The Fisher Boy

While this story is inspired by real-life experiences, it is a work of fiction. It details the story of a girl, Sarah, and a boy, Evan, who meet under unusual circumstances: intensive outpatient therapy for obsessive-compulsive disorder. Although brief, the story shares the progression of their relationship, while also exploring Sarah’s thoughts and compulsions and her journey to recovery.  

My friend’s mother owns the clinic I ended up choosing. It was a program for my obsessive-compulsive disorder. I made the calls myself to get into this place. I was wearing a pair of jeans with small tears on the bottom and an off-white turtleneck. I wanted to look nice. You never know who you might meet, I thought. 

I didn’t want to tell my parents what I was going through – that felt entirely embarrassing to me; them knowing that I had to knock the trim of the door five times before I went to bed, while my fingernails slammed against the paint, but then instantly worried the paint went into my fingernails so I had to wash my hands, not touch anything and do the whole thing over again. This time, making sure I didn’t slam my pointer finger too hard on the door trim that paint chips would get under my fingernails, soak into my skin, cause lead poisoning, and then death. 

Or to tell them that I couldn’t stop picking my eyebrows and how last summer I spent a whole night picking every last strand off, relishing on the rush that would follow after I pulled a thick hair out, until my eyes started to rip with water and redness rose on the skin above my eyes where my eyebrows were supposed to lie. 

Or to tell them that I think everything will kill me and then I will never get to experience all the wonderful things in life. Especially never falling in love. 

So, yes, I called myself into this program because I knew things needed to change – just no one needed to know about it. It’s not that I wasn’t close with my family. I was just ashamed and scared that my parents would think differently of me, so keeping it hush hush seemed to be the best option. Later, when I started to get better, I ended up telling my parents that I was struggling and in this program to get better. 

My dad said to me while sitting on our home sofa, “Something I admire about you is how you always advocate for yourself. It will take you very far in life.” 

After some brief paperwork at the front desk, I walked through the hallway to the room: splattered paint and abstract artwork filled the tan-colored walls. I wanted to run my fingers across the wall like I used to do in elementary school, but I didn’t want to risk it. 

I opened the door – the coldness of the metal reached through my cotton sleeve, and I entered the room. I was late. Everyone gawked at me. I glanced at the people sitting in cushioned chairs, all in a circle. A girl’s pink UGGs rested on an ottoman. Another boy who looked much older than me, but actually only ended up being 21, had tattoos that covered his legs and across his arms – one was a black-ink drawing of a wheelchair with a grouping of balloons attached that he later told me was an emblem for his brother. 

A person in the middle was standing, which occluded my view of a boy with long curly hair. I looked into his eyes, and he looked into mine for a second – long enough for me to see his charcoal eyes with specks of black circling his pupil. I slouched my shoulders slightly and bent my head toward the ground as I walked to find an open spot. My new peers were still reciting their morning instructions and updating the group of 15 on how their days were. The only open seat was next to the boy I locked eyes with. I scooted my body next to him and slid into the chair. 

Turns out his name was Evan. His hair was long enough to reach down to the body of the chair. It seemed like it hadn’t been attended to in a long time: dust particles fit perfectly in the crevices of his frizzy curls, and knots swarmed his thick, dirty blonde hair. His teeth bucked out onto his dry and cracked lips. He shifted stiffly in his seat, and his hands seemed to be mechanically placed on his lap. His burgundy shirt had a slight stain on the bottom right corner with a rip on the bottom left that looked like it had arisen from some recent mishap: the strings still flailing around in the small hole, lingering and about to pull apart from each other. Black Nike joggers covered his legs, so no skin would be exposed. Large pimples displayed across his forehead and along the upper part of his mouth. 

He turned to face me, “Hi, I’m Evan.” 

“Hi, I’m Sarah.” I reached out to shake his hand, but he shook his head. My cheeks burned as I gently placed my hand back into my lap. I looked the other way to the therapists as they began to introduce me. 

“Hello, everyone. We have someone new starting with us today.” She turned to look at me. Her hair was dark, short and choppy and a pearl necklace rang around her neck. Gabriella was her name, and later, she saved me. “Sarah, do you want to introduce yourself?” she asked kindly and gently. 

