This Too Shall Pass

It seems that I spend most of my time at home nowadays cleaning my room and trying to erase all reminders of the person who once lived there. Each time I come home, I peel it away layer by layer, until, hopefully, it will be nothing but clothes, furniture, books, and decorations that have no memories associated with them. Everything else goes into shoeboxes and into the closet, because I don’t want to throw it away.

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• It was sorta warm
• I called the people from the children’s hospital in New York where I applied to volunteer this summer and they’d like to interview me!
• I met a guy named Socrates
• I had a really nerdy conversation with a coworker about psychology and biology
• I had two fun club meetings
• I had Chipotle
• I talked to a friend
• I got a ton of compliments on my tights

Yay.

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I am fed up with having to justify my sex life to every other college student I meet. I don’t do casual sex. I don’t enjoy hooking up with random people I barely know. So I don’t do it. Is this acceptable to everyone? Can I stop explaining my personal choices now?

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I don’t know what’s wrong. I don’t know what you can do to help. I just want to go back to last September when I had a stable loving relationship and when the weather was good and my grades were good and I had friends and I didn’t have to wory about anything and there was music in my life and I had things to look forward to and I was thin and my jeans fit and I loved college and my lexapro worked and I had things to do even at night and I was happy and most importantly I hadn’t met you yet. And I never had to sit and cry in a bathroom stall at Grand Central as the train left.

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For another turbulent evening that I’ve survived entirely thanks to you.

Seriously, for a change I didn’t completely lose my shit. I did for maybe like a second. But aside from that I kept my cool. Ignored that awful constricted feeling in my chest until it went away. Shut up and listened. And maybe helped someone. Or even two people.

For once, I could focus outward, not inward, and ignore my own feelings to attend to someone else’s.

That’s the magic of being on medication. You don’t realize this until you are, like me, a depressive who desperately wants to be able to help other people. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Instead, I spend years feeling so terrible that I just couldn’t take on someone else’s pain as well.

Now, I can.

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Sometimes something reminds me of my past life. I barely think about it anymore, but on these occasions I do. It’s incredible how something so relatively recent could seem part of an entirely different life.

Even more incredible is the thought that, in a few years, what I’m living now will seem like someone else’s life, too.

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I’m not sure if I like who I’m becoming.

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It’s probably not great when Bohemian Rhapsody becomes a song you can personally relate to.

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I really wish people would quit telling me that this is “just how I am” and I should just “learn to live with it.” If life means learning to live like this, I quit.

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