“If someone has a tendency toward depression, this could really send them over the edge.” That was what she said to me. She did not mean anything by it; I don’t think she realized that
those words were striking fear into my heart.
…
I was a socially anxious, introverted kid, and while I told myself I was okay with that, it is so clear to me now that I wasn’t. Being in my childhood room reminds me of spending my 18th birthday with my family, instead of with friends, of feeling lonely and different and self-conscious. It reminds me of being terrified to leave home for more than a few hours, of relying on my parents. It reminds me of the person I was, whom I can never fully forget.
I tried to outrun her, this person I was. I left home, went to seminary, college, moved to an
apartment in Washington Heights with my college roommates. I started doing things my old self would have abhorred; I went to social gatherings, hosted my own. I spoke to new people,
introduced myself, made friends with people I never would have spoken to. My best friends
became people I would have had nothing in common with in high school. It is not that I was truly doing so well when the crisis hit. Not by a long shot. My roommates had just staged an intervention for me, telling me that they were concerned for me, that I was depressed, that I should seek help, that I had not been okay for a long time now. I even made a few appointments with a psychiatrist I had seen in years past.
When I envisioned being in quarantine, for some reason I always envisioned being stuck in my apartment with my best friends. And while that sounded hard, I never envisioned leaving them and returning to my parents’ house on Long Island. It did not enter the equation. But, all of a sudden, when my roommate was quarantined, I was asked to leave and do exactly that.
I could not think, I could not process; I had nothing to say to anyone.
Going home, in my mind, signified the undoing of everything I had built. I had moved out,
conquering my fear and anxiety about this. I had made new friends and strengthened old
friendships. I had become more extroverted. I had become a new person, and going home
meant that all of that was over. It meant that everything I had done in the past 3 years had really just been running from the past and I would have no choice but to become the person I was in high school.
I packed my bag. My friends helped me. They saw how upset I was, though I tried to hide it.
They brought me food, tried to cheer me up, and they snapped me out of it, enough that I could get myself together to get out of there in one piece. But as soon as I was alone again, I could not stop the tears.
It was my 23rd birthday.
…
I was terrified of permanently moving back to my parents’ house and really leaving my life in the Heights. What got me through the initial separation was the expectation, the fact, that I was coming back — that normal, or semi-normal, life would resume in a week. That I would be back, standing on solid ground, at least for a little while. But as my roommate’s quarantine period drew to a close, it became clear that I could not come back and stay in the Heights. All of my friends were leaving, and the idea of being alone in my apartment was just as scary as moving home. Even more, I could see that I was not eating enough, I was not taking care of myself. I knew I needed help so that I did not continue to wither away to nothing. But I did not want to accept that the time had come to really leave.
So, how did I react to this?
I did the only thing I could think of. I continued to run.
After my roommate’s quarantine ended, I went back and forth between my parents’ house and
the Heights, seeing friends off and slowly moving my life back into my childhood room in stages. I told myself it was what I needed, when in reality, I knew that this would make it worse, prolonging the difficult transition period. And, in fact I did get more and more anxious, each time I traveled. But I did not have faith that I could survive the final transition, that I could adapt.
The only thing that snapped me out of this vicious cycle was finally settling down in my parents’ house, and doing so because I had contracted the virus. Because even though they would not test me, it was obvious to me that I had it.
Do I regret travelling, like I did, returning to the Heights after my roommate’s quarantine ended? Do I regret exposing everyone to the virus I finally contracted, after days of running myself ragged, barely eating, sleeping, and being constantly anxious? Of course. But I was motivated by one overwhelming emotion the entire time, which was a deep, paralyzing, excruciating panic.
I think a couple of things happened at once right then.
First, focusing on having the virus took my attention away from freaking out about social distancing. But, more importantly, my worst fear, of moving back to my childhood home, my room, was realized. I was back, for good, and I was alone.
And it was not like before.
My friends checked in on me. They texted me, asking how I was feeling. They talked to me
while I was panicking, and stayed on the phone with me. I talked to some of my friends more
during those first few days than I did in a normal week! And I stayed sane. I did not immediately get depressed, like I had feared. And I did not feel all alone.
I did not become the person I was in high school. Even when I felt most alone, I did not respond with cynicism, I did not retreat into myself. I had people I could call, projects I could work on. I did not become quiet or subdued, or lose my sense of humor.
I moved back into my childhood bedroom, but it is a different me who lives here now. There are new pictures on the walls, new books on the shelves, different clothing in the closet, a new rug on the floor. I keep the shades open now.
And, when the time comes, I will go back, and return to my new life, in Washington Heights, with my best friends, whom I still speak to every single day.
So did this situation, this quarantine and social distancing, send me over the edge?
Yeah, I’ve been to the edge.
And I came back.
Anonymous
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