I try really hard to be an upbeat, glass half-full kind of girl. I do this because I believe that if I think positively, it helps me keep my chin up. I also think it's a major downer to be around glass half-empty kind of people for long. Who wants to hang out with someone who is always down in the dumps?
A great deal of the time, though, I am not feeling that the glass is half-full. In fact, most of the time it is darn near empty. But I generally pretend that everything is fine, both trying to convince others and myself. I try to be positive, but sometimes life just really stinks. And the biggest downer about this is that there is seldom a distinct reason that it stinks. The stars can be aligned perfectly. All is right in my marriage, my job, my life, but my heart and head tell me something is off. It's hard to know how to fix a thing that I can't identify as broken. It's hard to fix one's self when healing means feeling, and feeling, in my experience, has meant hurting. Who wants to hurt?
At the same time, it's hard to feel alive when one is numb a great deal. From what I understand, people who "self-injure" or cut or otherwise mutilate themselves, often do so because it is the way they claim they feel alive. I have never, thankfully, had the urge to cut or self-injure in this way, but I can understand the need, the absolute panic-driven longing, to feel alive.
For a long time, learning and school were what made me feel alive. Going to college classes as an undergraduate awakened a curiosity inside me that had retreated at some point. When my depression began to worsen in my early and late teens, I lost the burning desire to know. As a child, I always loved school. I read books faster than my parents could keep me supplied. They would take me to the library weekly, and I would check out a stack of books. I would go to Goodwill and Salvation Army to stock up on books because I could get four times as many books there as I could spending my allowance on new ones. And I really loved to keep the books that meant a lot to me. Books became a world I could retreat to. It didn't matter that I didn't have the money to travel the world - I could see it through someone else's eyes. It didn't matter that I didn't have an amazing group of friends that I could rely on through thick and thin. I could live it through Ann M. Martin's and Judy Blume's books. It didn't matter that no one understood what it was to be the "fat" kid. Blubber allowed me to relate. Books were my escape, and I realized early on that the more I began to know, the more I would never know much at all! Even when my passions started to die out, my love of, and my need for reading would not ebb. Thankfully I had parents and teachers who supported and encouraged my reading.
It has bothered me, especially in the last year or so, how I lost that desire to learn. Not so much lost, but it did diminish in it's intensity. Suddenly I felt too tired. For everything. For anything. I hated it. "Not even thirty yet, and I don't have any desire to do anything, to be anything. Not even thirty and burned out." It saddened me. But more than anything, it frightened me.
I am not sure what age I was when I began to realize that little old me would one day be able to go to an amazing place called "college". College, I learned, was where the smart people went. College was where anyone who was someone was headed. College was where people went if they wanted to be somebody. When I saw Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront, and I heard his line "I could have been somebody!", I thought surely he meant he should have gone to college. My parents promised me I could be anything I wanted; especially if I got a good education. They didn't push college on either of their children, but they emphasized the importance of a good education, and our behavior at school had better be top-notch! Before I was even in middle school, or around that time, I started writing to colleges all over the country, asking for materials about their schools. I would sit for hours and fill out applications for practice. I would look in amazement at all the learning paths that I could take and try to figure out how one could ever choose from such a buffet of exciting offerings. I couldn't wait to pack up and head for college the way kids in the movies do; Mom and Dad waving goodbye as the young woman throws a suitcase and a favorite pillow and stuffed animal in the car. Dad reminds girl to have the oil checked, and Mom reminds girl to be sure and eat - you can't forget to eat. I couldn't wait.
And yet, part of me always felt that I was stepping out of my realm. For a reason I have not yet identified, I always felt less than. My gremlin voice would peek over my shoulder at the forms I was practicing filling out and she would admonish me. "Who are you kidding? What makes you think you could go there? Who do you think you ARE?" Okay, so maybe I wasn't headed to Harvard or Yale, but I was headed somewhere to college. And I knew it early on.
Everything I did, I did with the thought of its consequences for college. If I took a class, I took it because it would prepare me for college. If I joined in activities I didn't particularly love, I stuck with them because I knew it would look good to colleges. I studied like mad for the ACT, because that little score is a big influence on whether a school will even look at the rest of an application. And somewhere along the line, I'm certain someone told me, "If you ever do drugs or drink you will never get into college." Now, I'm not exactly the type of girl who is really apt to experiment with anything that I'm not supposed to. My parents said "Don't do drugs" so I didn't do drugs. My parents told me "Don't drink" and so I didn't drink. It's not really likely that I would have been using drugs or alcohol in high school, but I had this intense fear of being anywhere near a place where teens were misbehaving and doing anything I considered "wrong". Because I just knew that if I was ever caught so much as holding an empty beer bottle, I would NEVER get into ANY college; a fate more daunting than hell, in my world.
