Break the Stigma

thesilentstruggle

Submitted by Jennifer Daniel

As a child, I used to pride myself and hold myself in high regard when people would say “she’s so independent” or “she’s so strong”. I was emotionally and verbally abused growing up and went through a lot of

water all my life, I persevered through a lot of hardships in my life and a survivor label has been slapped on my back from day one. From that perspective, I thought I was headed for better in my life and I thought the feelings of my rough childhood would be trapped in the past.

When I got into college, I knew I was setting myself up for success in a way that I wouldn’t ever have to relive what I experience growing up. I’m in a new environment where I can rebrand myself and meet new people. I started to train my mind that the lows in my life were over. I was rebuilding my life and was finally happy. However, when navigating through college I struggled to find my real self within this big campus and dealt with a lot of imposter syndrome while facing a lot of pressure from my family. Not to mention, I have to provide for my family while being in college and step

in to pay bills. On top of this, I’ve dealt with a lot of anxiety about my coursework and my future and finding my support system. It’s been hard to be open with my feelings and be vulnerable to my friends without feeling like a burden. It was hard for me to open myself to the idea of attending therapy. Once I did reach out to a counselor, being able to speak about my feelings and how my college life has impacted me has allowed me not to feel bottled up.

I’m a survivor. That is a statement I will continue to grow into as I grow older.

My story isn’t a success story, it’s a life story. I’m so proud of myself for how far I’ve come and how I’ve grown mentally. I’ve learned to appreciate the highs and lows and learn from every aspect of them.

luv, Jennifer Daniel

financial trouble. I felt like I was treading

Mydaysarefilledwithpressuringtextstofinisheditingpictures,overdueassignments,andacoldbrewconstantly inmyhand.MydaysaredictatedtothehourofwhatIneedtobedoingandwhere.Mydaysarecharacterizedby closingeyelidsasIcanneverkeepmyselfawaketofinishalltheworkIneedtodo.

Mydays...

Mynightsarefilledwithinsanelyvividdreams.Mynightsaredictatedbythe4to6hoursIcanbarelyreservefor sleeping.MynightsarecharacterizedbysnoozingthealarmoverandoveragainuntilIknowIamgoingtobelate.

Mynights...

Butbetweenthedaysandthenights...whereamI?Wheredo“I”fitintomyday-to-daybasis?

Ilostmyself.

WhoisIrene?

WhereisIrene?

HowdoIgetIreneback?

TheIrenethatloveslongandmeaningfulconversations.TheIrenethatlovessleepinginona Saturdaymorningandhavingabigbreakfast.TheIrenethatlovesspendingtimewithherfriends. HowdoIgetherback?

Oh.Time

“Time”Whatafunnyword.See,inmyphilosophyclassrecently,wereadabookcalled“RadicalHope”byJonathan Lear.ItexplainedwhatitmeantfortheCrowtolosetheirwayoflife.Temporalitywasusedtosaythathowwe allocateourtimefitswithinthecontextofalargersignificanceorpurpose.

Whatismycontext,then?

Beingasuccessfulpre-lawstudent,obviously. ButIhateit.

Thenchangeyourpurpose.

Butit’snotthateasy.Thislargercontextofsignificanceandwhatmatterstousdoesnotcomefromus-itcomes fromourculture,ourwayoflife.Ourculturehasdictatedthatexhaustionissuccess:whoeverworksthemostand thehardestwillwin.Willwinmoney,praise,andrespect.

Oursocietyhasdictatedhowweidentifyourwaysoflifeisinrespecttoacontextofexhaustionandover-wokeness. Thereisnever“toomuch.”Thereisonly“notenough.”

Somuchsothathowwecometounderstandourselves,oursubject,andourplaceintheworld,isonlybyourwork. Only.

Ifyouloseyourwork,youloseyourself.

WhereisIrene?

HowdoIgetherback?

Iwakeupeverydayinthesamestruggle,thesamecycle.

Iaskyou...

Bybreakingthestigma.

Ilosther.

