Finally! After an agonizingly long winter, Spring has (sort of) sprung! I’m so excited to enjoy the warm weather and sunshine, picnic on the Arts Quad, and—most importantly—be free of that pesky Seasonal Affective Disorder that’s made the last six months of my life a living hell! Boy, oh, boy, I can’t wait to feel like myself again!
Huh. That’s weird.
As I lounge on the slope, basking in the sunlight and letting the lilting birdsong and whispering breeze caress my ears, I can’t help but notice that the gnawing pit in my chest that threatens to swallow me up whole is—well—still gnawing. Go on, shoo! I’ll throw you a bone! Don’t you realize the happy times are back?
See, in my time at Cornell, I’ve figured out a pretty good system. I let the wretched, quaking creature of my mind that leaches the color from my vision and the warmth from my heart do its thing during the three-quarters of the year I spend without sunlight, and then in exchange I get custody of my brain back once the outside world is habitable again.
Man, I thought it was foolproof! And now you’re telling me I have to grapple with the effects of my mental illness ALL THE TIME? Oh my god! Can’t a guy catch a break?
And yeah, sure, maybe I could have prevented this by making some effort to address my depression—but in my defense, I was really busy all winter curled up in the fetal position in my unmade bed. Plus, scheduling a meeting with a mental health professional sounds really exhausting, and, frankly, more like a job for someone without depression.
Oh, well. I didn’t make my bed, but I sure am getting used to lying in it.
In other news, my first batch of prelims is over! I’m sure the debilitating effects of my acute testing anxiety will dissipate any day now, leaving me with no generalized stress whatsoever.
