I Would Like Your Opinion

Okay- a lot of people have been encouraging me to put my journey into a book- more like a spiritual devotional type book. I share my story, and then how my faith pulled me into recovery. I always said, "Yes, I think that's a good idea."

Last night at around 1:00 AM I had an urge to begin writing. Here is what I started- it may be confusing, but I would like your honest opinion: If you pulled the book off of the shelf and began reading, would you stop after reading what I have below or would you keep going?- I sort of began the story when things got really bad for me, but there is far more to the story...

                  I was tired. So tired. Homecoming week’s demands robbed me of some sleep that I needed, and I was opting not to go to bed early and try and catch up what I lost. It was okay though- I had learned how to average five to six hours of sleep each night and still be able to function and be cheerful throughout the next day. Where others with such a sleep pattern may have used naps as an opportunity to fill in the gaps of lost sleep, I simply didn’t have time. Between the demands of school, work, extracurriculars, and social events, naps were never something I desired.

            I was a senior. It wouldn’t be my last year at school, because I was on a five year program, but I was still a senior. From an outsider’s perspective, one may have looked at me and made the assumption that I was a really happy guy. Any stranger would have every reason to believe that. I walked the sidewalks of the campus with a smile smeared across my face and a jovial greeting to everyone I passed by.

            I was involved with many activities, and held leadership positions of several of the organizations I was associated with. I spent a lot of time with friends watching movies or finding excitement in the small town where  we were located. I held a job at the school library, sang with the campus’s male chorus, played organ, practiced for voice lessons, and attended nearly ever social event the campus offered.  I played intramural sports. Three mornings a week were spent at the local elementary school teacher aiding.  I attended chapel every day and church on the weekends, and special praise services on Wednesday nights.

            And I was tired. Very tired. The smile I plastered to my face was harder to maintain with each passing day. I would tell myself, “Get it together, Dylan, you have every reason to smile.”

            And I did. I was pursuing a career I had dreamed about since I was a small child. I had a supportive family. I held a job. I had a vehicle. I had a lot of friends. My grades were great. It seemed like a life anyone would qualify as “good.”

            But my emotions didn’t line up with my experiences. I knew I should be happy, so why couldn’t I make myself feel that way? Then I wondered if anyone should ever have to make themselves feel happy. It should just come natural, shouldn’t it? I dismissed all of those questions, because I figured I was just overanalyzing things.

            As the days grew into months, and October was about to begin, my strength diminished, and my smile began to fade. The pressure was getting to be too great. A few weeks ago, I had been elected onto the University’s Homecoming Court. All eyes seemed to be on me. I hated it.

            Yes, you read that correctly. I hated it. Some may have taken satisfaction from the publicity from being bestowed such an honor, but I hated the attention. I was tired, and I was trying to withdraw, but all eyes were on me. I had to wear an even more convincing smile. As homecoming week was upon us, my smile remained bold, but my insides were near the verge of collapse. It felt like a chainsaw had come through and completely demolished my inner strength and emotions.

            Again, I remember telling myself, “Get it together, Dylan. You can’t take a break now- you have many events which require your presence this week.” I remember the exact moment I first lost control in public. It was Tuesday of homecoming week. I was on an intramural kickball team, and after the game, I began trekking back to my room. I felt an unexplainable emotional pain and I was so confused as to why. I broke into tears on the sidewalk, and made it down to my room where I collapsed on my couch. I knew something must be wrong with me- but I had no physical symptoms to prove it.

            I collected myself by Friday evening of homecoming week. I knew I had to stay strong. I had to make an appearance in front of a crowd of spirit-filled students at the Pep Rally. As I got dressed to head over, the tears began streaming down my face again. I remember asking myself why I was so sad. I was supposed to be happy. Nothing made any sense.

            I wiped my tears away and put on a mask of happiness. I wanted to lay on my floor in the dark, but the crowd in the gymnasium would expect me to appear. As I snatched my keys off of the desk, I began to twist my doorknob to leave my room. At that very instance, my knees buckled and my happy mask fell off. I remember thinking, “There is no way you will make it through the pep rally. Don’t go.”  It was more than a thought though- it was a voice. It was like there was a man standing behind me telling me I needed to stay put. The man’s voice was so authoritative and convincing, I decided then and there I wasn’t going to the pep rally after all. The voice seemed to say, “Good. They won’t miss you anyway.”  Little did I know, this voice would later consume my life.