My eyes did little saccades, and I cracked my neck before I began to speak. I first looked down at my cuticles, band aids covered half of my fingers and the ones that didn’t have bandages were about to need them when I pulled the last pieces of skin. Blood oozed from my body, leaving a raw pink coloring around my short nails. 

“Hi, everyone. … umm…I’m Sarah,” I said. I couldn’t look at them. 

I turned to Gabriella for help. She mouthed, Go on

“I’m 19 and I’m from Oak Park. … I’m not sure what else to say,” My head scrunched  into my neck. “This past week I went to Chicago to visit my grandparents and my papa made shrimp dejon. … And that’s all I’ve got.” 

Gabriella smiled at me and everyone’s initial stares turned into faces of endearment and encouragement. 

The room was bland. Tan-colored walls like the hallways, but no artwork, only large whiteboards with dry-erase markings of psychology concepts like radical acceptance and riding the wave. The room had small windows with blinds, where the light was obstructed. Cabinets with bins of fidgets that clicked and clanked, but I was too scared to touch them. 

There wasn’t anything noteworthy the rest of the first day. I was inundated with information, papers and binders. A few people in the group shared how their journey was almost over at the program and how it changed their life. They shared how transformational this program had been for them and how much more manageable their OCD was. I couldn’t help but hope that the way they appeared would be how I would end up feeling.  

*** 

The next day I walked into the door – luckily it was already propped open so I didn’t have to tug on my shirt sleeve to cover my hand while opening it – and Evan lifted his head to meet my eyes. I smiled and took the seat next to him. 

Gabriella pulled up a chair to talk about the first exposure I wanted to do.

“Okay, Sarah, what are you thinking?” Her pearl necklace had been swapped for a silver heart-shaped locket. I wondered what picture she had inside. 

“Um, maybe something with scents?” One of my obsessive thoughts was that if I inhaled perfume, room mists, or anything with a fragrance, it was going to soak into my brain and slowly cause cancer and lead to my death. 

I told Gabriella I didn’t want to do it. I tapped the table and slammed my fingertips against the wood. I lifted my head to Gabriella. 

“I can’t do it,” I said. 

“I know it’s hard, but how do you want to live your life?” she said. 

Gabriella left, and I hesitantly reached into my red canvas bag. I took out a bottle of Warm Vanilla Sugar perfume from Bath & Body Works and went to the back of the room. The bottle of perfume was in a tall plastic cylinder, which irked me. I took the plastic cover off and pressed down on the metal pump, and the mist took over the room. Fake vanilla molecules wafted through my nostrils, and the pungent sweetness punched my head. Pressure built up in my brain and slammed the back of my skull. Dizziness took over, and I felt like my head was going to implode. I was sure I was going to die right then and there, and then everything would be over. At least all of my fears and worries would die with me. 

I went back to my seat, put the perfume bottle in my bag, and drooped down in my chair as I tried to “ride the wave” and allow the pressure to circulate through my head. Evan leaned back in his chair, with his hands on his head and elbows flared out. I wanted to grab his chair as it continually rocked back, but I knew he wouldn’t like that. Every time he got up and then sat back down, he would squeeze into his seat and shift up multiple times to make sure his clothes laid just the right way on his body. I never really understood this. He was like no one I had ever come across. 

Later that day, after everyone else left, I saw him out and he asked me if I wanted to come to the program early the next morning to fish in the little pond near the building. He told me that he fishes every morning. I was confused why he wanted me to come, but I said yes. 

I walked to my car that hadn’t been washed in months. Got in, opened the glove compartment where the hand sanitizer was, put it on, then sanitized the latch, started the ignition and drove away. 

I imagined Evan and I together on my couch: my legs laid on top of his thighs while I curled my toes. His elbows lay gently on my shins as he flipped through the pages of a book I made about my family ancestry. 

A red light approached, and I slammed on the brake pedal. I sighed. 

The next morning I parked my car next to his white Honda Civic. He took his fishing rod and container of bait out and just as he saw me approaching, he shuffled back to open his car door to grab me a rod too. He had a smile that seemed soft. 

We walked together to the marshy pond, remaining a few feet from each other. His curly hair was held by a rubber band into a ponytail and it swayed from the wind. Frizzy pieces were left out of the rubber band, leaving his hair in slight disarray. Mist from the pond landed on Evan’s face, and he jumped from the sensation. He meticulously grabbed the fishing hook – his hand touching only a certain spot. He slowly stepped into the mud, punctilious with each step. Birds landed on the tree branches next to the pond, and pigeons walked near us, clearly making Evan uncomfortable. He opened his container of worms, squished it on the hook, and lowered his fishing line into the water, but I held mine back as I didn’t want to embarrass myself.

