One night during my first year, I called my mother in the middle of a breakdown. With tears rolling down my cheeks, I told her that a new mental illness was destroying my life, and that I felt utterly helpless to stop it. “I know how to be anxious, Mom. But I don’t know how to be depressed.”
I feel immensely guilty when I’m not being productive. Even when I’m choosing to do something fun, or putting my work down because I know I need a break, I can’t seem to shake the feeling that I’m wasting my life away.