Of course, I later learned that I had been cheated by the college gods - for all sorts of kids got into college, history hardly noted. I had been really really good for nothing. And while I most likely wouldn't have done anything wrong if I had had the opportunity, it would have been nice to know that I at least had the option. All that being good for nothing!
Well, not for nothing. For one, I respected myself (mostly) for not having succumbed to the temptations that face many teens, those serious and not so serious. But most importantly, I was offered a full two year scholarship for a local community college. Hardly Harvard, but certainly COLLEGE and even better, free college. I knew I could transfer to a four year school after I finished some general ed classes locally. I went into college not having a clue of what to expect, having no friends or relatives that had been there. But I knew it would be wonderful. And it was.
The first year I was in a special English and Speech class for the scholarship recipients, which was wonderful. Because we were high achieving students the expectations were high. I loved working hard and having the good grades to show it. My first year of college flew by and I was excited for the second.
But something happened in those few summer months. I had moved to my own apartment with a roommate for the first time. My financial responsibilities therefore changed significantly and I was starting to feel really overwhelmed about maintaining enough work hours to afford to live while going to school. I started the semester, but within three weeks I was struggling. I felt I was stuck in quicksand, and floundering around trying to find something to grab. I suddenly had an intense desire to quit school. It blew me away, because school had always been of utmost importance to me. I promised myself that if I took a year off, I would be refreshed and eager to get back at it. I also decided that I would apply for a transfer to the four year institution. I wanted some stability, and a sort of fresh start.
I didn't realize then how much depression was affecting my decisions, and ultimately my decision to postpone my education. All I knew was that it was all pulling me in instead of lifting me up. Within those following months I worked full time, moved back in with my parents to save money, and applied to several institutions within the region. I finally decided on Chadron State College (clearly one of the BEST decisions I have ever made).
Late summer of the next year I was packing up my things so that my parents could help me move to Chadron. Not quite the "girl leaving for college" scenario I'd always had in my head, but at least I was headed back to where I felt I should be. I didn't know it then, but I was headed to the first place that would ever feel like "home". Moving so very much as a kid meant I had no hometown. Chadron became home to me. I lived with my grandma for part of my time there.
The first semester I was completely overwhelmed. I didn't know anything much about college. I read the handbook cover to cover, writing important dates and events in my planner for the whole year so I wouldn't forget or miss anything. I wanted to be sure I was applying for financial aid, graduation, or whatever else when I was supposed to be. I didn't want to mess anything up. I strove for a 4.0 GPA. Since I wasn't working, I felt it was my duty to get As in every class. I wanted to be perfect. Because if I wasn't perfect, I wasn't good enough. I had to be perfect so no one would ask me the question I had asked myself for years: Who do you think you are? And what are you doing here? I had to prove I was good enough to be there. Otherwise, I would be devastated. This is what I had worked so hard for for so many years.
But, as we all know, perfection is unachievable. Even for those who try really really hard. If I was already prone to that burned out feeling, I certainly should have known that the drive to perfection and its being unattainable would exacerbate the exhaustion I felt. Although I returned to college feeling better and looking forward to the newness, I didn't feel as refreshed and as driven as I had expected.
The first year and a half back at it wasn't too bad. I fell into a comfortable pattern of classes, studies, and living with grandmother, working during summers. By the start of the third year, living with my grandmother became unmanageable. I suggested I find a place of my own, and within a week she had moved out taking nearly everything. I sat in an empty place feeling as if I had just gone through a divorce. I had no idea how I would pay rent in a few days, or where I would even live through the rest of the semester. It was devastating, but I instantly went into survivor mode. I didn't have the time to deal with the emotions of it all. I had to figure out how I would stay in school - because I had to stay in school. It was what I had. It was all I had.
I'm not pointing blame or saying anyone is at fault. I'm saying how I felt, and how frightened, though I didn't know it, I really was. A dear friend offered to let me move in, and I would either find a place of my own sometime during the rest of the semester or move into the dorms at the start of the next. I lived with her for a month, during which time I found an apartment I adored. My parents returned to help me move into it in late October. That first night, I sat in my apartment full of boxes, but so empty, and I sobbed. I had never felt so very alone. But after feeling sorry for myself for a sufficient amount of time, I sucked it up and got busy unpacking. Keeping busy is great for ignoring feelings.
