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Story, part one
Apr. 27th, 2004 10:12 pmI landed in the ward at the end of the quarter (my university divides classes into three eleven-week blocks per year). I was admitted after a seven-day manic episode that probably lasted well into my time in the ward. Previous to that I was severely depressed and communicated almost none of it. At the very beginning of the quarter (actually, slightly before it) I consciously resolved to hate myself. Previous to this I had been extremely brittle, broken in fact after a simple misunderstanding online. There was so much that seemed worth hating in my habits and personality that this emotion seemed a reasonable one.
I did very well in classes for about a week, though I often collapsed crying afterwards. Then I spent a weekend addictively playing some videogame, not crying, ended up disgusted with myself and making an effort once again to hate myself. I lasted one more week, then missed every class the next week save my logic class. During this last class I sat stiffly, stared at the wall with my head shifting loosely, and took my notes jerkily. I missed work and slept a lot, and actually got better for a time; I gave up on hating myself and settled back into my old patterns of last-minute work and missed deadlines. The biggest outstanding problem was my relationship with a certain friend, with whom I had so foolishly conversed while being brittle.
I obsessed over the friendship, and went through a succession of new self-appraisals, which I am having trouble remembering now. They were all negative; I was trying to figure out why I was so childish, why I neglected most of my friendships, why my friendship with Raki had gone downhill. I was also thinking about what accusations I would make, and what accusations I would receive, once we started speaking again. Thus I was surprised when she simply asked how I was doing.
But before this happened, I was dropping off in my studies again. I got high Bs on my midterms, and perfect scores on my homework during those times when I felt motivated to complete them, but the grades were coming at increasing emotional cost. I cried frequently. Often I would come back from school and collapse, or rather huddle down without moving, in the bike room, shower stall or bedroom. My lack of friends prevented anyone noticing my condition. I found myself wincing every time an old memory ("old" being from more than a month or so back) arose. I played games and read obsessively; these things helped (and still help) my mood. Sometimes my mind would start to skip; I would find a phrase repeating over and over again in my mind. One time I came back from my classes, and curled into the fetal position in the bike room thinking "I'm sorry" over and over again, sometimes saying it. I was sorry.
I also had better moods, but there's less to describe there.
About two and a half weeks before finals, I was asked how I was doing. The post in which this happened (a quote from Whitman) is back in this journal somewhere, and the first burst of comments shows me lifting (with slightly vicious words) up out of my depression. I remain grateful that the question was asked; I answered honestly. More to follow.
I did very well in classes for about a week, though I often collapsed crying afterwards. Then I spent a weekend addictively playing some videogame, not crying, ended up disgusted with myself and making an effort once again to hate myself. I lasted one more week, then missed every class the next week save my logic class. During this last class I sat stiffly, stared at the wall with my head shifting loosely, and took my notes jerkily. I missed work and slept a lot, and actually got better for a time; I gave up on hating myself and settled back into my old patterns of last-minute work and missed deadlines. The biggest outstanding problem was my relationship with a certain friend, with whom I had so foolishly conversed while being brittle.
I obsessed over the friendship, and went through a succession of new self-appraisals, which I am having trouble remembering now. They were all negative; I was trying to figure out why I was so childish, why I neglected most of my friendships, why my friendship with Raki had gone downhill. I was also thinking about what accusations I would make, and what accusations I would receive, once we started speaking again. Thus I was surprised when she simply asked how I was doing.
But before this happened, I was dropping off in my studies again. I got high Bs on my midterms, and perfect scores on my homework during those times when I felt motivated to complete them, but the grades were coming at increasing emotional cost. I cried frequently. Often I would come back from school and collapse, or rather huddle down without moving, in the bike room, shower stall or bedroom. My lack of friends prevented anyone noticing my condition. I found myself wincing every time an old memory ("old" being from more than a month or so back) arose. I played games and read obsessively; these things helped (and still help) my mood. Sometimes my mind would start to skip; I would find a phrase repeating over and over again in my mind. One time I came back from my classes, and curled into the fetal position in the bike room thinking "I'm sorry" over and over again, sometimes saying it. I was sorry.
I also had better moods, but there's less to describe there.
About two and a half weeks before finals, I was asked how I was doing. The post in which this happened (a quote from Whitman) is back in this journal somewhere, and the first burst of comments shows me lifting (with slightly vicious words) up out of my depression. I remain grateful that the question was asked; I answered honestly. More to follow.