Darkness, my old friend

"High-functioning depression" is such a flattering phrase. It makes what I have sound like a gift or a prize, not a weight. It's sometimes called chronic depression, or persistent depressive disorder, abbreviated as PDD in the literature, but I prefer the old term: "dysthymia," with its Greek roots. It sounds lovely.

When I first started seeing a therapist, I tried to quantify my emotions. I downloaded various apps that asked me to rate my mood each day: on a scale from 1 to 10; using various  shades of red, orange, yellow, green; a happy face or a frowny face or somewhere in between. I didn't know what I was doing wrong. One day, she finally broke it to me gently: "While other people can rate their happiness from 1 to 10, you may never get past an 8 or 9, no matter what." How crushing, to be told the truth.

That's what dysthymia is. It cheats me of my upper register, makes ecstasy and exhilaration the stuff of fiction or other people's lives, never my own. It means that if I had to hold tight to a single truly happy memory to ward off a horde of Dementors, I couldn't save myself. It isn't soul-crushing despair, but it makes me wonder sometimes if I have a soul at all.

It's boring, is what it is, honestly. I don't cry much. I don't turn to self harm or substance abuse or hypersexuality to cope. I mostly lie in bed and stay there. I mostly lie to my friends and say I'm just tired. Sometimes I'm sort of a downer at parties, but most of the time I'm not. Mostly I feel like I'm waiting and waiting for something that will never come, but there's nothing to do but hope without expectation.

I'm never not a little bit depressed. Sometimes I'm a little more, but never any less.

To some people, this sounds unthinkably bleak. Please accept my sincere congratulations on your capacity to feel joy. To some people, this doesn't sound that bad at all, relatively; if so, I'm sorry. There are much harder, uglier, worse ways to live, but this is mine.

Today is World Mental Health Day, but so is tomorrow and the next day and every day after that for anyone living with chronic mental illness. Today and every day, I love you and am here for you. Thank you for being here for me.

A long depression.

I'm writing this on a Friday night, sitting in bed with wet hair after a shower. I tend to shower at night to keep my morning routine as low-maintenance as possible, as it was this morning, when I hit the snooze button a few times before getting dressed and heading straight out the door to work. I did some reading and went through my emails during my break, then finished up with my last student of the day and closed the tutoring center. I picked up some groceries and made pasta for dinner. It was an unremarkable day, but it was only possible because I took my pills this morning.

I've spent a lot of time thinking about how to "come out" about my depression, and I've worried for a while about whether that's an appropriate phrase for it, so much so that this post has been waiting in my drafts folder for nearly three months as I struggled to find better words. After all this time, those are still the best words I have to describe swallowing my fear of the consequences as I share a part of myself that I no longer want to hide and hope that I'm met with understanding. Forgive me for taking so long to say anything; I spent a long time trying to admit it to myself first.

Every doctor I've seen has asked, first of all, "When did you begin to feel this way?" The neat answer is late 2013, while I was enrolled at the University of York for my Masters; the messy answer is that I've felt this way for a very long time, and the origins of my depression are as inscrutable to me as the origins of the universe. By the time I first tentatively sought help in January 2014, I had already forgotten what I had ever felt like before I felt "that way," and I had started to doubt that I would ever feel any other way. I went to my university's counseling services, where I leaked a steady stream of tears for an hour as I confessed all the ways I had ceased to function. Basic tasks – showering, cooking, getting dressed, washing the dishes – became daunting obligations that I increasingly avoided. Speaking to colleagues, professors, potential friends made me feel small and unworthy of their notice, so I withdrew from social contact and watched relationships develop around and without me. The thought of leaving the confines of my room, let alone the house, paralyzed me at the edge of my bed, unable to face the outside world. I ate too little and slept too much, hoping that if I simply waited long enough before waking up, the knots in my stomach and the fogginess in my brain would have passed, but it never did. Worst of all, my work suffered. The one thing I had come to do – earn a degree – became impossible as the days passed and my books remained unopened, my notebooks blank, and my desire to engage with anything other than the nothingness of sleep completely extinguished. I requested an extension on both of my autumn term papers, and ultimately turned in two essays that I should have been too ashamed to submit – but by that point, I had lost the capacity to feel shame or any other real emotion at all.