It wasn't long though before my introversion kicked in and I fell in love with all my independence. I could come and go as I pleased. I could go to therapy and doctors appointments without lying about where I would be (because my grandma had not been aware that I was going to counseling or taking antidepressants). And I could have friends over. I had a housewarming party and began to love the way things had fallen into place.
The problem with living alone when one is struggling with depression, is that there is no one who consistently is aware of your behaviors and how you are doing. While Grandma wasn't aware of what I was going through, the fact that I had to pretend to be fine kept me motivated to do what I otherwise couldn't find the energy for. While pretending is awfully exhausting, it is also what kept me going for much of that second year of school. The pressures of living on my own and the financial aspect of it caused a lot of stress, and my depression deepened considerably. It began to get incredibly difficult to make it to classes. I could no longer summon the strength to put on a happy face. It was quite ironic, because school was essentially my purpose, but at the same time, it was all I could do to get there. Soon, I often didn't get there.
I had prided myself on near perfect attendance the first two years. I had been blown away by the number of students who just didn't come to class or dropped one after too many absences. Paying for college partly with grants and partly with student loans, I knew that I was footing the bill for my education, and I also knew it would be really hard to get an education if I didn't show up. I also found it incredibly disrespectful to my amazing professors. I thought of those "other" kids as immature, lazy, etc. And so when I began having trouble showing up, I labeled myself that same way, and I assumed that was the way everyone around me saw me, as well. It devastated me to think that the professors I admired so much might perceive me to be irresponsible and indifferent, when I wanted so much to be there for classes.
I was sleeping very little. I would lie awake at night for hours, mind racing with thoughts. I would get back up, watch a little TV, browse the web, read, take a hot bath, clean, do anything that I thought might make me sleepy. Some nights it worked. Other nights, I was awake long into the night, and I would sigh with relief when I would hear the birds start to sing or the sky would start to shift from black to a midnight blue. Dawn had finally come. And for some reason, the knowledge of this would allow me to drift into a few fitful hours of sleep. When that alarm would go off two or three hours later, it was sometimes all I could do to get up. Sometimes I couldn't.
It wasn't just that it was really hard to get out of bed each day because I was sleepy. Countless college students make it just fine on a few hours sleep. I had also started to develop extreme anxiety about many situations. I've always been a worrier, and a major what-iffer. But now I began to feel panic stricken about being around others, especially anyone who I perceived as far smarter/better/superior to me - nearly anyone on the planet, really. I knew that my ability to perform highly was waning, and this sense of failure left me feeling intimidated and embarrassed about going to class.
What if I was called on and I didn't know the answer? What if I said something stupid? My professor and everyone in the class would think I was dumb. They would know, finally, that I was a fake. I was a fraud, sitting in a college classroom in middle America pretending to be worthy of this amazing opportunity for growth and learning, when clearly, I had no business being there. After all, I couldn't even go to the store for milk sometimes because I didn't want to have to interact with the cashier. (LOVE self check out!) Clearly, someone who cannot buy a jug of milk has no business being in a college classroom.
Yet, I didn't give up on college. More importantly, I didn't give up on myself. I kept going when I could. If I couldn't make it to class, I studied endlessly at home. Those nights when I couldn't sleep were spent perfecting my assignments and rewriting papers. If I couldn't make it to class, I would do what I could to learn as much as I could on my own. I felt saddened that I missed lectures, and now that I look back, I missed so much of the college experience as a whole. But what I did have was wonderful, and I wouldn't have traded it for anything. As tough as it was, it was worth it all.
I had a hard time talking to my professors about what was going on. I felt that my explanation for why I missed so much class would be seen as an excuse instead of a reason. And I hated to say I was experiencing depression. It didn't seem like a good enough reason for my hit or miss attendance.
