Tag Archives: depression

The Glass Half Empty

On my worst days, I indulge my narcissistic tendencies.

I wallow in self-pity.

I linger on my myriad flaws.

I feel painfully insecure.

I can’t remember the last time I flew with anyone. It’s kind of a random thing to linger on, recognizably a first world problem, but it feels a microcosm of something, to me at least.* Maybe because there’s no one to ride with to the airport, to chat with until boarding, to hold onto in case of turbulence. I’ve been alone so long I’ve just about become resigned to the feeling, only it makes the fleeting moments of connection that do occur that much more visceral, haunting, eventually painful.

*Maybe I’ve just seen one too many Richard Curtis films.

It takes all of four hours for someone to figure me out – at least on a basketball court, spread out across two nights on back-to-back Tuesdays. A guy who I had never met previously – friendly and well-meaning, but clearly slightly exasperated – gives a shout as we leave the gym. “Wilfred.” There’s a pause, as though he’s weighing his words. Then a shake of the head and a knowing smile. “You gotta stop playing scared, man.” It’s a simple, brutal assessment, one that cuts right at me. He’s right.

I’m not aggressive with the ball. I’m more comfortable being guarded than I am cutting to the basket unmarked. I feel overmatched no matter who I play, all too aware that I either 1) lack the kind of coordination and body control they seem to possess naturally, or 2) contain an almost paralyzing sense of self-doubt almost entirely absent from others. Somehow, in a game that has no meaning beyond the 10 minutes it takes to get to the next one, I am scared – of letting teammates down, of looking stupid, of failing. It’s painfully obvious, even to a near-stranger.

I have always been a bundle of nerves, no matter the stakes, how big or small, or however many times I have found myself in similar spots previously. I take after my dad in that way. For all my efforts to maintain a facade of perspective in the grander scheme of things, I still suffer internally, making mountains out of molehills with a degree of regularity. Worse, I compound the psychological tendency by often fulfilling the prophecy myself, getting into troublesome situations of my own making.

Just a few weeks ago, for instance, I wandered unwittingly from a marked hiking trail, instead following along an unending ridgeline of limestone cliffs. It was stupid. I was supposed to make a left upward, rising above the clearing, but went opposite instead. Driven by a faint recollection of the description I had read the previous night, overriding all logic and common sense, I stubbornly plowed ahead – even as the ridge narrowed, the gradient steepened, and the trail became rocky and sandy.

Later, I would discover I was mere minutes from the peak when I veered off. It should have been obvious. The trail, the surroundings, the directionality – none of it made sense. Still, it takes me a half hour before I turn around. It’s harder going back. I climb through some sections, literally claw my way up others. Ahead of a particularly narrow section, I cramp. I’m writhing in pain on the ground, surveying the edge, pondering my mortality. It’s sobering: I’m genuinely terrified.* How did I get myself in this mess?

*It’s reminiscent of a previous experience I’ve written about. In this most recent instance, I even contemplate “if I don’t make it” texts to a couple of people, but it seemed like a terrible burden to put on them. So I hold back. Ultimately, I make it back and through, unscathed but for my psyche.

It seems a metaphor. I get so far in, then I pause for a breath and realize I still don’t quite know what the fuck I’m doing. That feeling of inadequacy; it’s a killer. It’s not that I fear I’m still not a finished product at 34, but the opposite – that I am a finished product and this is all I am and all I ever will be. I can blame timing and luck and nuance, but sometimes life feels like a series of dichotomous outcomes I can’t quite turn in my favor. A steady job. A sense of direction. Love and companionship.

On my worst days, I just don’t feel good enough. And I feel like I never will be.

I don’t know.

Maybe I gotta stop living life scared too.

Worst Years of My Life

Most people regard their college years with some degree of fondness, holding onto them with unique reverence. They’re the formative years of adulthood, after all. In the abstract, the same basic platitude applied to my experience. Those four years definitively shaped me. But that’s in the abstract.