Youfindher.

Howdowebreakit?

"afternoonsun beforebreakfast"

Submitted by Noah Banuchi

There is no glory in a new day’s battle

It is always the same war

Shadows haunt my battlefield

Creeping closer, Reaching toward my cowered frame

The heft of my broadsword passes through the enemy

Silver against spirit rarely fares well

I have slain beasts to reach the front door, Slaughtered and fought to survive

I twist, lean my weary body into the motion of freedom, hinges swinging, And it is midday. And I haven’t even left my room.

The sun floods in, cleaning the evidence of my war

There are more worthy goals than glory

There is life, worth living through the end

If only in ode to everyone who wakes up to destroy you And, spitefully, seek justice by surviving

Continue, knuckles bleeding, to failure, to the end

Never giving them the satisfaction of a win

When noon comes, lift your warrior body and bandage your wounds.

"afternoonsun beforebreakfast"

lines lines

Submitted by Laurie Griffith

For a gymnast, lines are not drawn with mercy. Chalk-white, slick, and untouchable, they border the floor, four corners stabbing at the judges, her executioners.

Salute. Green eyes lift. She hurdles, springs singing as she punches the floor. Her fingers swish and flick, drawing the lines higher, sharper. Heaviness has no place here. Be long, be thin, be straight. There isn’t room for the flesh that curves, wobbling with love and age, pushing against a too-small, purple level-eight leotard. Her arms shoot out, back leg arching towards her head. Extend the split. Her hip flexors stretch, cords primed to snap. That is the line: a razor’s edge of raised flesh, moving with the music. The notes alone will fuel her.

Salute. A camera flashes, bringing glimpses of a stomach dipping with a mouthful of breath. Even that is too filling.

I created this painting during my senior year of high school with the intention of displaying it in my future college apartment. Anticipating the initial stress and mental turmoil of the transition to college life, I decided to include several uplifting comments underneath my painting so that every time I look upon it, I can feel the same sense of calmness I felt when writing the messages. The surface painting is an expression of my perception of serene energy - inspired by several of my favorite impressionist painters, stories from my favorite novels, and a tranquil color palette.

Submitted by Sam Gardner

Irememberbeingsprawledacross thebathroomfloor,forGodknows howlong,thecoolbiteofthetile

soothing,butnotenoughforme tobecomfortable.“Don’tscratchit,” mymothersaid,asifitweresimple.

mosquitobite headspace

Thepoisonunderneathburned;alive, ithadapulsethatoutpacedmyheart. Obsessed,sweatywithanticipation,

Ifeltthebulgestretchinghigher,wider bythesecond.Atfirst,myfingernail circledthebump,lightlyraking theswollenarea.Then,Ibecameabeast, compulsiveandferal,diggingwildly untilthespotoozed,creamyandfoul

I’mnotsurewhatIwasthinking. Istilldon’tknowwhatI’mthinking.

8:17pm

thesunsets

suppressedfeelingsarise tooimpuretofacethelight

buthavenoshame intaintingmyheadspace withtheirmisery andgreed andsorrow

11:23pm

kneestochest

likeachildinthewomb

maybethiswilloffersomereprieve mypillowreceivesitsdailypatterofdroplets it’sexpectedbynow

6:47am

thesun'srays

likeheartstrings

pullmeoutofthedark

ilookupatmysavior

andrejoice

inherimpermanentwarmth iremaininthepositioniwas onlynowiamreborn

Submitted by Mary McCaleb

Submitted by Gabriela Turovsky

crescent

You eat away into me with little regard. Like a pack of hyenas on a lone deer. Except this is a 1v1, And you instill just as much fear

You take a bite out of my freedom, And I yelp out in pain. You feast on it with delight, As my paranoia begins to reign.

Next you grab a handful of my trust. It is only in your possession for a few seconds Before disintegrating like dust You stole it from me only to lose it, leaving me more empty.

Now you’re scraping at my thoughts. Going through every single one, corrupting them. You drool over what you’ve left to rot, And attempt to spoon it down my throat

I’m holding on to a thread, Begging for your mercy.

