Northwestern University Athletics
Below The Surface: My Story
5/31/2018 11:55:00 AM | General, Men's Swimming and Diving, Academic Services & Student Development
May is Mental Health Awareness Month in the United States. Northwestern swimmer Jack Thorne decided to share his story to drive awareness, continue the conversation and let people, specifically student-athletes, know about the availability of resources. He wants to help put an end to the stigma that surrounds mental health and mental illnesses.
By: Jack Thorne '19
Perception is reality.
I am here to tell you that you have no idea about my reality.
My name is Jack Thorne, and I am a junior human development and psychological services major on the Northwestern men's swimming and diving team, and I have been diagnosed with major depressive disorder and generalized anxiety.
It is who I am, but it is not all I am.
You can't see mental illness, but it is there. Let me give you an idea of what it is like to be me below the surface.
It is a beautiful day, the sun is out, and I am feeling good, but on the horizon I can see a line of storms. I know the storms are there and I just carry on, but I also know those same storms have the potential to spill over at any moment.
That is what it is like in my head on a good day.
On a bad day, I am living in a hurricane of negative and depressing thoughts. I am fragile, like a porcelain doll, and if I trip and fall I will break into a million pieces.
Still think perception is reality?
If someone has a physical injury or a somatic illness, they are going to treat it. Someone else will encourage them to treat it. They see them suffering and want to join them in the fight to treat it.
My struggles aren't tangible or visible, but that doesn't mean they are any less real. Mental illness, and mental health in general, is perceived as a physical weakness rather than a medical illness.
There is the problem. There is the stigma.
So why am I writing this?
I want to share my story and my journey so others know they aren't alone. I want people who are going through what I went through to know they are not alone. I want to share my story and my journey to create conversation about mental health awareness.
One in five American adults have experienced a mental health issue at some point in their lives. A total of 25 million Americans suffer from depression every year. According to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, over 50 percent of people who die by suicide suffer from depression.
This is serious.
I want to end the stigma, specifically the stigma around mental illness and student-athletes.
As athletes, we are supposed to be able to push through anything. We train to be invincible.
I am here to remind you - to tell you - that we are not invincible, and that is okay. It is okay to talk about your feelings and your emotions. It is okay to let others know that you feel isolated or vulnerable. It is okay to not be okay. Most importantly, it is okay to ask for help.
•••
Let me take you back to where my story begins…
As long as I can remember, I have always been an anxious and nervous kid. I did not start to fully realize that until about the 7th or 8th grade, which coincidentally or not, was around the same time that I began to realize that I didn't like girls.
I am from a small farm town in Colorado. Can you picture it? Good. Now think even smaller. It is a place where being different was never truly accepted, or at least that is how I perceived it.
In high school, I used swimming to get away from my problems. If I was hating myself as a person, I used swimming to punish myself for it. There were days that I would work so hard in the pool that when I got done I would be too tired to feel bad about myself. I would be so exhausted that I didn't have the strength or energy to care about anything – good, bad or indifferent.
No matter how bad I was feeling about myself or how awful and dark my thoughts were, if the time on the board was fast then I could take comfort in the fact that there was at least something about me that was worthwhile.
I made my first Junior National cut when I was a sophomore, becoming one of the youngest kids from my club team to ever accomplish the feat.
That success only reinforced the bad habit I had developed of burying my problems. The time on the board came to mean so much to me. It was everything. The more success I had in the pool the further down I buried my problems. I figured they would eventually subside.
Then came my junior year. I decided to start coming out to people and with that came a whole host of emotions – anxiety, stress and, all the while, I was trying to reconcile these two identities that I had as an athlete and as a gay high schooler. My mom and my friends were all incredible and accepted me for me. In spite of this, my conflicting identities really got to me.
I remember thinking: Am I the only one who feels like this? Are there other gay athletes? Maybe if I come out to people there will be a burden lifted and I'll feel better about myself.
I decided to write an article for Outsports, a sports news website focusing on LGBT issues and personalities in amateur and professional sports, about coming out as a gay swimmer in high school. That was a whirlwind experience for me. Within nine months, I went from only a few people knowing that I was gay to EVERYONE knowing. I was getting new followers on Instagram, friend requests, and media requests. It was hectic, but my anxiety and depression were in a pretty good place.
Then came rock bottom.
I assumed that coming out would fix, or at the very least, alleviate my anxiety and my depression.
Come out to everyone. Boom. I'll feel normal. It wasn't the case. The anxiety and the depression were still there. Why didn't this work? The disappointment that came with not feeling any better sent me spiraling.