I started seeing a local doctor, a general practitioner who specialized in student health. (Thanks, NHS!) I cried in his office the first day too, because he used the words I'd been afraid to acknowledge: "Depression." "Generalized anxiety." "Cognitive impairment." "Mental illness." He wore a suit jacket and silver-rimmed glasses and I trusted him implicitly when he assigned to me terms I had previously only studied in textbooks. He gave me a diagnostic questionnaire to bring with me at a later appointment, but he also prescribed medication immediately, because it didn't really matter whether I checked "Sometimes," "Often," or "All The Time" for symptoms that were already obvious in my pathetic expression. Those first pills didn't do much, at least not more than I could have skeptically written off as the placebo effect at work, nor did the second round at a higher dosage. I hung on, dully going through the motions of being a student while waiting for a light to break through the clouds. Switching to a different medication almost immediately effected a slight but noticeable change, as if I'd been trapped in a dark room with my eyes squeezed shut but had the courage to open them again; I was still stuck in the dark, but it felt like I could now start to look around and faintly recognize the outlines of things around me.

It wasn't enough, though. I kept acting like nothing was wrong, feigning an outward semblance of normalcy, which was easy enough because of that distance I had established from anyone around me who might have noticed anything wrong. It seemed, during a period of deeply diminished rational thought, like a necessary form of self-preservation, though anyone with common sense intact would have realized that isolation could only exacerbate my helpless, drowning feeling. My friends at home had some sense of my struggle, but there's only so much encouragement that can be conveyed across an ocean. My boyfriend at the time knew as much as I could bring myself to share with him, and his comfort and support kept me afloat, but one person can never wholly bear someone else's weight. My pastoral supervisor (the department faculty member each student is assigned for academic and, when necessary, personal guidance) knew, and his genuine sympathy and unwavering belief in my ability to succeed regardless allowed a tiny part of me to hope that he might be right, but his faith was no match for my doubt. In stark contrast, my dissertation supervisor (with whom I had previously never interacted before she was chosen to advise my proposed research) knew me for little else than my depression and its symptoms: missed deadlines, lack of communication, and an absolute inability to produce the slightest scrap of meaningful scholarship, let alone a 15,000-word thesis.

By August, I knew I would need an extension. As the other students in my program commiserated about their hours in the library or celebrated their latest breakthrough in advance of our September 15 deadline, I kept to myself the days on end spent in my bed, unable to find solace in anything but the blankness of sleep and more sleep. I think I hoped, but didn't necessarily believe, that I might finally wake up and discover myself restored; I would be all better, and I could make up for lost time. I would snap out of it any day now, then everything could proceed as normal. That illusion shattered when my boyfriend abruptly broke up with me.

After two and a half years together, he said he didn't see a future with me; after multiple transatlantic flights, my decision to attend an English university, innumerable three-hour train journeys and joyful reunions/heart-wrenching goodbyes at the station platform, he said it was "too hard" to keep the relationship going. He had been unhappy "for a long time," he said. I know what that's like, I could have responded sarcastically, but I didn't want to fight; I wanted to make it better. I cried, he cried, I reasoned, I pleaded, I made promises – anything to save the best thing I had in my life, both then and ever. Through sobs, mine and his, he insisted it was "best for both of us," and then he abandoned me.

It's not his fault I left school immediately after that. My dissertation supervisor, I'm sure, had already written me off by the time I applied for a formal leave of absence from the university for one year. I wouldn't blame her if she was relieved to be rid of me. My GP wrote the necessary letter of medical support, as he must have done for so many other students before me. I don't know what he said, exactly, but I used his language in my own brief appeal for leave, citing my "loss of drive" and need to "recover," as if I had any idea what recovery would look like.  I called my mother and told her all at once that I was coming home, that I was too depressed to manage, and that my relationship was over. My father asked if I was depressed because of the breakup, and even in all my vulnerability, I was offended. Of course I hadn't been shattered so thoroughly by just one boy; that boy just happened to be the last thing keeping me from giving up. I didn't tell anyone else on my course that I was jumping ship before the September deadline they were all diligently working towards, with the exception of one person I ran into in town – another English student whose work I admired, but who knew me little enough that it felt safe to say, "I'm not turning in my dissertation, actually; I'm going on a leave of absence for a while." I think we both wished each other good luck.

