When I think back to my college years, I remember feeling such fear. I knew how to take care of myself, it wasn�t a fear of being on my own. My mom had returned to the work force when I was 10 and my sister and I were pretty much on our own. We did our own laundry, did the cooking, did the shopping, etc. It was more a fear of the emotions that were slowly taking over my life. There was a constant anxiety, a restlessness that no amount of movement could use up. And a sadness, like one I�d never experienced before.
I know that my depressive swings had begun in high school. They had, perhaps, begun even earlier, I see signs of them in my childhood. I had my first manic episode when I was 17. But nothing prepared me for the depression that would hit when I was in college. Out of fear, I clung to the people around me, gripping them so tightly that I repelled a few my second year of college. But my freshman year, I was so afraid of ostracizing the only people who provided any security that I was very careful. I couldn�t let the fear, the sadness, the anxiety show.
I was reckless in my fight to control it. My first 3 years of college were at UC Santa Cruz. UCSC is set in the mountains of Santa Cruz. At the time, it had something like 200 gazillion acres of forest. The college occupied only a very small fraction of the land. The university was divided into 8 colleges (it�s now up to 12 or something) and they were spaced far apart, each one operating like it�s own fiefdom amidst the kingdom of UCSC. Walking to class was literally a hike in the forest (albeit, along paved paths, but still). When the anxiety would hit me, I found the best way to combat it was to walk. Even if it was 1 AM.
I walked the whole campus, some days up in to the protected acreage beyond the buildings of the colleges. I never got lost, I do have an amazing sense of direction and an excellent memory. I would carefully recall each turn I made along the path, then reverse it on my return. But what I did do is wander around the campus (AKA forest) in the middle of the night.
My sophomore year, I lived in an apartment in the heart of downtown with my roommate from freshman year. My illness continued to spiral out of control. I began cutting and other behaviors that made it oh so much fun to be my roommate, including jealous rages when she spent time with her other friends, because she actually had a few. Actually, what hurt there, was that I had built some other friends, and, being who I am, included all my friends when I did things. They always became friends with each other and excluded me. I can�t tell you how much that hurt. But I digress. I was very ill. I didn�t know what to do with these overpowering emotions.
By my sophomore year, I had my car with me, so more often, I would go for drives instead of walks. Living downtown, it was safer that way. One night, I did go for a walk. I forget where I had been that evening but I was dressed up a bit (for a college student), wearing non-jeans and non-sweats, etc. What I remember most is that I was wearing boots. I remember this because, upon returning from wherever I had been that night, I just couldn�t go in the apartment. I think it was empty and that scared me. I was afraid to be alone with myself. So I went for a walk. In boots. At 2 AM. I walked all over Santa Cruz that night. I think I finally went home at about 5 AM or so. The sun was coming up and I was spent.
Eventually, that particular depression lifted, leaving me with permanent scars, both physical and emotional. But I will always remember its strength and the myriad of emotions that came with it. All the nights curled up in my blue closet (our apartment was primarily painted a bubble gum blue), rolling on the floor trying to dispel my emotions. Constant showers trying to wash it all away. Sitting in the patch of sun on the kitchen floor in the late afternoon, waiting for the house to fill up with anyone but me. Waiting, waiting for relief that didn�t come.
I remember laying in my bed and thinking that I knew it would eventually go away, but that it would also eventually come back. I wasn�t sure how many more of them (depressions) I could survive. And yet, I didn�t know any other way. I was too ashamed to admit what was going on to anyone, yet I desperately hoped someone would figure it out. I couldn�t get help because that would mean admitting all that I felt. I think even now, I am most ashamed of the jealousy I felt. Because it wasn�t my roommate�s fault and there wasn�t any way she could help me. But she bared the brunt of my hell.
Her and I have since had great conversations about that time. She lives in Seattle and I am planning to spend some time with her while I am there. I apologized for all that I put her through. She knows that it wasn�t really me, she knew it at the time, but also being a young college student, just had no idea how to handle it. She is the one who took me to the campus health center when I punched the wall. She is also the one who left me curled up on the sidewalk in a catatonic state for who-the-hell knows how long after returning. What could she do, she was only 19. I don�t blame her, I don�t even blame me. It�s just what happened.
And all through it, I remember the music best of all. Blasting �I Want Your Sex� every Sunday when the church across the street let out. My roommate putting Billy Joel on before she left one afternoon to cheer me up. She could see that I was in a pit and asked what she could do, she had class, but what could she do. I was paralyzed on the couch. I asked her to put on some music for me. INXS. Elvis Costello. Billy Joel. George Michael. The Church. Peter Gabriel. Pat Benatar. Crowded House. These were all heroes to me, they helped save my life.
I was listening to one of my mp3 playlists and it had �Mercy Street� by Peter Gabriel and it just brought it all back. All the emotions, some of them so powerful, and me, just a weak little college kid, struggling to make it through them all. I can look back on it now, feel the slightest hint of the emotion, and actually feel a sense of pride for surviving it. I know I�m not the first college kid who survived mind-blowing depression. I�m just the only one I know so intimately. And to all of us, I raise my glass. Here�s to the survivors.
