by Sophi Newman, ’13
I can’t remember a time in the first nineteen years of my life when I didn’t feel off. Whether I was hurtling through days at top speeds of uncontrollable hyperactivity or dragging myself through each second with deliberate effort, whether I found myself overwhelmed by an intense, almost violent irritation with everyone around me or frozen and deadened by loneliness, whether I was composing silly limericks or scribbling out a death wish, I never felt peace. Never felt calm. I never felt good without a “but,” without a qualifier.
I’m one of the lucky ones, though; when I was eleven, a close family member sought help for suicidal depression, and it occurred to me that I, too, might be able to seek help. Continue reading