There was a short time in college, I’d say about a semester, where I am pretty sure I was on the verge of, if not fully descending into, depression. It was a semester where I was taking about 20+ hours, most of which were literature courses including one in which the professor assigned 9 full-sized novels and books of completed works of poets. I’m not blaming the professor, just attempting to illustrate my work load.
I spent a lot of that semester alone. Reading and writing. And even when I was with people it was usually in some leadership capacity (editing Impressions Literary Magazine, serving as a Resident Assistant of an upperclassman residence hall, volunteering 40+ hours a month, organizing women’s groups on campus, etc.). I didn’t have friends. And while I did have Sean, I spent most nights sitting across the room from him doing homework, while he patiently waited for me to finish, oftentimes falling asleep before I was even close to done.
I did a lot of crying over nothing that semester, sequestering myself in my room, and refusing invitations to social events. I worked really hard to keep it together in public. I slept a lot, and yet not at all. I lost weight because I was pretty much eating only oatmeal (I refused to go get food from the school’s cafeteria). But I’m pretty sure no one (besides Sean, who encouraged me to talk to someone regularly) knew.
I don’t know if it was a personal moment of weakness. I don’t know if it was because of all the work I had to do, or if I was taking on all that work in order to avoid people.
The reason I bring this up is because I can feel myself on the verge of some unhappy situation. I come to work everyday and cling desperately to the clock dreaming that 4:00 or 5:00 hastens its arrival. Sometimes I don’t make it, and tell my boss at 2:30 or 3:00 that I’m leaving, making up some excuse. I know it makes me a bad employee.
I keep myself occupied by reading the news, checking the blogs I like far too often, and writing my own blogs.
I know older people look down on my generation for being ungrateful and snooty. They took whatever job they could get and didn’t worry about vocation and how you felt on the job. They went to work, they did their jobs, and the came home. Maybe it’s my upbringing or maybe it’s a product of what’s been stuffed into my head at Maryville College, but I feel like there’s got to be more to life than earning a paycheck, going home to the place that you spend your paycheck on, and going back the next day.
I’ll admit I have a pretty sweet deal–getting paid a fair amount and making my own hours essentially with a boss that’s pretty compassionate and understanding.
So, what’s my deal? I feel so unfulfilled. Am I just spoiled? Is this a quarter-life crisis?