I turned to face him and his eyes immediately lay on mine, “So, I’m not sure if this is too personal and you don’t have to share if you don’t want to, but why are you here?” I said. He chuckled. “Well, I’m really fucked up. No one knows how I ended up like this. But basically, I can’t touch anything. No one can touch me.” 

“But I’ve seen you touch things! You’re touching the fishing pole.” 

He pushed his hair away with his forearm. “I can challenge my OCD as much as I want, but it makes me suicidal. I was in an inpatient program a few years ago, and I wouldn’t eat because I was scared the food was contaminated.” 

“Yeah. I haven’t hugged my parents in years. I don’t even remember the last time I touched them. I haven’t gotten a haircut since 8th grade because I can’t let anything touch my face or my shoulders. Those are my clean, no touch zones. There are only a few things I can wear that make me feel as safe as I can feel.” He looked down at his shoes: black crocs with no Jibbitz on them and slices of mud covering the top. 

“I’m just a lost cause,” he sighed. 

I leaned my head as my lip quivered. “No you are not. Don’t say that.” 

Silence washed over us. 

He finally said, “I haven’t been doing well here. I’m leaving to go back to inpatient again. It can be any day now. They will call me once there is an open spot for me.” It was a place in northern Wisconsin, where the snow stuck to the sidewalks and climbing vines looked like snakes latching onto the bricks of the buildings.  

“Oh,” I said. I wished so badly I could just reach out my arms and hug him and tell him that everything would be okay. But, obviously, I didn’t do that. 

***

A week later was his last day before he went back to inpatient treatment. We walked out together to the parking lot. I leaned against my car and he stood in front of me, a little closer than usual. We looked at each other the same way we did when we first met. Our eyes connected differently though, like we knew this was the last time we would see each other. I saw the pain in his eyes. I saw how badly he wanted to get better. But I also saw his hopelessness. I imagined he saw how sad I was for him to go. I envisioned myself reaching out and touching a piece of his messy hair and tucking it behind his ear.  

“I have something for you,” I said. 

“What do you mean, Sarah?” 

“One second. I need to grab it from my car.” He put his hands in his pockets and wiped something off his face with his right shoulder. 

A few days earlier, I was going through my late grandma’s basement. She used to own an antique store and she had boxes and boxes of figurines, china, woven placemats and old paintings. There was a silver antique of a man fishing, and I thought Evan would like it. 

I reached for the figurine in my car. I handed it to him, making sure our hands didn’t touch. He said thank you and his eyes emphasized his appreciation. 

As he started to walk away, I said, “Please know you are not a lost cause. You are a good person and good people are never lost causes. I truly hope our paths cross again someday.” He smiled a hopeless smile and then walked away. 

If this story resonates with you, help is available …

Written by: Abby Shapiro, a 20-year-old college student who is passionate about writing and mental health.


Parenting a Mental Health Crisis Long Distance

For those who had high school graduates in the class of 2020, you know they missed out on a lot - Senior spring break trips, prom, graduation and the parties to celebrate the milestone. 

Then there was the first year of college that looked nothing like anything anyone had seen before. You could be on campus but classes were remote, you could only be with your roommate, there were no freshman parties, learning the school song or attending football games. It was hard on the students and their parents. 

The second semester of freshman year became more and more difficult for our younger daughter. She felt like she was missing out on so much of what she thought her college experience would be and she did. We FaceTimed several times a day, and we started to see changes in her physically. She had lost weight (and she was already thin), she was lethargic, there were bags underneath her eyes and she just wasn’t herself. 

My mom spidey senses were tingling but I didn’t know what to do for her over 500 miles and 8-hours away. Then she called from the bathroom floor crying that she couldn’t breathe, her chest felt heavy, she thought she was having a heart attack. I knew exactly what it was, I had felt this myself, those feelings had brought me to my knees and the emergency room on many occasions. It was an anxiety attack. 