I can't remember now whether I ever explained to my friends in so many words why I reappeared in our hometown a year after most of our group had deserted it; we'd kept up with each other well enough, the core group of us, that they implicitly understood that I was coming home for a little while to "sort some things out." I don't remember much of those first few weeks, actually. I know that I had a panic attack while doing some last-minute packing, missed my flight, had to get an expensive last-minute hotel room in Manchester and endure an hour of customer service negotiations with my flight booking agent, and collapsed into bed as soon as I got home. I didn't unpack for weeks; in fact, there are still a few things still rattling around in my suitcases now, a year and a half later. Just a few weeks after I got home, I have no recollection of how I spent my 23rd birthday.

Looking back, it seems miraculous that I found a job so quickly that fall, albeit a part-time one. I was overdressed for my interview at a bakery on the Friday before Halloween, sitting across the table from my soon-to-be-manager wearing leggings and Minnie Mouse ears, but I got assigned regular shifts and started to rebuild my life around the routine of setting a wake-up alarm, getting dressed, arranging cookies in glass display jars, smiling at customers, and tying up boxes of cupcakes with pink string. When I started to feel more ambitious, I reapplied at a tutoring center five minutes from my house that had failed to call me back the previous summer, and I slowly started using my brain again to teach pre-college sixteen-year-olds the fundamentals of English grammar. I kept at my freelance writing assignments for the mental_floss website all the while, though I constantly missed deadlines and worried every week that they'd find someone better.

After eight months, I sent in a polite resignation email and left behind the bakery, the numbing dullness of standing still behind a counter watching the seconds tick by, and the indignity of mopping at customers' feet at the end of a long night as they dropped crumbs and laughed and refused to leave, long after closing time. The tutoring center began to need me more and more, assigning me students with learning disabilities as well as those aiming for the Ivy League, asking me if I could possibly tutor math and science as well as verbal, entrusting me with the younger children, requesting that I come in early and stay late and making me feel, in some small way, necessary. All the while, the official date of my re-enrollment at York loomed, but the thought of researching and writing a 15,000-word work of literary analysis continued to seem as impossible as it had the year before. After having started to feel better, I once again started to feel worse – just in time for the department to email me asking if I planned to return as expected. I didn't want to say no, but I couldn't bring myself to say yes.

At the end of the summer and, for some people, the start of a new school year, I saw a psychologist for the first time. She scheduled me in for weekly sessions and referred me to a psychiatrist, who prescribed a different medication than the one whose effectiveness had waned. Both of them were optimistic about my treatment, and I felt some confidence in applying to extend my leave by a set period of a few more months, sure that I was really on the upward swing this time and would be ready to tackle the dreaded dissertation – the obstacle between me and a Masters degree – by the start of 2016. My therapist spent weeks simultaneously reminding me that while my value as a person is not determined by my ability to submit a 60-page essay and the failure to do so shouldn't ruin my sense of self-worth, the psychological baggage associated with the dissertation was clouding a fact that likely seems obvious to anyone whose personal identity isn't in crisis: it's just a paper. It's just a stupid paper that is a requirement for me to graduate with a silly degree that doesn't make me a better person for getting it and, conversely, wouldn't make me a worse person if I never got it. I know that now.

Two weeks ago, I threw out my old dissertation topic, baggage and all, and came up with a new one. My supervisor never responded to my last email months ago and I wouldn't be surprised if she's even forgotten who I am, but I decided to forge ahead without her anyway. My deadline is in a week, and I've been feverishly reading and researching, telling myself I can cobble together those 15000 words minimum at least well enough to pass – not to score particularly highly, not to be praised, not to be singled out for a stunning work of academic achievement that marks me as a remarkable scholar and intellectual, but just to pass. If I do, the degree itself is secondary; what I really want is closure. I want to know that this time hasn't been a waste. I want proof that I'm in a better place now than I was two years ago, and maybe that will mean that the next two years will be even better. I don't know whether this will work out the way I want it to, but then again, even if it doesn't, I might still be okay.

