Soul Cancer

I pushed down on the right side of the double-door. I did not see the PULL sign for the tears welling in my eyes. The cheap blinds rattled in disturbance as I stumbled into the office. A woman stood patiently waiting for me. The nurse must have already called her for my ‘emergency session.’ 


The anxiety attacks had become more frequent, the depression worse.


The room seemed too tall—the ceiling miles away from the area rug that would hold my gaze for countless hours throughout my senior year of college. Dr. M sat in an over-stuffed blue chair in front of a bookshelf and a door that never opened. I sat on a small sofa at an angle from her and studied the seemingly useless bookshelves.


Only one had actual books on it.


A lot of things in that office didn’t seem to live up to their potential. Mismatched doorknobs. Empty shelves. Empty folders. And me—an empty person.


While my tears ceased momentarily, Dr. M said, “So tell me what’s going on with you.” And the floodgates opened into a fast-paced description of what came to be diagnosed as recurrent major severe depression. Depression is the heavy feeling in my brain. Depression is wanting to live the rest of my life in ratty old sweats. Depression is a super villain leveling New York City every day. Depression is soul cancer. I was a shaken soda mercilessly kept closed—unable to release the intensity within.


I don't know where or when or how this started. Dr. M always described it as both a chemical and emotional combo. We tried dialectic behavior therapy, talk therapy, writing, anything to keep me from my former personal "therapy" involving a sharp blade and an exposed leg. One of the worst things about it was knowing I was becoming the type of student I didn't want to be during my final year of undergrad. I had to ask for extensions and wasn't as prepared for class. And even though my professors held me in high esteem and granted those extensions and offered to help, I still felt like the student letting them down.


Perhaps this is why Comp Tale 67 struck a chord with me.


The student from the tale finally feels inspired only to fall to the wayside because of a "hazard." I understand the student side of hazards, because I live that side. I am still learning the ropes on the hazards for teachers. Though this Comp Tale did not have a humorous ending or even a positive one, its message feels the most important.


First, Students are People, too. Radical, I know. Still, it's worth remembering that having rules and standards for a classroom is good, but they may need to be re-calibrated depending on a situation. If I hadn't have received extensions on my papers Senior year, I would've still graduated, but I would not have done so with as many accomplishments or as much personal pride.


Second, Teachers are People, too. Again, crazy I know. The professor in 67 seems somber at the end that the student dropped out of school, and I can understand why. However, I think one of the most challenging and necessary parts of teaching will be accepting the things you can't control. The professor definitely fulfilled his duties and inspired this student, but that doesn't ensure "hazards" won't happen. My teachers could not change my diagnosis no matter how much they wanted to, but they did have the power to help me fight through it, which is exactly what they did.


I graduated summa cum laude in May 2014 with a BA in English, minors in Gender Studies and Theatre, and with Honors. I say this as an affirmation to both teachers and students. We are all people, and we can all support one another to success.



***Note: In one of my sessions, Dr. M played me this video about depression being a black dog (a term coined by Churchill). I am copying the link for anyone battling or curious about depression.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XiCrniLQGYc