Without hesitation I passed the phone to my husband to keep talking to her, took his phone and called the campus health center. I explained what was going on and insisted that she be seen immediately. Whether I got lucky or the person on the other end of the phone could hear my own panic, they saw her within the hour and helped her through the immediate crisis. 

I have had my own struggles with anxiety and depression. I take medication daily and I’ve been in therapy for over 20 years. Maybe I’ll share that story in another blog. But what’s important is that I never hid these struggles from our children. I talked about it openly, I shared what I was working on in therapy, the things I wanted to change and that we were always here to listen and help them through anything. 

Because I know how my child felt in that moment lying on the bathroom floor I was able to get her the help she needed. It was hard during COVID to find therapists, especially ones that would treat patients virtually in a different state. But we found one that was willing and with the additional help of medication, our daughter made it through school. She is now a registered nurse working in an emergency room. 

I share our story to remind parents, grandparents, caregivers and friends to talk about mental health, to seek help for yourself or your child. It is not something to be ashamed of and we should not keep silent or hide our feelings.

We’ve always told our children we don’t care what you do with your lives but you must put your mental well being first and be able to support yourself. They’ve both chosen to be in healthcare and have stressful positions in emergency departments. They see what untreated mental health does to people and their families. 

My husband and I have so much to be proud of. And, our children know, no matter how old they are or what situation they might find themselves in, we are here to support them or help them find the support they need. 

Keep telling your mental health story, you never know who it might help. 

Hillary Wenk is the Director of Engagement at North Suburban Synagogue Beth El. She enjoys reading, Pilates, cooking and relaxing with her husband and two dogs.

Interested in submitting a guest blog entry? Email nsou@noshameonu.org

How Therapy Stopped Being BS for Me

I'm gonna be straight with you guys - six months ago, if you told me I'd be writing about therapy, I would've laughed in your face. Not because I thought I was too cool for it, but because I genuinely believed it was just expensive complaining to a stranger who nods and says "how does that make you feel?"

But here I am at 20, and honestly? Therapy might be the most real thing I've done for myself.

My therapist, Dr. Martinez, does something weird - we walk. Like, actual walking outside instead of sitting in some sterile office. First session, I thought she was just trying to be the "cool therapist," but now I get it. Something about moving makes it easier to talk without feeling like I'm under a microscope.

During one of our walks through the park near her office, she asked me why I always assume my friends are annoyed with me when they don't text back immediately. I started to give my usual "I don't know, I just do" response, but then she asked me to think about the first time I remember feeling that way.

Suddenly I'm remembering being 12, texting my older brother about some video game, and him not responding for hours. When he finally did, he said he was "busy with his real friends." That hit different as a kid. Dr. Martinez helped me see how that one moment created this whole pattern where silence = rejection in my brain.

The depression I've been dealing with isn't the dramatic, can't-get-out-of-bed kind you see in movies. It's more like this constant low-level static that makes everything feel harder than it should be. Getting to class feels like walking through sludge. Hanging out with friends exhausts me even when I have fun. I just thought I was lazy or broken.

But Dr. Martinez started pointing out patterns I never noticed:

The Sunday Spiral: Every Sunday around 6 PM, I'd get this crushing anxiety about the week ahead. We traced it back to how my parents used to fight every Sunday night about money when I was in middle school. My brain learned that Sunday evening = stress incoming, even though my current life is nothing like that.

The Success Sabotage: Whenever something good happened - good grade, girl I liked texted me back, whatever - I'd immediately start waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like, actively looking for reasons why it wouldn't last. Turns out this started in high school when my parents got divorced right after I made varsity soccer. Young me connected "good things happening" with "life falling apart."

The Comparison Trap: I'd scroll through Instagram and TikTok feeling like everyone else had figured out this whole "being 20" thing while I was just pretending. Dr. Martinez asked me to pay attention to what I was actually seeing vs. what I was assuming. Spoiler alert: 30-second highlight reels aren't real life documentation.

One day we were walking past this group of college kids having what looked like the perfect picnic - laughing, looking effortlessly cool, probably planning their amazing weekend plans. I made some comment about how I never feel that carefree.

Dr. Martinez asked, "What if one of them just failed a midterm? What if another one is worried about their parents' marriage? What if the guy who seems most confident just got rejected by someone he really liked?"

It sounds simple, but it genuinely never occurred to me that other people might be performing happiness the same way I do. That maybe my assumption that everyone else has it figured out is just... wrong.