Anyway, that's the real answer to, "So how are you?" that I haven't shared until now. I'm okay. I've been better, but I've been worse, so right now, I'm okay. Thank you for asking.

Hey, four-eyes.

The time has come, myopia said, to talk of many things: of frames and lenses and nearsightedness, of how tiny my face is and how nearly blind I am.

First impressions?

It's been a few years since the last time I had an eye exam, and in the meantime, I've grown increasingly worse at seeing anything further than three inches from my face in focus. I dread needing new glasses, not only because it reminds me of my imperfect human body, but also because I cherish familiarity and fear change. My glasses are, in a sense, my most prized possession: if asked, I wouldn't think to put them on the list of things I'd rescue from a burning building -- because they'd already be on my face. Otherwise, I'd probably die in the fire.

The last time I needed new glasses, I panicked when it came time to choose the frames. I had narrowed down my options to a handful of nearly identical thick, black, rectangular frames when the saleswoman negged me, suggesting a $100+ pair of designer frames that she said, "look like the ones you have now, but more...feminine." I was so offended that I bought them immediately. What a chump.

This time, I'm trying to avoid succumbing to my usual paralyzing fear response when required to make an important decision in a limited period of time with both money and personal vanity on the line, so I decided to go the Warby Parker route. Despite knowing that any successful new brand's popularity is at least 60% due to savvy marketing, I can still be genuinely impressed with Warby Parker's 1) flat pricing (nearly every pair of glasses costs $95, including prescription lenses), 2) generous but not overwhelming selection of frames, and 3) free home try-on program, which allows me to choose five possible frames from their website and have them shipped to my front door. Also, all of their models look really cool, but like they're not trying to look cool, and I'm into that. I'm Warby Parker's target audience. They got me.

My five frames arrived today, surprisingly quickly (although don't ask how long it took me to narrow my choices down to five). As a packaging aficionado, I appreciated the box they came in: simple black with a white Warby Parker logo on the side, which unfolded to reveal a plastic tray with each of the test frames individually wrapped in its own labeled plastic bag and a free return shipping label for the end of my trial week. But first, my current glasses, for reference:

My cousins and I once showed up to a family event wearing matching glasses...all four of us.

I like these, although I could do without the Coach logo emblazoned across the arms, misleading anyone who views me in profile into thinking that I'm much fancier than I am. They also tend to slip down my nose a little bit and tip sideways, as a result of -- and I'm just now coming to terms with this -- my crooked ears. So, slightly larger, squarer frames would fix that, right?

Nash in Crystal

 These would be great if I were a super hip lady scientist, but I don't know how well they suit my actual life. They look kinda like lab goggles.

Wilkie in Whiskey Tortoise

 Now you see what I mean about my crooked ears.

Oliver in Whiskey Tortoise

These look almost identical to the previous design, so much so that I'm not positive I've labeled the two correctly. Compared side by side, one is slightly wider and the other is slightly taller, but it's hard to tell in these pictures. I don't mind these, and although I went with tortoiseshell as a way of breaking out of my boring black frames rut, I actually like the way they complement my poorly maintained ombré hair.

Cass in Blue Slate Fade

 I love these...but yes, I realize they take up an entire third of my face. The blue is nice, though: more color than I've worn since my very first pair of pink plastic frames in kindergarten (terrible eyesight runs in the family), but subtle enough that I wouldn't be concerned about not matching any of my clothes...most of which are black anyway.

Chamberlain in Whiskey Tortoise

THESE ARE HUGE AND I LOVE THEM. It's just that I think it's already obvious what a giant nerd I am without having the glasses to confirm it, you know?

So, it turns out five frames is either still too many choices, or not enough. Help.

If Chris Evans Were Your Boyfriend.

Inspired by the incomparable, inimitable, ethereal Nicole Cliffe and Mallory Ortberg's "If ___________ Were Your Boy/Girlfriend" series (see: Channing Tatum, Kristen Stewart, Stanley Tucci).

• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, he would always help you make dinner. He would take his role as kitchen helper very seriously, and his strong hands would make quick work of all the onion chopping. He would insist on wearing an apron the first time as a joke, but would continue wearing it on all subsequent occasions.
• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, he would point out constellations to you on clear nights. The first time you spotted one before he did, he would look at you and smile, wordlessly, with pride in his eyes.
• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, he'd never let you be cold. At the slightest hint of a shiver, he'd wrap his arm around you, or rush to find a blanket, or pull off his own wool-blend navy sweater to layer over your too-thin cardigan. He'd get one look at you drowning in the fabric before bursting into laughter. As you scowled and tried to swat at him with one floppy sweater arm, he'd only laugh harder, falling back onto the couch and pulling you down with him.
• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, you would learn to love the Red Sox, and a "Boston Strong" t-shirt would somehow find its way into your closet.
• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, you would be surprised to learn that he doesn't care much for ice cream; cold foods gave him headaches, he'd confess. You'd say you couldn't imagine anything more comforting at the end of a bad day. The next time you went grocery shopping together, Chris would disappear for a few minutes and return with three pints of Ben & Jerry's in his arms, "just in case."
• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, he'd refer to you as "my girl" and you'd love it.
• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, his choice for movie night would always be a wild card: one week he'd be insistent on a double feature of the Dardenne brothers' Two Days, One Night followed by Fruitvale Station; the next, he'd just really want to watch Superbad again.
• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, you wouldn't mind finding something else to do when his brother came by, understanding that boys need time to be boys. Scott would take to you immediately in a little-brother sort of way, offering to fight Chris on your behalf if he ever mistreated you in the slightest. He'd even offer you the second Xbox controller when Chris disappeared into the bathroom for too long before hearing his brother's alarmed voice from the hallway: "No way, dude. She'll wreck you."
• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, you'd take up running, just to feel less ashamed by your decidedly un-superheroic physique. He would join you on the rare morning he wasn't required on set until after lunch, except on the single occasion you managed to wake up before his alarm went off. Perched on the edge of the bed, sleepily lacing up your sneakers, you'd feel a gentle tug on the back of your shirt: "No," you'd hear. "Stay in with me."
• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, he wouldn't know what flowers to buy you, but he'd make up for it in other ways. He'd buy you a balloon at Disneyland, get Benedict Cumberbatch's autograph for you from the BAFTAs. He'd build you a snowman.
• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, you would be intimidated by his female co-stars. You'd meet Hayley Atwell for the first time at a red carpet event, stunning in a smokey eye and black taffeta gown, but before Chris could introduce you, she would extend a hand and say, "It's so nice to finally meet you. I've heard such good things from Chris," and you'd know that she meant it. Scarlett would be a tougher nut to crack, initially aloof and reaffirming your uneasy sense of being an outsider at Tom Hiddleston's casual London get-together, until you told the story about ordering Mexican food in Paris and heard her laugh from across the room, not realizing she'd even been listening. "You're right, Chris," she'd call over. "She's hilarious."
• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, he wouldn't be embarrassed to ask you the definition of a word. "Babe?" he'd ask gently, looking up from his copy of In Cold Blood. "'Timorous,' what does that mean?" "Hm? Oh, it's like...kind of shy, or nervous." He'd pause for a second: "Huh. Okay. Thanks." He'd make sure you caught his grateful smile before he settled back in to keep reading.
• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, he'd say he loved your voice when you sang.
• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, he would tease you about your fondness for his worn flannel shirts. One day, after he had been gone all day doing press events, you would fall asleep in the living room wrapped in the red buffalo plaid he looks so good in and wake up to a kiss on the forehead and a "Hey, sleepyhead. Miss me?"
• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, he would spend far too long choosing the right Christmas tree and you would be just starting to grow impatient with him at the exact moment he'd exclaim, "This one!", and it would be the nicest tree you'd ever seen.

23 and counting.

Senior year dorm room throwback.

