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When I was 16 I was diagnosed with clinical depression. At the time I really didn’t know what that was, or if there really was anything that I could do about it. While there were mood stabilizers, they were harder to get than simply going to your doctor and asking for Prozac. And for 14 years I suffered painfully without the assistance of any kind of medication, until finally I told myself that it was medicate myself, or die.
But for those 14 years, one of my own anti-depressants was writing. I could sit down in my room with my headphones on, scribbling words down onto a tear-soaked page about some poor, lonely child who just wants to be happy but has no idea how to accomplish that.
Today my writing was hindered by a lot of things: the last assignments of the semester, finals next week, anxiety over whether or not I’m going to have enough gas to get me to and from campus for the next two weeks, whether or not I’m going to have some kind of job or professional internship this summer, and the fact that tomorrow it’s supposed to snow when yesterday it was almost 80°. All of this weighed heavily on my mind while I tried to write, and though I did write some, what I wrote was relatively difficult to come by.