You pity what’s left on my deathbed, Or you’re just satisfied with the damage you ' ve done.

I’m alone. I want to throw up But I’m empty now. What’s left of me is smaller than a speck of dust

When all my light has completely left me, And I am ready to give out.

I see a single star, and she’s all I need To help mend and heal

She sacrifices a piece of herself To feed my empty pit. She completes me with the tiniest bit, A little light is all she had to omit.

The beast looks up at the sky. My crescent has rebuilt its full moon status He howls at the sight that is received by his eye. He is hungry again.

Submitted by Noor Sukkar 09

understandingselfharm

Nearly⅕ofthepopulation willengageinself-harmat somepointintheirlifetime

Theprevalenceofself-harm pushesustospendtime learningaboutthebehavior, reflectingonouractions,and supportingthosearoundus.

UnderstandingSelfHarm

Self-harmistheintentional inflictionofdamagetoone’s bodythroughanybehavior thatresultsinpainorinjury.

Themotivationsforselfharmvary.Someinclude numbingpain,escaping traumaticmemories,turning emotionalpainintophysical pain,andreducing overwhelmingthoughts.

Theprevailingnarrativeis thatpeopleengageinselfharmforattention Countlessstudieshave disprovedthismyth.

Empiricalevidence concludesthatmany individualssufferinsilence andgotoextremelengthsto hidetheirself-injurious behaviors.However,Ibelieve themotivationforself-harm doesnotmatter.Evenif someoneengagesinself-

harmwithsomehopesof receivingattention,everyone deservesloveandsupportIf someonefeelstheymust harmthemselvestoreceive thecaretheydeserve,it couldbeasignthattheyare missingcompassionand loveintheirenvironment

Almostalways,self-harmis asymptomofother concerns.Ifyouhavealoved onewhomayself-harm, pleaseencouragethemto utilizetheresourcesbelow.

Self-HarmingandVisible Scars:

Manypeoplewithvisible scarsfaceinnerturmoilover findingwaystocovertheir bodies,especiallyasthe temperaturerisesagain.

Becauseofthis,Iwantto spendsometimediscussing howtobehavewhenyou comeacrossscarsinpublic.

Ifyouseesomeonewearing longsleeveswhenitishot, pleaserefrainfrommaking anycommentsabouttheir attire.Pleasedonotask‘why theyarewearingasweater’ or‘howtheyarenothot.’If youseesomeonewithvisible

scars,pleasedonot:ask questionsaboutscarslike, “didthathurt?”“howdid thathappen?,”treat someoneanydifferently (rememberthatapersonis nottheirscars.,thereisa three-dimensionalcomplex personunderneathscarson thesurface),orstare

Asageneralruleofthumb, avoidcommentingonscars forsomeoneyoudonot know.Youshouldonlyask aboutscarswhenyouknow someoneverywellandhave acloserelationship.

Itisnottheburdenofthe personsufferingfromselfinjurioustendenciestoalter theirappearance.Itisourjob toeducateourselvesand learnhowtomakeour environmentssaferspaces. Donotbethereason someonefeels uncomfortablewiththeir bodiesthissummer.

Resources:

Ifyouoralovedone struggleswithself-harm, resourcesandalternatives areavailable.Takecare.

**CONTENT WARNING: this article discusses themes surrounding self-harm Submitted by Rhea Nandwani

thesanctuaryofdemeter

Submitted by Kole Kemple

The river bank that sits before me lies empty as the soil brushes through the whispering pebbles rough on its spine. The souls that cling to my lips only grow worse in their thirst; in my mind they shout at me, the briskness of their screams color my face. Truthfully they stay silent, but I am too struck by my own reflection to accept it

Maybe if I too sit on a cave-covered tripod, breathing like they tell me to, maybe then I would uncover what hides beneath the Telesterion of my mind. Or would I tell myself what I think I want to hear?

Would I laugh again at the truth because it is not heavy enough to be the host of reason?