She also got me thinking about this thing I do where I replay embarrassing moments from like three years ago at 2 AM. Apparently, this is called rumination, and it's not actually productive problem-solving like I thought. It's more like mental self-harm. Learning that it had a name and that it was a thing people do made me feel less like a weirdo.

Look, I was worried about the stigma too. I worried people would think I was "crazy" or weak. I worried about it affecting future relationships or jobs somehow. But you know what's actually weak? Staying stuck in the same patterns that make you miserable because you're scared of what people might think.

Most of my friends have been cool about it. A few even said they'd been thinking about trying therapy themselves. Turns out, a lot of us are dealing with similar stuff - we just don't talk about it because we're all trying to look like we have our shit together.

The ones who made jokes or seemed uncomfortable? That says more about their own stuff than mine.

I'm not "cured" or whatever. I still have bad days. I still sometimes spend too long on social media comparing myself to people. I still get that Sunday anxiety sometimes.

But now I notice these things happening instead of just being trapped in them. I have actual tools instead of just "tough it out" or "try to think positive." And honestly, understanding why my brain does certain things has made me way less angry at myself.

Dr. Martinez helped me see that my depression isn't some character flaw - it's my brain trying to protect me based on old information. Learning to update that information is work, but it's work that actually leads somewhere.

For anyone on the fence, if you're reading this and thinking about therapy but aren't sure, here's what I wish someone had told me: it's not about being broken. It's about understanding how you work so you can work better.

Yeah, it costs money (though my school's counseling center has affordable options). Yeah, it takes time. Yeah, it can be uncomfortable talking about your stuff.

But staying stuck costs more in the long run. And honestly? Walking around understanding yourself is pretty powerful.

You don't have to wait until you're in crisis. You don't have to earn the right to get help. You just have to be tired enough of your own patterns to try something different.

Max P., a 20-year-old college student.

When Summer Break Feels More Like Summer Breakdown

When Summer Break Feels More Like Summer Breakdown

Everyone always talks about how amazing summer break is. Freedom! No homework! Sleeping in! And don't get me wrong – I love the idea of all that. But as I'm sitting here at the end of May, watching my friends post about their exciting summer plans and job announcements, I can't shake this weird anxious feeling in my stomach.

Maybe I'm the only one who feels this way, but the transition from school to summer actually stresses me out more than finals week sometimes.

I know I should be excited. Three months with no alarm at 6:30 AM sounds like heaven. No more cramming for tests or stressing about that history project I definitely procrastinated on. Summer should mean freedom, adventures, maybe even some fun for once.

But here's what nobody talks about: all that freedom can feel overwhelming when you're used to having every hour of your day planned out. During the school year, I know exactly where I need to be and when. First period at 8 AM, lunch at 12:15, soccer practice at 3:30. It's not always fun, but there's something comforting about that routine.

Now suddenly it's like... what do I do with myself?

And then there's all the pressure that comes with summer "freedom." Everyone expects you to do something meaningful. Get a job. Volunteer somewhere impressive. Take a summer course to get ahead. Plan for college applications. Be productive!

My parents keep asking what my summer plans are, and honestly? I don't really know. Some of my friends already have internships lined up or cool jobs at the local pool. Others are doing expensive summer programs that sound amazing but also terrifying. Meanwhile, I'm over here still trying to figure out if I'm ready for the responsibility of a real job.

The job hunt itself is its own kind of anxiety. Writing cover letters when you have zero work experience. Hoping someone calls you back. Wondering if you'll be good enough, smart enough, responsible enough. What if I mess up? What if I hate it? What if they hate me?

I think what gets to me most is how the lack of structure messes with my head. During school, even when I'm stressed, I know what's expected of me. But summer feels like this big blank space where I'm supposed to magically know how to fill my time in a "meaningful" way.

Some days I wake up at noon and feel guilty about it, even though technically I can sleep as late as I want. Other days I have so much free time that I just scroll social media for hours and then feel worse about myself. It's like I need someone to tell me what to do, but also I want independence. It's confusing.

I'm still figuring this out, but I've found a couple of things that help when the summer anxiety hits:

Creating my own routine: I know it sounds weird to voluntarily give yourself structure when you finally have freedom, but it actually helps. I started setting a (reasonable) wake-up time for myself and planning one or two things for each day, even if it's just going for a walk with my dog or reading for an hour. It gives me something to anchor to without being as rigid as school.

