April is the cruelest month

By Spring semester my sophomore year of college, I could no longer get out of bed anymore. The world had lost its color again, and my biochemistry had betrayed me like clockwork.

At age 20, I had no vocabulary or self-awareness to express what was going on.

I had gone to the school counselor, I was on Zoloft, and I was seeing a therapist weekly. But, all I wanted to do was sleep; any type of activity was pain. The useless thoughts flooded my brain and nervous system again: I was no good, I was useless, I was a disappointment, I was a bad friend. I was unloveable. All I wanted was escape.

This had happened on a lesser scale the Spring before, but I had managed to go through daily activities and make it home to Connecticut for the summer to rest and recoup.

I didn’t want to go through that again publicly – which is what it felt like living in a sorority house with 60 other women. In 2001, mental health awareness, compassion, or support was not a thing. I was also a perfectionist, so that made it difficult to share any of my emotions in an authentic way. I felt ashamed and alone, and I wanted to go home and curl up in my bed for 30 years.

It is only with perspective, 18 years later, that I can look back on my 20-year-old self with kindness and compassion. I was sick and in the middle of a crisis; I took a leave of absence from college and went back to live with my family for a year.

One of the most challenging things about depression is it takes away my love of writing and creating. Then, it is hard to find words to articulate what I’m feeling. In writing this, I finally feel like I can lessen some of the power depression has over me.

By Kristin Rose Jutras