Their footprints are fresh in my chest, Indented on me as I search for a way to reach them.

I can see the door peeking through the ivy, I’ve even placed my hand through the gaps it tries to hide; but as I reach them I turn back. Do I really want to leave?

Why am I comfortable losing myself to the Sanctuary of Demeter? Her moss covers my brain, fogging my judgment as I nod at my surroundings. Can no one else see the appeal of the mystery? The secrets that not even centuries can tell?

Why should history tell us everything?

Why is that expected?

Nothing is sacred, but maybe somethings are meant to be.

I guess I will lie still, bound to my state by the strands of wheat that sew my fingertips to the ground.

Some part of me waits to be dug up, to be uncovered.

Some days I want to rip the threads up, cut them with my teeth, taste the singe the strands leave on my tongue, and tell it all.

Maybe one day I will, if a priestess ignores the warnings of the ritual like I have been praying for her to do.

Until then I continue to breath, I record my own monologue and teach myself Eleusis.

Still the ivy beckons me, begging for me to lift her weight and to see what she covers

But as I try to get up, I forget how to. The wheat is tight on my limbs as her whispers grow louder and louder and louder, and I understand the mysteries of Eleusis,

and I know I cannot share them

Submitted by Sam Gardner

Femininity is not synonymous with innocence. The damaging designation of women as “delicate flowers” is one that has always disturbed me. It limits the diverse lived experiences of women and encourages the idea that to be feminine is to be meek. In this watercolor painting, I am presenting a commentary on the criticism of female bawdiness by presenting a bare female body in contrast with a “delicate flower.”

tranquility

Submitted by Alejandra Alzamora

At times, I just seek tranquility. This image depicts peacefulness and serenity in a natural area, signifying that even at the most random places and times, we can find comfort. Whenever I am feeling overwhelmed and anxious, I look back to this picture and place myself in a state of relaxation and calmness.

thepumpkin

Submitted by Laurie Griffith

for Hannah

A face watched: waxy, orange, primed and shiny; ponytail stem tied with a green, leafy bow. Church bells tolled, hearkening all swathed in black to a marble-toothed maze.

The carved mouth wobbled, structure bowing inwards, as artificial light flickered inside a pair of hollow, triangle eyes, wet with summer mist and ringed by a curling egde of charred black.

Heart scraped clean and dumped aside, there was room for rot the children wouldn't see. The pumpkin sat pretty, still lovely, ignoring a core charred black from the blistering heat. of a one-night performance burning too hot, too fast. The Baptists slammed their Bibles shut, clinching the breeze rustling the freshly piled dirt and the 'wisp' of a candle finally snuffed out.

Rusty, white buses

Sharp needles of the sun

whoi'm supposedtobe

Submitted by Fidel Trejo-Ortiz

Spun, delicate white sugar

Beeping of the electric oven

Sticky dough between my fingers

Ticks of clocks hammering scalps

This is who I’m supposed to be

Woven, stained baskets of golden oranges

Scars and blisters on cracked, tan hands

This is who I’m supposed to be

Deep, radiant eyes of goldstone

“WANTED” tattooed on burnt melanin

Bracelets of chains and shackles

Miles of thick, iron fences

This is who they suppose me to be

Twisted tongues full of error

Knives instead of pencils

Sons and daughters of refugees

The future as bright as a one wick candle

Is this who I’m supposed to be?

Moneymaker, illegal, criminal, threat

This is who you suppose me to be

A dealer of trouble and danger

An artifact of the American Dream

But is this who I want to be?

