘Are you that same way now?’”

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“I’d say I’m better now,” I replied. 

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“How much better?”

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“Not much.”

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“Have you hurt yourself?”

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“Once.”

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“Recently?”

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“Within the last two months.”

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“Do you need me to step in for you?”

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“No.”

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“Why are you saying no?”

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“I’m at a point where I don’t see myself doing that again. I see myself not actively having those thoughts, just the idea of it occupies my mind. Deep down, I don’t think I would ever go through with it. And you’re a busy person, and I don’t want to occupy your time.”

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“I’m not as busy as you think I am, and I prioritize you, my friend, over school or [the] newspaper … I also think you’re semi-lying to me.”

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“About what?”

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“You look like you’re about to cry, Kethan.”

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Taylor was the first person I had ever told about my self-harm. I didn’t cry when I was with her. When I went home and listened to the interview, I shed enough tears to fill a lake.

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The next day, I had scheduled four of these interviews. I threw up that morning, realizing just how difficult these would be.

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I first talked with Matig, and I confessed that my grandpa had died during the semester when I was his UA, which was why I was so distant in the spring. In the afternoon, I talked with Schmelzinger, and I admitted that I thought I was a diversity hire and the wrong person for the sports editor job. Immediately after, I told Reeder that I grappled with the idea of suicide all throughout the spring semester. That evening, I elaborated on the thoughts I had previously told Kasey, but explained just how deep they were and what they led me to do recently.

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“Why weren’t you telling people?” Kasey asked. “Is it because you didn’t want to make people feel bad, or you didn’t think they cared?”

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“I didn’t want to make them feel bad,” I answered. “I don’t like being a burden to other people … I keep telling myself it’s self-centered, it’s selfish to do that. But I did get to a point a couple weeks ago where I was like, ‘If I don’t tell someone, I don’t know what’s gonna happen.’”

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“I feel that, I’m the same way. In a way, that is being selfish too, not sharing anything with other people.”

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After each interview, I dropped to the floor of my apartment and cried for several minutes.

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Three days later, I told Sarah I had lied to them a month ago and actually did harm myself. I thought their interview would be the easiest since they already knew about my anxiety. Instead, I was the most nervous with them, and our conversation lasted an hour.

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The next day, I had my final interview with Jeff. I had not told him anything previously, and I worried that I would blindside him with what I needed to say. It turned out to be one of the most profound conversations I’ve ever had.

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“I think there’s a lot of shit the therapy that I’m doing would help you with,” Jeff said. “Not to be direct, but I think you buried a lot of shit, and it’s slowly starting to boil. It’s starting to come up and be an issue. I don’t know, man.”

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“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to …”

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“No, no, I’m just thinking. That’s hard to hear. Obviously, we’re close friends, and as much as you might not believe it, I do think that this world would be worse off without you. I think my life would be worse off without you. I think Sarah and Taylor and the newspaper people, their lives would be worse off without you.

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“This might just seem like another assignment to you, but I do think this is a step in the right direction … if I'm being completely honest with you.”

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“This project almost makes me feel like a dumbass. Why did I wait this long? It really is like I dug a hole, and each year I keep digging the hole. Every time those thoughts came to me, every time I couldn’t sleep at night or cried myself to sleep, I just kept digging the hole instead of talking about it. Now I’m here, and I need to get back up there. I sure would like to get back up there, I just don’t know how I can.”

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“I would say that, maybe it’s a little cheesy, but just because you dug a hole doesn’t mean someone can’t throw a rope down. You could dig a 20-foot hole, 30-foot hole, 50-foot hole, but you can always make more rope. It’s a lot less effort for me and all of your other friends and your eventual therapist or whatever to throw a rope down than it is for you to keep digging.”

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*****

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I left Jeff’s apartment that night and drove back to my old residence hall, the place where it had all begun at Miami. I was done with my interviews and my confessions. Knowing that, I sat in my car in the parking lot and sobbed until I ran out of tears.

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For once, I wasn’t sobbing out of fear or out of the realization that nothing would ever change. I cried because I realized I should have told these people years ago, before I hit this valley.

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I still have those thoughts. I still get hit with waves of emptiness late at night. I still throw up multiple times a week and face those intense nerves before press conferences and meetings. It would have been a miracle if this were all it took to cure me. The important thing is that I’m not the only one who knows it now.

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While I still can’t envision myself growing old and living a long life, I can admit the harm that thinking about death frequently has had on my mental health. I can look in the mirror and say that I’m flawed and I’m broken, but at least I know it and can say that’s who I am.

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As corny as it is, the beautiful thing about rock bottom is that you cannot go any other direction but up.

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