I had thoughts about hurting myself.
Luckily I had friends who knew about those thoughts (or at least had a feeling that I was having those thoughts) and told my mom, which made us confront the issues and start seeing a therapist on a regular basis.
I downplayed everything to my therapist, to my friends, my mom, and to myself. I pretended like it wasn't an issue. I wasn't going to talk about my feelings and my emotions. I thought I was invincible and that it would pass. It didn't.
To this day I am not sure if that was a sign of immaturity or because of a lack of knowledge. Probably both.
•••
I was in a good place coming to Northwestern. I had a plan. Literally. A four-year plan. I mapped out my times to the hundredth. I knew when in my career when I was going to break school records, and when I was going to make NCAAs, and Olympic Trials. Everything.
The Tuesday before my first college meet I tore my labrum in the weight room. I didn't tell anyone. I just upped my dosage of Advil and tried to swim through it. I swam through shoulder pain before so I figured I could do it again. Wrong. If there is video of that meet out there I don't want to see it.
I had surgery and was out the entire year. It was not part of my plan.
Being a first-year student-athlete is hard enough as is, but this made it nearly impossible. The time on the board meant so much to me, so when swimming was taken away from me I lost my direction. I lost a big part of my identity. I was still on the team, but I wasn't part of the team. I felt alone. This is when I realized I needed more than just friends and therapy to fight my thoughts. I started taking antidepressant medication during the spring of my freshman year.
Despite the medication, the feeling of being lost and alone followed me into my sophomore year. I felt like I was drowning under the work load, and I wasn't swimming well at all. I felt like I was slowly suffocating and I spiraled once again during the fall. I stopped going to class because I was so far behind I did not see a point in going any more. On top of that, during our training trip, I got a stomach virus that caused me to lose 25 pounds in two months.
I began to struggle with my identity again. There was the old me: a successful, confident, intelligent athlete that was going places versus the new me: a broken and fragile shell that couldn't make it through a swimming season and who was struggling academically. It was a version of myself that I never saw coming.
The hurricane of negative and depressing thoughts took over my life again.
I hit the reset button after my sophomore season and went back home in the summer. I was determined to become the swimmer that I knew I was capable of being when I left for college. My club coach helped me fall in love with the sport all over again, and I returned to campus in the fall recharged.
Junior year was going to be different. We had a new assistant coach and I made it a point to tell him and others about my situation. I let him know that there were going to be good days and bad days, but I didn't want his expectations of me as a swimmer to be any different from the ones he had of my teammates. I wanted him to know that there will be times when I needed to step away to take care of myself, but that I would be back.
That proactive communication was a big step for me.
But then, one more setback. I got strep throat midway through my junior season and my swimming suffered yet again. Those dark clouds returned. I was numb. I was anxious. I was sad. I was withdrawn.
My Northwestern career, and my life, was becoming a cycle of setbacks and mental spirals.
I finally got to a point where I realized that my mental health was not getting better. In fact, it was getting worse, and if it continued to get worse I didn't want to know where it was going to go.
Not again. I was determined to not let myself continue with this cycle.
This past January, I worked with my athletic trainer and my therapist on campus to put an end to this pattern. I had gotten into a really awful habit of only seeing my therapist and psychiatrist when I was in a bad place and then when I felt better, I would stop seeing them.
It was time for a breakthrough. I deserved it. I needed it.
I went to the Big Ten Championships and finished the 200 backstroke with my best time since high school. I celebrated with an ear-to-ear smile because I knew the obstacles that I had overcome: the injuries, the self-doubt, the dark thoughts. It was a moment that didn't bring a trophy or outside recognition but it didn't matter. It was the moment that I knew that my mental illness was not going to define me.
•••
Now I am here and I am better. I still have bad days, but I think it is how it is always going to be.
I am thankful for my friends and my mom for supporting me through it all, and I know they will continue to be there for me. I am thankful for Northwestern for providing me with an athletic trainer who cares for my physical and mental well-being and for getting me the resources and help that I need.
I even have a semi colon tattoo on my wrist. I saw something online about a nonprofit called Project Semicolon, which is dedicated to suicide awareness and prevention. The tattoo reminds me that no matter how dark it gets it will always get better.
We all have obstacles and challenges in our lives. Everyone has gone through something or is going through something. I want other student-athletes, other people, to know they are not alone. Ask for help. You don't have to go through it alone.
It could save your life.
