…and some people don’t believe it exists. But, it sure does. Though I don’t owe any doubters an explanation, I’ll try to express it as accurately as I can. Around the fall Daylight Savings Time, the activity I feel in the warm, summer months seems to deplete. During that time, I feel tired, unfocused, dreary. Like I’m just existing rather than living. Sometimes, I’ll think of something sad or depressing, and my brain will latch onto that thought all day long. On a day like today, a windy, rainy day, it’s very apparent. It’s like my body knows; my muscles ache, my teeth clench, and my eyelids seem to droop.
Sounds terrible, right? Yeah, it sucks. I think what sucks more is that it’s taken until now, at 22 years old, for me to realize this pattern. Looking back, I can clearly see a decline. When I was in school, the first few months would be fantastic! I was on top of my work, my relationships are passionate and dynamic; I’d be on top of the world. Then, my mental sun would set. I’d start smoking more marijuana to combat the onset of depression. Eventually, my grades would decline because I couldn’t get out of bed. I’d only leave my dorm room to eat junk food and return to my own personal bear den. All I’d ever want to do is sleep. No amount of sleep would ever be enough. I’d look around, angry that no one understood how I felt. How could people be productive in the cold, dark, scary world?
The worst I can think of was the period where I had gotten into legal trouble. The $2,000 Yuengling (see in the archives for that story). I had been prescribed an anti-anxiety medication (Klonopins and/or Xanax) the summer before but it was at that period where I started to abuse them heavily. Huge chunks of that year are gone from memory. As much as I try, I cannot remember October of 2014 until January of 2015, when I was admitted into a hospital for overdosing on Klonopin. One evening, I took 9 of them, and smoked a bowl. I didn’t think I would die, but if I did, oh well. That’s how much regard I had for my life. And that’s how deep my depression manifested.
I’m not ashamed to admit my past problems. I’m in therapy now with a wacky, older counselor who is a self-described “Jesus Freak” who has 5 or 6 adopted mixed-race children. I think I feel comfortable with him because, though he’s an old, white guy, he can sympathize with issues that people of color feel since he’s raised black children. I admitted to him that I harbor a lot of guilt and shame; from my “attempt” to my collegiate failures. Admitting it has helped, and having an unbiased ear that will listen. That combined with my moderate dose of Wellbutrin, I hope I can beat this thing for the first time…ever.