I totally underestimated the understanding nature of nearly everyone I knew. My professors first became aware of my "situation" upon learning of my first (short) hospitalization. My advisor talked to each of my professors about what was going on with me, and explained that I was going to be at my parents' house for a few days after my exit from the hospital before returning to school. Later that week as I emailed professors to find out what I was missing I was astonished at the outpouring of support I received. "You've lost no ground", one wrote. "I'm so glad to hear from you" said another, "We've missed your insight in class". I couldn't believe that they cared so much about me. They weren't worried that I was missing class and lectures. They were worried about how I was doing. If I could have cried, I would have. Not out of sadness, but out of the awareness of and profound gratitude for such heartwarming messages. I hadn't realized how alone I had felt for a very long time. Clearly, I was not alone. I still have many of these emails tucked away in a safe place, for they remind me that I am appreciated, cared about, and most importantly, that I matter.
Upon my return to classes, simple "Glad you're back" or quick comments after class reminded me once again that I was not alone. One professor in particular read a piece that deeply touched me upon my return to school. Again, I felt at home - such a foreign feeling. They say that home is that place where, when you have no where else to go, they have to take you in. CSC was home for me. More specifically, the English department was home to me.
A certain burden was lifted a little at this point, because I knew that my teachers were aware at this point of what was going on with me. Whatever their response to that, was beyond my control. Most were more than willing to work with me on attendance issues. I got due dates ahead of time in case I missed a class. I never turned in a paper late. I didn't expect any special treatment other than some understanding about why I couldn't be in class. I honestly think I worked harder on my own than I would have worked had I been going consistently to class. I felt I had to prove something, so I did my absolute best on my work that I did from home, and I went to as many classes as I could. It didn't relieve the negative feelings I had about myself, but it did relieve some of the fear of what other people might think about me.
Despite one more hospitalization, I was finally set to graduate with honors. I was excited, yet part of my heart ached because graduation meant leaving home. I was also getting married shortly after graduation, and moving back to Wyoming. It was bittersweet to walk across that stage to receive my diploma that gorgeous May day. I was flooded with a mix of feelings, but mostly I was intensely proud. I had done it! Despite it all, I had done it. I had my degree. That degree felt a million times more amazing than it did getting my Masters.
I got a special surprise that graduation weekend. Ivy Day is a celebration of achievement at CSC, and as such an awards ceremony is held the Friday evening before Saturday graduation. I was planning on going because I knew I would be receiving my honors medal, and I wanted to wear it the next day to the graduation ceremony. My parents were there, too. I sat through the ceremony, chattering with those sitting beside me, getting up and then sitting back down to let people out of the aisle to go up and receive one honor or another. I hadn't been to an Ivy Day ceremony before, so I didn't know that each department also gave out an award for achievement. I sat and listened as each department awarded their certificate to some deserving graduate. I was curious who would receive the English department honor. I had been honored to be among some incredibly intelligent peers, and I knew there must be many strong candidates. I can't describe my astonishment when "Most Outstanding Senior in English" was named. "Miss Roxann Gilbert". What?!?!? Someone made a huge mistake! How could I have received such an honor? After all, my attendance was spotty, and there were clearly more deserving/smarter/better English students. I don't quite remember getting up there to accept the certificate, but I must have because it's framed on my home office wall.
It will always rank highest among my achievements. Not because it represents what was, in retrospect, a lot of sweat and tears and hard work. Instead it represents the real me. I have no idea how one gets chosen for this award. I imagine there is some sort of ballot circulated among the department professors and whittled down to one recipient. I would have been highly honored to have even made the list of those considered, let alone be the one selected. Despite my absences, despite my feelings of being less than, undeserving, and completely and utterly out of my element, someone, no - several someone's, believed enough in the work that I managed to do and the potential within me. They saw the imperfect me and still believed I was good enough. I can't express what that means to me. Sometimes I still have to wonder a little if they just printed the wrong name on the certificate at the last minute and didn't have time to fix it. But I like to believe they got it right.
It turned out that I wasn't able to keep the happy face going through the years. I couldn't always be upbeat and full of life and wonder and drive. But people saw that part of me that wasn't perfect and could still appreciate what I could do despite the flaws. If others could see me that way, maybe someday I would be able to see myself that way too.
I still try too much to keep the happy face on. It's exhausting, but it's still easier than explaining why I'm depressed (because I often don't know why) or why I am afraid to answer the phone (because that person on the other end might want something that I can't do) or why I perpetually feel like a fraud. It's easier to appear happy, because that's what most people want. At least, that's what most people want who don't really want to know the real me. The people who do care about the real me have patiently and consistently stood with me through it all, and have allowed me to be less than perfect. They have taught me that I don't have to be the girl with the happy face to be loved, to be important, to merely be acknowledged. I can just be me.
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