Talking to friends about it: Turns out I'm not the only one feeling this way! When I finally mentioned to my best friend that summer transitions stress me out, she was like "OMG yes, me too!" We've started checking in with each other about how we're doing with all the changes. Sometimes just knowing you're not alone in feeling anxious makes it way more manageable.

I'm still working on accepting that it's okay to not have the "perfect" summer planned out. Maybe I won't get that impressive internship or meaningful volunteer position. Maybe I'll work a regular part-time job and spend some days just hanging out with friends or catching up on shows I missed during the school year.

And you know what? That's probably okay too.

To anyone else feeling anxious about summer break: you're not alone. Take it one day at a time, be patient with yourself, and remember that there's no "right" way to spend your summer. We'll figure it out as we go.

Maya F. is 17 years old.

From Rock Bottom to Recovery: My Journey with Gambling Disorder in College

From Rock Bottom to Recovery: My Journey with Gambling Disorder in College

When I first stepped onto campus at Indiana University as a freshman, I never imagined that gambling would become the center of my life. What started as casual poker nights in the dorm quickly spiraled into an all-consuming addiction that nearly cost me everything.

The Beginning

It was innocent at first—$20 buy-ins with friends on Friday nights. I was pretty good, and winning felt amazing. That dopamine rush was unlike anything I'd experienced. Soon I discovered online poker sites and sports betting apps. Between classes, I'd place "just one bet" to make watching games more exciting.

My roommate noticed I was staying up until 3 AM most nights, hunched over my laptop, but I dismissed his concerns. I was in control. I could stop anytime.

The Spiral

By sophomore year, gambling had taken over. I'd skip classes to bet on European soccer matches happening during the day. I started taking out small loans and maxing out credit cards. I borrowed money from friends, always promising to pay them back after my "big win" came through.

The worst part wasn't losing money—it was what happened when I won. Each win convinced me I could recover everything if I just kept going. I developed elaborate betting systems I was certain would work. When they didn't, I'd double down, chasing losses with increasingly desperate bets.

Rock Bottom

My breaking point came during finals week of junior year. I had emptied my savings, owed thousands in credit card debt, and burned bridges with friends I'd borrowed from. After losing my entire monthly budget in one night, I sat alone in my room, unable to afford groceries, my phone shut off for nonpayment. I couldn't even call home to ask for help because I was too ashamed.

That night, I wrote an email to the campus counseling center. It was the hardest message I've ever sent, but also the most important.

The Road to Recovery

The counselor connected me with a gambling addiction specialist and a local Gamblers Anonymous group. At my first GA meeting, I was shocked to see people my age. I wasn't alone.

Recovery wasn't linear. I installed blocking software on my devices to prevent access to gambling sites. I turned over financial control to my parents temporarily while I learned to manage money again. Most importantly, I began addressing the underlying issues—anxiety, impulsivity, and my distorted thinking about money and risk.

Where I Am Today

Two years into recovery, I've repaid most of my debts. I've rebuilt friendships and found healthy ways to enjoy sports without betting. I still attend weekly support meetings and have become a peer counselor for other students struggling with gambling problems.

The statistics about gambling disorder among college students are alarming—up to 6% develop serious problems, higher than the general population. But recovery is possible.

Three Key Takeaways for Anyone Struggling

  1. Recognize the warning signs early. If you're hiding your gambling, chasing losses, or borrowing money to gamble, these are serious red flags. Gambling disorder progresses rapidly, especially in high-stress environments like college.

  2. You don't have to face this alone. Campus counseling centers, national helplines (1-800-GAMBLER), and Gamblers Anonymous groups exist specifically for this problem. The relief of finally sharing my secret was immediate and profound.

  3. Recovery requires addressing the whole person. Gambling disorder isn't just about willpower—it involves brain chemistry, emotional regulation, and often co-occurring issues like anxiety or depression. A comprehensive approach including therapy, support groups, and financial counseling makes lasting recovery possible.

If you're reading this and recognizing yourself or someone you care about, please know that help is available. The shame kept me silent for too long. There is no shame in struggling, and there's certainly no shame in reaching out for help.

Scott R. is a 21-year-old student at Indiana University Bloomington, majoring in Political Science