Tag Archives: depression


I was sitting down for my tutoring hours waiting for no one to come when two classmates of mine appeared, one after the other.

They both asked me if I was still in my Cell and Molec class to which I replied, “Technically yes.”  I just don’t go to class anymore and I do urge those still sane people, this is a bad idea.  The first was Classmate One and he sat down and spared a moment for a chat to get a feel for what was going on:  a tutor buddy had told him that I was changing majors which I repeated to him and I could see the strangest view in his eyes.  He seemed… awfully disappointed in me.  Much like my adviser had shown me when I told her.  It led to a lot of questions about why and how I am going to make money and such things that are important in life.  The second was Classmate Two and he asked me in a cautious and caring tone, “What the hell is going on?”  He meant it as in, “Are you all right?  Do you need help?”  I can’t explain enough how much I hate going to class and how this is draining me to be ohk with their looks.  Classmate Two was far kinder in expression though.  On the inside though, rage boiled. In some ways I felt that they were looking at me for the loss of potential and they had thought so little of my new area of study.  They thought so little of art as being worthy of study.  And this saddened me deeply.

15:30 came quickly, not before I escaped the thought of crying.  Who else was I letting down?  Who was close to me that felt I needed to snap out of it and keep on chugging on?

I decided to visit the DC Booth Fish Hatchery with two precious friends:  my roommate and Seth.  I stood outside the balcony of my apartment complex and told Seth about my experience with Classmate One and asked, “Why are people so disappointed?”  Seth said simply, “Because you are good at it.  But you know what?  It’s your life.”  And that was one of the best things I had heard all day.  The other was from beloved friend M (who had replied to, “What are you afraid is going to happen?”) that she worried I might not be independent when I needed to be.  I needed to hear that too.

College is a difficult institution for me.  I’ve not wanted to go.  I had actually not intended on it.  I chose to accept what my mom wanted for me and in turn, here I am.  Do I regret the experiences I have had so far?  No, not really.  What I regret is not being a strong enough person to fit into college.  I can feel it in my bones from a conversation I had with my friend John who spoke to me dearly about his let downs and out-of-place experiences in our town and university.  He said he needed to leave and was taking some time and I tried to caution him never to lose passion for fear that we may wither into nothingness if we both weren’t careful.  I need a break, I need to do something for me and that includes pursuing a different course.

Otherwise, my depression will eat me alive.



One of the most beloved things were the key tones of a dial pad.

For the most part, life had been a complete blur of events.  Many memories had slipped through colours of sunsets and sundowns that the most relative parts became increasingly hard to grasp.  As I grew older, so did my heart grow weary from isolation and lack of stimulation.  It is hard to state with confidence that I was indeed alive in the beautiful sense of the word.  A hollow being masquerading.

As an adolescent my head felt static – a horrible numbness that I never wish to return to.  My attitude was apathetic:  what would be would be without my consent; destiny.  The day I learned to read and understand the abstract concept of words was a day of salvation.  With this newfound power I learned the secret portal to a myriad of worlds, wishes and dreams.  And that is how I marched on, never truly attaching myself to any one thing except little books and grandiose stories (some imagined, some discovered).  They gave me the emotions I lacked in life, reality later to be echoed, reinvented in my dreams, daydreams.  Some of the best times I had as a kid were when I was sleeping, dreaming despite the significant amount of nightmares.  A whole range of feelings was discovered as I ran my fingers nervously across pages of heroes, powerful men and women who never gave up.  I admired them.  Nights were spent running with the wolves, dancing among fierce battles parrying invisible blades from a dastardly enemy who sought every chance to slight me.  But no matter how many times I closed my eyes and laid out the scenes, the characters, the plots, I’d always realize that it was not to be.

I’m here. In this world where my family is falling apart.  Where people antagonize each other because they didn’t know better.  That’s the kind of place I live in, the situation I’m in.

And it progressively grew worse and worse.

I entered the eighth grade, a very interesting year.  Already in sixth and seventh grade my stepmother’s influence was growing faint…  By eighth, though the details are still hazy, she had moved out and onto the economy.  And then it was myself, my older brother and my younger brother left with my dad.  The haze in my mind grew, the desire to be elsewhere, anywhere but home intensified and school became my salvation each and every weekday.  I studied hard, for it soon became a saving grace, the trump card to deny interaction with my father.  The dreaded awkwardness.

But I was still lonely.  I justified my inability to make meaningful friends by telling myself that deep down, I didn’t deserve them.  It became the whole of my existence that happiness wasn’t mine to obtain though dearly in my heart I wished so strongly to achieve it.  I thought that if I got close enough, reached out, I could preserve one little piece to tide me over until my inevitable death.  Desperation crippled me.  Guilt destroyed me.  Little by little, what was left of my desire to continue living was chiseled away.  I rode on a bus that sent me back to the hole I crawled out of, the abyss my brothers and I endured…  I really can’t call it that.  It just was, and we just existed as entities in that space.  We weren’t people anymore, we weren’t human.  I went back to my home, my darkness and died every day trying to survive.

My room was my solace.  I could use it to shut out almost of the pain scratching at my door.  I ached and projected my feelings and needs of comfort onto stuffed animals whom I cried at the thought of being mine.  Experiencing my distress, my suffering, why did they need to be exposed to that?  I drowned in an anesthetic developed through witness to the dismantling of my identity and purpose as an individual of a society.  Why should they deserve to also be in this environment?  But I couldn’t bare for anything to leave…  I couldn’t bear to think that they would leave.  Because despite all the voices I heard from my environment, it didn’t feel as lonely as realizing that there was nothing there to hold me.

Death was a pleasant past time.  I dreamed so fondly of it.  It seemed like bliss, like a beautiful escape.  But I couldn’t take anyone with me.  My dear beloved items, though only possessions, were my family.  I didn’t want to leave them behind.  Many days I fought the urge to break skin or fall through my window or sink into a watery slumber.  But they always pulled me back.  My family I had created preserved enough of me to meet one key person:  M.