Repairing My Personal World

By Elana Ann Fauth

I was on the floor again. Rocking back and forth, trying my best to breathe, panicked tears streaming down my face. At that point in my  life, anxiety attacks were a routine part of my day, as if I had a Google  calendar event on my schedule: 

1. Get up for class: 8:30 a.m.
2. Finish writing a paper: 11:00 a.m. 
3. Go to work: 3:00 p.m.  
4. Anxiety attack: 10:00 p.m.  

It’s hard to describe how those moments felt. Seconds seemed like hours;  minutes seemed like days; hours seemed like years. Most frightening was the feeling of being alone—a nasty, monstrous, all-enveloping cloud of isolation and worthlessness. It became increasingly difficult to believe others around me had their own hardships. Everyone I passed on the street seemed all put together. There was no way there were others like me. I was obviously just weak.

At my Jewish high school, I remember learning about tikkun olam and the concept of repairing the world. But I felt so helpless in the task of making the world a better place. If I could barely handle my own issues, how could I  help others? I never considered that repairing the world starts with repairing myself. 

My understanding of mental health as a child was limited. It was always an extremely guarded subject in my community as I was growing up. The only information about mental illness and treatment I received came largely from pop culture. I knew, for example, Frasier Crane from Cheers was a psychiatrist. Fictional characters who existed in sitcom worlds went to therapy, but it didn’t seem like people in real life did.  

“Therapy” was a word whispered among gossipers, not something that was spoken about openly in my community. When I was about twelve years old, someone I knew offhandedly mentioned attending therapy regularly,  and I was shocked. Everything seemed so “normal,” I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Rather than seeing therapy as a road to progress, I saw it as an indication that there was something wrong with that person.   

Eventually, I found a Jewish community that taught me the importance of taking care of oneself and of shedding the stigma around therapy and mental health treatment. It was this community that quite literally saved my life in college. 

I attended a huge state school in the south, so inevitably, the Jewish students banded together. We created a safe space for each other in our  Hillel building. This space became home to me. There was seldom a day you wouldn’t find me there, just existing in a place where I felt peace. The  

people there became my social network, my best friends, my lifeline. I had never been in a place where everybody was so open and encouraged to speak up about their hardships. After an intense exam, we were each other’s decompressors. And after the Pittsburgh synagogue shooting in 2018, we were each other’s shoulders to cry on. 

In that space, we existed for each other, yet it still took some time for me to appreciate just how much I needed their support. 

During my last semester, I reached my breaking point. Despite the community I found at Hillel, I felt myself slipping away, as if the real Elana was fading from existence. After days of walking up to her office and turning away right before walking in, I finally gathered the courage to speak to my  Hillel director about it. When I sat down opposite her, the floodgates opened. I told her everything: I wasn’t sleeping, I was binge eating, my body was constantly aching, and I hadn’t felt happy in a long time. With each word I spoke, I became more scared. Terrible thoughts erupted in my head: She’s going to think I’m insane, that I can’t handle things on my own.  She’s going to be scared of me, or upset that I’m weak. 

I will never forget her response. 

“You aren’t broken. You’re whole, and you just need help to feel  that way.” 

This concept was radical to me. And so deeply Jewish: to intrinsically value your life. It is the heartbeat of our people—to realize we are all created b’tzelem elohim (in God’s image). 

To paraphrase the Talmud, whoever saves a single life, it is as if he or she saved an entire world. I always used to view this saying in an outward sense,  but I have come to realize it is just as poignant as an inward-facing prescription. Once you understand the woman next to you was born with divine value, you have to realize you were as well. You are that single life worth saving, just as much as the next person. And if you have the chance and the support to save yourself, you have saved an entire world. 

I’ve carried this notion with me ever since. My Hillel director helped me find the courage to go to my first therapy session, and I continue to go regularly. After graduating, I got a job across the country at a Jewish nonprofit in Salt Lake City, despite being afraid of the distance from my comfort zone—not to mention my built-in support network back home. But that’s the beautiful thing about a Jewish community: It waits for you everywhere, ready to be there for you, ready to stand by you. The decision to work in a Jewish nonprofit came easily to me.   

As I have started to repair my personal world, my body, and my spirit,  things have started to fall into place. I came to see that because I was able to make a space to help myself, I am so lucky to be in a position where I can help others. I now work with Jewish college students who are in the same position I was in just months ago—trying to figure out what their passions are, who their real friends are, and, most important, who they want to become. I just want them to know what they already are. I want them to see themselves as whole and worthy.

People need to understand this truth:  Every life is one worth saving.