My choice of university boiled down to its respectable showing in the US News and World Report rankings. The process – if it can be called such – was marked by a combination of apathy and misguided values (both mine and my parents, who had recently divorced). There was no campus tours, no sit-down discussions, no consideration of what the best fit for me as an individual. The school in question was, by statistical measure, the best one I could get into, and therefore, it was the one that I would go to. Ultimately, its selection was largely irrelevant. I doubt I would have had a different experience anywhere else. If anything, its location close to home turned into a saving grace.

I suppose I was a little excited about going to college, though I was never quite champing at the bit. My high school years were hardly glorious, but despite my general nerdiness and inability to attract the opposite sex, I was a genuinely happy kid. I had a car, no real curfew, and a close-knit circle of friends (or so my teenage self foolishly believed). Senior year was altogether inconsequential. And thus, it was fun. Sure, at times, I did buy into the idea of college. I had seen too many movies not to have thought about it. I could figure out what I’d do with my life, what I would want to do with my life. Maybe even get laid in the process.

The problem was me, mostly. I’ve never had the capacity to fake being sociable, and college requires that from the outset (the fake or real kinds). To some degree, you have to be enthusiastic about people and places and things – all nouns, really. About being there. You can call it open-mindedness, faux sincerity, or whatever. College was where people methodically knocked on every door to introduce themselves to one another. It was where kids literally called attention to themselves before sitting down to the lobby piano. I wasn’t ready. It all seemed so contrived, so lord of the flies.* I didn’t question the sincerity of people’s intentions, but I was turned off by the means.

*College was also where my dorm mate wondered aloud if playing a guitar indiscriminately would attract female attention, then watching as it came to fruition. Full disclosure: I brought my own guitar to the dorm with thoughts of learning to play. It left my closet once. Eventually, I sold it. A real microcosm.

My dormmates were friendly but astonishingly inconsiderate and obnoxious, even for dormmates. In our cell of a three-person dorm room, they managed to have guests over everyday. Conveniently, their friends lived just down the hall, allowing them to stay in our room into all hours of the night. One had his girlfriend, who did not go to our school, living with us around four days a week. It was impossible not to feel claustrophobic. They did the normal things dormmates did as well, blasting their music, taking my things from the mini-fridge, and so forth. The fact that they thrived in the environment while making my living situation miserable, appeared to me as no small injustice.

My time in classes was slightly more tenable, though not always. People I had no relationship with inquired about my grades, presumably to brag about their achievements, or to feel better about themselves. I remember distinctly asking a question once about proper citation formats, and being mocked by a couple of kids loud enough for me to hear; their basic accusation was that I was taking things too seriously. It was as though I had traveled back in time to a fictional version of high school, with cliques and cool kids and all the bullshit I had managed to avoid the last four years, or at least turned an ignorant eye to.

I soon felt marginalized, much of it – not all – having to do with the living situation. I retreated, becoming a loner in all aspects of my collegiate life. It happened quickly. Following an initial period of awkward meals with the dormmates, I began going down to the cafeteria by myself – that is, when I wasn’t using my meal plan to get a to-go lunch and dinner. I went straight to class and back, deviating only to visit the campus arcade or linger at the library. I didn’t attend a single party, sporting event, or anything else the first year, a remarkable accomplishment considering the freshman environment. I’ve always been solitary to some degree though, so it didn’t feel unnatural. That was my excuse.

I was never hostile to my dormmates, who seemed blissfully unaware, both to my despondence and to their contribution to it. One of their friends rhetorically wondered aloud once whether I was bothered by their sitting on my bed every day hours on end, jokingly mentioning they were breaking wind constantly: a fitting mix of obliviousness and disregard. I took to returning home every weekend. My mom worked a few miles east, and I imagine her own emotional fragility led her to enable my unhealthy isolation. I was a dorm commuter. I hung out exclusively with high school friends at home, though the growing infrequency of those outings provided another source of consternation.