I can’t quite shake off the feeling of your gaze the unique texture of your palms it’s an enigmatic feeling one that continues to taunt me

countmy lucky stars

countmy lucky stars

I write of hurried whispers and secret truths dark interiors and barren lots but do I truly know truly understand what it means to be hurried to be told the truth the smell of the sunset and the sight of dried paint I cherish the prospect of a tomorrow though that’s not guaranteed I suppose nothing is, but it’s nice to wonder; nice to dream with that I dream of a future filled with time a future where I am me and you are you I don’t desire you to be mine to hold or cherish I instead dream of a future where you are proud of the person you have become of the person you were fated to be

I could finally turn around and take in all of the rubble from the mess I had made and in the midst of pre-post-apocalyptic celebration which is when the devastation isn’t quite over but there is some hope for the future I realize everything and everyone is not a threat and don’t trust no one shouldn’t be a skeptic’s favorite aphorism the battle against one’s psyche was over before it actually even started because the war thought to had been between me and myself, was actually us versus everyone so now there are all too many bodiless souls laid out across the battlefield, those who I fed to the darkness to keep my spot in its favoring are now nothing more than memories, that deserve a too thought out, way too late apology and the right to see what faith can do to a non-believer’s soulless body

onceIwas donewanting todie

onceIwas donewanting todie

Submitted by Stephanie Seraphin

the second time I started to live the post-apocalyptic world felt like something that could be loved only once you’ve spent an eternity hating it and at least twice the amount of someone who’s never groveled at its feet begging to leave

above all, what is buried deepest will always find its way to light like the perfectly timed life lessons you learn once you no longer want to die.

notlikethemovies

Submitted by Kole Kemple

Since I was a kid I’ve been conditioned to love movies. Watching a movie at the end of a busy day was always a rewarding experience, and it is something I still find myself doing today. What I’ve always loved about movies, and just media in general, are the perspectives they can offer.

Coming into college as a first generation student, my contextual knowledge of what to expect was more based on the “Pitch Perfect" series than any family advice. Along with other films, my perception of college was almost entirely built on media. From a young age, I knew that if a college campus did not have a courtyard where people had picnics and played frisbee it wasn’t from me.

I think it was right around Halloween that I hit my mental low. I remember scrolling through my friends’ private stories on snapchat seeing all the new faces in their photos from their college. Each time I would go on instagram I felt myself comparing my college experience to what I perceived to be that of others’. Even though I was comparing my college

experience to what I perceived to be that of others’. Even though I was doing well in my classes, felt strong in the friendships I had brought with me from high school, and had no reason to complain, my superficial expectations of college not being met seriously messed with my head. I accredited a big part of why I felt so left out to the fact that I was living off campus. It seemed easier to me to live a typical college lifestyle if everyone else was right there.

Even writing this now, it feels so cliche. In my mind, not yet having made any friendships that were on the level of mine from high school meant that I was not living the true college life. Even though I knew myself, and knew what I enjoyed, the fact that I did not party or go out as much as the randoms from my high school, or characters did in movies made me feel less than. These thoughts, as surface level and unimportant as they may appear, took a lot of self conditioning and work to escape.

It was a late night drive home on 75 when I decided

to address the thoughts that had been bothering me for months at that point. In a sort of self-run therapy session, I took the time to reflect on my situation without comparing it. Looking at it with that focus allowed me to recognize the success of my college experience. Through this, I was able to see just how satisfied I was with my college experience thus far, even if it wasn’t the idea of it that I had had before. Feeling the pressure to make the most of your college experience is a pressure a lot of college students face, and sometimes it’s difficult to understand that there is more than one route to meeting those expectations. Comparing what brings me joy in my life to others is something that I still struggle with, and is something that I know requires work to rid myself of. However, as I write this, I am at peace with my experience because I know I still have time to embellish it, and that success is subjective and is not something that is bound to truth by the movies.

Dear my future daughter and to all the young girls who sit in the stands:

You are amazing.

But before you go out and conquer this world

There are some things you must know about what it means to be a girl...

Number One:

Your mind will always be circulating the ‘what if’s’ Your thoughts will not leave you alone until the fears and apprehensions that society has sewn

Become all that you know

“What if I let my guard down and the devil wearing the face of a man sneaks in,”

“What if I forget to hold my keys in my handGripping them so tightly, I leave prints in my skin

Just in case I have to use them as a weapon”, “What if I get too drunk and they think my NO is ‘eh, maybe go ahead.’”

