Everything in this story is true.
In the fall of 2009 I became severely depressed and socially anxious. It had been gradually building within my psyche since my freshman year of college: a slow progression of events and bad choices, perfectly timed and sequenced, all finally coming together like cogs in a watch in September of my senior year. I had what most people would call a nervous breakdown. I quit band, stopped going to class, let my phone die and never recharged it, didn’t check email, didn’t talk to friends or family. For four months I barely ever left my ex-girlfriend’s apartment. I sat by the balcony and smoked weed all day, trying to forget that I existed.
The feeling I remember most from that period is an intense, overwhelming hopelessness and fear. I couldn’t explain what was happening to me, and I knew the people in my life would never understand. I would never recover. Every day that passed made it seem even more impossible to “come back”. It felt like the whole momentum of my life had been irreversibly halted, like every door in my world was shutting in my face, and I was powerless to stop it.