I took out my frustrations on my pillow every once in a while, likely confirming my dormmates’ suspicions that I was a budding serial killer. I remember so little about that first year, not in the hazy way that memories go, but in a less innocuous manner, as though I had drifted through it. Weirdly, I still felt disappointed when they openly discussed their plans to room together the next year. It bothered me greatly that each thought of the other as a desirable roommate, a desirable friend. I basically wanted to be right about being unhappy, and it killed me that I was being both aggrieved and ignored. In retrospect, I just had nothing else to hold onto. The fact that I was excluded only reaffirmed my failure.

The lost year set a tone. I took a job at an outdoor cafeteria the following year, but it was an alternative to a healthy social network, rather than a manifestation thereof. I didn’t complain when I regularly got assigned the 6 am shift; I almost failed a class because I fell asleep literally every lecture, I was so tired. Work came to be another means of avoidance. I was jaded, my perspective skewed. I didn’t see my future roommates as potential friends, despite immensely improved living situations.* I overlooked the female co-worker who seemed receptive enough to my presence. The classmate who offered me his number so we could hang out. I didn’t allow any of those to register as real possibilities.

*With one giant exception – another story for another time. My second year dormmate and I did attempt to attend a movie screening once, but in another representative moment, it was sold out. He was a little crazy too. Once, when he thought I was out of the room (and not under the covers), he berated himself incoherently. Faking that I ‘woke up’ oblivious to his outburst was one of the more awkward moments of my life. …Then again, I was punching pillows.

College destroyed my sense of belonging, uprooted my self-ease. Rather than seeking comfort in familiar circles, I began to challenge those as well. I recognized the shallow nature of my high school associations. People I had next to nothing in common with, who had qualities I didn’t respect, who seemed to be friends only because we were quasi-friends with the same people. Plus, unfair though it may be, they didn’t recognize my unhappiness. The fact that I felt (and not unfairly) that I was a better friend to them hastened the demise of many of those relationships.* With the benefit of selective hindsight, I was engaging in healthy introspection, forging more meaningful friendships. At the time, it didn’t feel that way.

*People use the phrase “falling out of touch,” but it’s bullshit. We should take personal responsibility for conscious decisions (or indecision) and shitty behavior.

Over those four years, I managed to find outlets for my frustrations, none particularly successful, most unhealthy. I walked into town frequently by myself for matinees.* I blogged, not about anything of consequence. I pulled my hair out compulsively, aiding father time. I chatted online with strangers, ironically listening to their problems. Responding allowed me to cope with my own helplessness, I guess, and connect in a way I couldn’t in my own environment. But most on the other end were teens, and I came to recognize the creepiness. I played online poker, and moved onto online casinos. But that ended when I lost a couple thousand dollars (most of a financial aid disbursement) in a three day span.

*Okay, that’s harmless, and I still do that.

Mostly, I repressed it all. I went home just about every weekend. I attended class, did decently, and got my degree. Clearly, my problems were nothing compared to the real issues people encounter in college, let alone the real world. Stripped of any perspective beside my own, however, my college experience was a genuine nightmare. I was constantly depressed. I felt completely alienated, but at the same time, stuck in this world I wanted no part of. Those four years of my life are surreal. I didn’t partake in a single social event, didn’t make a single friend. I feel no attachment to the school, no sense of loyalty or pride or belonging, and definitely not nostalgia. I was barely there.

But college did shape the person I’ve become. I put up with a lot of shit that first year, and compounded the issue by mentally withdrawing. But it was in that environment, in that misery, that I came to recognize what I held as important. It was under those circumstances that I shaped a standard for behavior and people that I still retain. Most of the decisions I made then were detrimental to my well-being. But I grew up as a result. Thing is, if I were placed in that same position today, I wouldn’t come close to withstanding all of that again. I’d like to think that it’s not that I’m too weak for a second go-around. It’s the contrary: I’ve become a stronger person, a better and more assured one.