These what-ifs will consume you until your paranoia knows you better than your best friend

To that extent, I say this: Be cautious but unafraid

You cannot live your life in fear

Number Two:

The truth about being a girl is that you will never be enough in the eyes of the world

You are not an object, You have a voice and something to say, but you will have to yell just to be heard

They will call you vain

Not realizing that you are what you are because of the magnifying glass held over you day by day They will scrutinize your choices, and no matter what you do, will say: “you chose wrong”

As if beauty cannot exist unless you check off every check box on their own checklist

Long hair, but not too long, Makeup but not too much, Don't try to be pretty when you’re not Big hips, skinny waist, thigh gaps, slim frame, Oh wait

You should probably eat some more- I can count your ribs, and no one wants to go out with a walking stick What I'm trying to say is no matter what you do

You are going to make someone somewhere angry

So you might as well be unapologetically you

Number Three:

dear future daughter

dear future daughter

When I was younger, my mother used to tell me about the sunshine girl and the moon boy

The girl would rule over the day spinning worlds of gold and drops of dew

And though she longed to sit on her throne in the sky, She loved the boy so much that every evening she died just a little to let him shine

He would run up on the horizon

And she would sink below the mountain

But eventually, this game of race became an unrelenting chase as the moon hunted the sun

He stole her light and in the warmth of his embrace, the sunshine girl was no more

All of this is to say the world is going to ignore you and abuse you

They will not look you in the eyes for fear that you shine too bright They will tell you, you are not worthy of your place in the sky

That you are too harsh, too forthright, too strong, too demanding, That you will never be enough

To that, I say this:

All of the darkness in the entire galaxy cannot put out the light of a single candle, And so my dear sunshine girl

How could they ever extinguish you?

I hope there comes a day that I don’t have to tell you this

A day where you don’t have to fight to be heard or ashamed of your strength

A day where you can be unafraid to walk the paths of the forest alone

But for now, I will settle for this...

Dear my future daughter and to all the young girls who sit in the stands: You have stardust mixed in your veins

You are made of the cosmos and the galaxies

Stars sing your praise as you cultivate life

Don't let anyone steal your light

anotefromthestaff... anotefromthestaff...

WhentheelevenofuscametogethertocreateBreaktheStigma,weallsharedonething:apassion foreducatinguniversitystudentsonthetopicofmentalhealth Ourhopewiththismagazineisto establishaspacethatstudentscanlooktoforcommunitywhentheyfeelaloneintheirstruggles Mentalhealthisnotatabootopic,andshouldnotbetreatedassuch.Throughoutourpageswehope tooffernewperspectivesthatcolorthetopicofmentalinanauthenticandrealway.

Ifyou,orsomeoneclosetoyouoncampuseverstrugglewithmentalhealth,weencourageyouto takeadvantageofcampusresources,including:GatorWell[(352)273-4450]andtheCounseling andWellnessCenter[(352)-392-1575].

WewanttoofferaspecialthankyoutotheFreshmanLeadershipCouncilforthesupportthatthey haveofferedduringthisprocess,theBobGrahamCenterforgenerouslysponsoringourpublication, aswellastothegroupoftalentedcontributorswhotrusteduswiththeirstories,feelings,andtrueselves;withoutyou,thiswouldnotbepossible.

Thankyouforreading,andfortakingpartinbreakingthe

John Zhou, Vishnu Malhotra, Kole Kemple, Vincent Lam, Ella Alexander, Noor Sukkar, Iona Brooks, Megan Steele, Sherry Habib, Alejandra Alzamora, & Allie Sigl

featuring original workfrom

Alejandra Alzamora

Fidel Trejo-Ortiz

Gabriela Turovsky

Gabriella Santos

Irene Jose-Sala

Jennifer Daniel

Kole Kemple

Laurie Griffith

Mary McCaleb

Megan Steele

Noah Banuchi

Noor Sukkar

Rhea Nandwani

Sam Gardnern

Stephanie Seraphin