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Ten years ago this month I was diagnosed with depression, started taking medicine for it, and dropped out of college.
It feels like I should be able to contextualize this at this point, make some sort of meaningful narrative out of it, but I can’t. I don’t feel distant enough from it. I haven’t forgiven myself for dropping out. Maybe I never will. I mean, I survived the subsequent years: living with my parents, going back to school, earning a degree that turned out to be pretty much worthless, taking on a fairly stressful job and being successful at it, even managing to live on my own for a couple of years, albeit with some financial support from my parents. I published a couple of stories. And, dude, moved to another country and got enciviled to my Person. That was a thing. But I don’t feel like I’ve changed significantly from the person who burst into tears when my first therapist told me I was worth something.
When I was taking my psych assessment last summer - hah, how time flies! - I tested in the ‘severe’ range for anxiety and depression. I think there was a little bias in that - I was under stress at the time, taking all these tests and all, so maybe I was over-reporting - but ‘moderate’ depression/anxiety/whateverthehell is wrong with me is still a struggle.
I’m not on meds anymore. Maybe I should be. I still feel like I’m worthless. But I can take pleasure in things. I can function. I’m doing okay.
Screw it. My narrative will be shamelessly escapist.
It feels like I should be able to contextualize this at this point, make some sort of meaningful narrative out of it, but I can’t. I don’t feel distant enough from it. I haven’t forgiven myself for dropping out. Maybe I never will. I mean, I survived the subsequent years: living with my parents, going back to school, earning a degree that turned out to be pretty much worthless, taking on a fairly stressful job and being successful at it, even managing to live on my own for a couple of years, albeit with some financial support from my parents. I published a couple of stories. And, dude, moved to another country and got enciviled to my Person. That was a thing. But I don’t feel like I’ve changed significantly from the person who burst into tears when my first therapist told me I was worth something.
When I was taking my psych assessment last summer - hah, how time flies! - I tested in the ‘severe’ range for anxiety and depression. I think there was a little bias in that - I was under stress at the time, taking all these tests and all, so maybe I was over-reporting - but ‘moderate’ depression/anxiety/whateverthehell is wrong with me is still a struggle.
I’m not on meds anymore. Maybe I should be. I still feel like I’m worthless. But I can take pleasure in things. I can function. I’m doing okay.
Screw it. My narrative will be shamelessly escapist.