By no means is sharing my journey an easy experience, but if just one person reads my story and realizes they are not alone then it was worth it. If someone reads this and it makes them realize there could be someone in their life who is struggling, then it was worth it.
Mental illness is a problem and not acknowledging it only amplifies the problem.
Perception is not reality.
By: Jack Thorne '19
Perception is reality.
I am here to tell you that you have no idea about my reality.
My name is Jack Thorne, and I am a junior human development and psychological services major on the Northwestern men's swimming and diving team, and I have been diagnosed with major depressive disorder and generalized anxiety.
It is who I am, but it is not all I am.
You can't see mental illness, but it is there. Let me give you an idea of what it is like to be me below the surface.
It is a beautiful day, the sun is out, and I am feeling good, but on the horizon I can see a line of storms. I know the storms are there and I just carry on, but I also know those same storms have the potential to spill over at any moment.
That is what it is like in my head on a good day.
On a bad day, I am living in a hurricane of negative and depressing thoughts. I am fragile, like a porcelain doll, and if I trip and fall I will break into a million pieces.
Still think perception is reality?
If someone has a physical injury or a somatic illness, they are going to treat it. Someone else will encourage them to treat it. They see them suffering and want to join them in the fight to treat it.
My struggles aren't tangible or visible, but that doesn't mean they are any less real. Mental illness, and mental health in general, is perceived as a physical weakness rather than a medical illness.
There is the problem. There is the stigma.
So why am I writing this?
I want to share my story and my journey so others know they aren't alone. I want people who are going through what I went through to know they are not alone. I want to share my story and my journey to create conversation about mental health awareness.
One in five American adults have experienced a mental health issue at some point in their lives. A total of 25 million Americans suffer from depression every year. According to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, over 50 percent of people who die by suicide suffer from depression.
This is serious.
I want to end the stigma, specifically the stigma around mental illness and student-athletes.
As athletes, we are supposed to be able to push through anything. We train to be invincible.
I am here to remind you - to tell you - that we are not invincible, and that is okay. It is okay to talk about your feelings and your emotions. It is okay to let others know that you feel isolated or vulnerable. It is okay to not be okay. Most importantly, it is okay to ask for help.
•••
Let me take you back to where my story begins…
As long as I can remember, I have always been an anxious and nervous kid. I did not start to fully realize that until about the 7th or 8th grade, which coincidentally or not, was around the same time that I began to realize that I didn't like girls.
I am from a small farm town in Colorado. Can you picture it? Good. Now think even smaller. It is a place where being different was never truly accepted, or at least that is how I perceived it.
In high school, I used swimming to get away from my problems. If I was hating myself as a person, I used swimming to punish myself for it. There were days that I would work so hard in the pool that when I got done I would be too tired to feel bad about myself. I would be so exhausted that I didn't have the strength or energy to care about anything – good, bad or indifferent.
No matter how bad I was feeling about myself or how awful and dark my thoughts were, if the time on the board was fast then I could take comfort in the fact that there was at least something about me that was worthwhile.
I made my first Junior National cut when I was a sophomore, becoming one of the youngest kids from my club team to ever accomplish the feat.
That success only reinforced the bad habit I had developed of burying my problems. The time on the board came to mean so much to me. It was everything. The more success I had in the pool the further down I buried my problems. I figured they would eventually subside.
Then came my junior year. I decided to start coming out to people and with that came a whole host of emotions – anxiety, stress and, all the while, I was trying to reconcile these two identities that I had as an athlete and as a gay high schooler. My mom and my friends were all incredible and accepted me for me. In spite of this, my conflicting identities really got to me.
I remember thinking: Am I the only one who feels like this? Are there other gay athletes? Maybe if I come out to people there will be a burden lifted and I'll feel better about myself.
I decided to write an article for Outsports, a sports news website focusing on LGBT issues and personalities in amateur and professional sports, about coming out as a gay swimmer in high school. That was a whirlwind experience for me. Within nine months, I went from only a few people knowing that I was gay to EVERYONE knowing. I was getting new followers on Instagram, friend requests, and media requests. It was hectic, but my anxiety and depression were in a pretty good place.
Then came rock bottom.
I assumed that coming out would fix, or at the very least, alleviate my anxiety and my depression.
Come out to everyone. Boom. I'll feel normal. It wasn't the case. The anxiety and the depression were still there. Why didn't this work? The disappointment that came with not feeling any better sent me spiraling.
I had thoughts about hurting myself.
Luckily I had friends who knew about those thoughts (or at least had a feeling that I was having those thoughts) and told my mom, which made us confront the issues and start seeing a therapist on a regular basis.