Birthdays have always felt backwards to me. In a glass-half-empty kind of way, marking the inevitable passing of time feels more scary than celebratory, like a clock ticking down rather than tally marks adding up. It also feels a little bit silly: all I'm guaranteed to have done by living to see another year is the bare minimum to survive, with no stipulation whatsoever that I've necessarily made any positive contributions to the world in that time. (Even more pessimistically, I've continued to use up resources on an overpopulated planet, so it's conceivable that I've actually made a negative impact over the past year. Bummer.) This kind of thinking makes it difficult to accept everyone's well wishes: "Thank you! I wish I could say I'd done something worthy of memorializing!"

I love other people's birthdays, though. I am a perpetual late gift-giver, but only because I struggle to find material objects worthy of all the incredible people I know. I want to give them love and hope and contentment and inspiration and hugs that can be saved in a jar for when they're needed the most, but I haven't yet encountered the specialty shop that carries those. I love other people's birthdays because I have difficulty appropriately expressing gratitude for kindness that's shown to me, but I love having the opportunity to shower my loved ones with the kindness I think they deserve. I know, I know, talk about cognitive dissonance and a major lack of self-esteem, but I'll always look suspiciously on those people who get unreasonably excited for special treatment on "their" day.

Speaking of holidays I'm not a huge fan of, Thanksgiving makes me uncomfortable as well. It's a made-up occasion based in historical genocide, for one; it's a public outing of emotions I prefer to keep private, for another. Going around the table and hearing what everyone's thankful for sounds nice in theory, but when it comes to my turn, I feel almost resentful that I'm being required to share something so personal. Of course I'm thankful for good health, my education, financial stability, everything that would naturally be cause for gratitude for anyone who has them; what I'm more individually thankful for is the unique collection of friends and acquaintances who have nudged me into the shape of a person I am today. They're the best; who wouldn't be thankful? But with turkey, ham, and stuffing on the table, I doubt anyone genuinely wants to hear me rhapsodize about the last time someone lent me an amazing book or held my hand or offered me a french fry off their plate and laughed at my jokes, so I'll mumble some canned answer to speed the process along, and keep the honesty to myself.

My birthday is the day I really give thanks, I guess. Every time my phone buzzes or a notification pops up on my Facebook, I'm reminded of one more person in the world who wants me to have a happy birthday, with varying degrees of sincerity, but at least enough to type out the words and click send. I spend a lot of time clacking away at my keyboard with abandon, but I know most people don't, so the gesture means a lot to me. My favorite part of my birthday is the reminder that those people exist.

It's no secret to those closest to me that this past year has been the hardest one of my life. On October 4, 2013, I had newly arrived in York, excited to explore a beautiful city and surrounding countryside, to throw myself into the study of literature at a world-class university, to meet similarly enthused colleagues and peers, and to live a mere three-hour train ride (much closer than an international flight) away from the boy I couldn't get enough of. Twelve months later, I've experienced a slew of firsts, but not the kind anyone would wish for: first time feeling inadequate in a field I had always considered mine, first time feeling betrayed by everything I'd previously found solace in, first time acknowledging my own brain's battle against me, first time needing to seek professional help, first time crying in front of a stranger, first time feeling unable to read or write or think anything at all, first time feeling my heart try to throw itself out of my chest after being made to feel worthless by someone I loved, first time having to admit defeat and go home. 22 wasn't a particularly fun age.

Then again, this was also the year that a friend picked up a long-distance phone call while he was at an amusement park, and refused to go anywhere near a roller coaster until I stopped sobbing and he was sure I was going to be all right. It was the year I dressed to attend a ball and felt a little bit beautiful because a sweet boy had told me I was, and I believed him. This year, my best friend offered to take off work, dip into her savings, and fly across an ocean just to be with me at my saddest. My brother rationalized my breakup with the logic that my ex-boyfriend probably felt guilty, "because you're great, and he probably feels bad that he can't be happy with someone as great as you." People this year complimented me -- me! seriously! -- on my makeup. Friends continued to laugh at my jokes, to retweet my tweets, to answer my text messages. 22 could have been worse.

What I'm saying, I think, is that the thing that makes me happiest on my birthday is other people. Happy birthday to me, but happy every day to you, friends. You're the one who deserve to be celebrated. I hope we're still friends when I turn 24.