            I flopped on my couch and began to wrestle with this emotional turmoil. It was so intense, I pulled my hair in frustration and anguish. Again and again, I asked myself, “What is wrong with me?” My thought rumination was interrupted by the blast of my cell phone ring.  I reluctantly answered with a weary, “Hello?”

            “Dylan! Where are you! We are waiting on YOU!” it was a homecoming committee member. The entire court was in the gymnasium, waiting for me to arrive so the ceremonies could proceed. “I’m on my way,” I somehow responded. The rest is a blur. I don’t remember lining up and processing in front of the cheering assembly. Pictures prove I was there, and pictures reveal a smile on my face, but it wasn’t my smile. It was a fake. I remember gathering with groups of friends to snap a series of photos afterward.  My mom had wanted pictures. She couldn’t be there. To please her, I posed again and again, and the false smile on my face found its way into every picture.

            I look back on those photos now and I wonder who that guy is. I don’t think it was me. It was as if I was in a zombie-like mentality of, “you-must-go-and-you-must-be-happy-about-it.” I was on a back and forth mental mantra of telling myself, “you can do this,” and then “no, you can’t. give up.” It was a giant teeter totter, and I knew sooner or later I was going to fall off of the levitating beam and shatter into a million pieces.

            The next day, Saturday, things grew worse. Though the crowd which packed the bleachers in the gymnasium was sizeable, it didn’t quite compare to the screaming spectators which filled the football stadium for the homecoming game that afternoon. I remembered how hard it was to get in front of the crowd in the gym, and now all the focus was going to be on me again. I had had enough.

            I forced myself to the game, and dodged through the gigantic crowd. I smashed myself into an open spot on overcrowded bleaches, the warm sun beating down on my face as I waited for minutes to tick by until half time was called and I could get this charade over with.

             Half time arrived and it was time for the presentation of the court. It should have been a happy time in my life. I should have been filled with pride and joy as I greeted the fans from the football field. But it wasn’t. I was miserable. I wanted nothing more than to be secluded, and yet, here I was, being paraded in front of this massive crowd. The king was crowned and I remember thinking, “Thank God. It was not me, and this is finally over.”

           

            As the next few days passed, the focus soon shifted off of the homecoming court and back onto the busyness of life. The relief I so eagerly sought never arrived. Though homecoming had come and gone, I was still left to face reality. And I was tired. So very tired.

            Wednesday arrived and the intensity of my emotional turmoil was unbearable. I should pause for a moment and explain something. Since the beginning of high school, I kind of always knew something wasn’t quite right. I thought I might have depression, but there was no way I was going to see a counselor or tell anyone. I thought “Guys don’t get depressed.” I forced myself to get over it. And as years passed, it never got any better. The beginning of my senior year of college, nearly eight years after I began feeling depressed, the feelings begin to intensify. Little did I know how much they were about to intensify…

            Friday arrived, and it also marked the beginning of a literacy festival I was helping with. About half way through the day, around lunch time, I broke into tears again and felt an unbearable sorrow in me. It was so hard to come to terms with it. It would have made sense had I just lost a loved one or experienced a depressing event. But the fact that nothing triggered it made it so hard to grasp.

            I approached the office of a professor whom I was close to. She could tell I was visibly shaken, and asked what was wrong. I told her I had no idea, but it was as if I lost all control of my emotions. She said something along the lines of “I think you need to see the counselor.”

            Knowing she was right and I had reached my limit, I stepped into the health center at the school. I wearily approached the counter of the receptionist, took a deep breath, and said to myself “This is going to help you.”  The receptionist greeted me with a big smile and asked “What can I do for you?”

            “I…I… need to see the counselor. Like soon.”  I responded. “I’m sorry. She’s out for the rest of the afternoon. I can schedule you in on Monday afternoon at 2:00, though.”  “Okay, that will work.”  “See you then!” she dismissed me. I breathed a sigh of relief that she didn’t want to know any specifics of why I needed to see the counselor.  But the question still tugged at my mind, “What do I do until then?”