I downplayed everything to my therapist, to my friends, my mom, and to myself. I pretended like it wasn't an issue. I wasn't going to talk about my feelings and my emotions. I thought I was invincible and that it would pass. It didn't.
To this day I am not sure if that was a sign of immaturity or because of a lack of knowledge. Probably both.
•••
I was in a good place coming to Northwestern. I had a plan. Literally. A four-year plan. I mapped out my times to the hundredth. I knew when in my career when I was going to break school records, and when I was going to make NCAAs, and Olympic Trials. Everything.
The Tuesday before my first college meet I tore my labrum in the weight room. I didn't tell anyone. I just upped my dosage of Advil and tried to swim through it. I swam through shoulder pain before so I figured I could do it again. Wrong. If there is video of that meet out there I don't want to see it.
I had surgery and was out the entire year. It was not part of my plan.
Being a first-year student-athlete is hard enough as is, but this made it nearly impossible. The time on the board meant so much to me, so when swimming was taken away from me I lost my direction. I lost a big part of my identity. I was still on the team, but I wasn't part of the team. I felt alone. This is when I realized I needed more than just friends and therapy to fight my thoughts. I started taking antidepressant medication during the spring of my freshman year.
Despite the medication, the feeling of being lost and alone followed me into my sophomore year. I felt like I was drowning under the work load, and I wasn't swimming well at all. I felt like I was slowly suffocating and I spiraled once again during the fall. I stopped going to class because I was so far behind I did not see a point in going any more. On top of that, during our training trip, I got a stomach virus that caused me to lose 25 pounds in two months.
I began to struggle with my identity again. There was the old me: a successful, confident, intelligent athlete that was going places versus the new me: a broken and fragile shell that couldn't make it through a swimming season and who was struggling academically. It was a version of myself that I never saw coming.
The hurricane of negative and depressing thoughts took over my life again.
I hit the reset button after my sophomore season and went back home in the summer. I was determined to become the swimmer that I knew I was capable of being when I left for college. My club coach helped me fall in love with the sport all over again, and I returned to campus in the fall recharged.
Junior year was going to be different. We had a new assistant coach and I made it a point to tell him and others about my situation. I let him know that there were going to be good days and bad days, but I didn't want his expectations of me as a swimmer to be any different from the ones he had of my teammates. I wanted him to know that there will be times when I needed to step away to take care of myself, but that I would be back.
That proactive communication was a big step for me.
But then, one more setback. I got strep throat midway through my junior season and my swimming suffered yet again. Those dark clouds returned. I was numb. I was anxious. I was sad. I was withdrawn.
My Northwestern career, and my life, was becoming a cycle of setbacks and mental spirals.
I finally got to a point where I realized that my mental health was not getting better. In fact, it was getting worse, and if it continued to get worse I didn't want to know where it was going to go.
Not again. I was determined to not let myself continue with this cycle.
This past January, I worked with my athletic trainer and my therapist on campus to put an end to this pattern. I had gotten into a really awful habit of only seeing my therapist and psychiatrist when I was in a bad place and then when I felt better, I would stop seeing them.
It was time for a breakthrough. I deserved it. I needed it.
I went to the Big Ten Championships and finished the 200 backstroke with my best time since high school. I celebrated with an ear-to-ear smile because I knew the obstacles that I had overcome: the injuries, the self-doubt, the dark thoughts. It was a moment that didn't bring a trophy or outside recognition but it didn't matter. It was the moment that I knew that my mental illness was not going to define me.
•••
Now I am here and I am better. I still have bad days, but I think it is how it is always going to be.
I am thankful for my friends and my mom for supporting me through it all, and I know they will continue to be there for me. I am thankful for Northwestern for providing me with an athletic trainer who cares for my physical and mental well-being and for getting me the resources and help that I need.
I even have a semi colon tattoo on my wrist. I saw something online about a nonprofit called Project Semicolon, which is dedicated to suicide awareness and prevention. The tattoo reminds me that no matter how dark it gets it will always get better.
We all have obstacles and challenges in our lives. Everyone has gone through something or is going through something. I want other student-athletes, other people, to know they are not alone. Ask for help. You don't have to go through it alone.
It could save your life.
By no means is sharing my journey an easy experience, but if just one person reads my story and realizes they are not alone then it was worth it. If someone reads this and it makes them realize there could be someone in their life who is struggling, then it was worth it.
Mental illness is a problem and not acknowledging it only amplifies the problem.
Perception is not reality.
••••••
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