Like Taking out the Trash

I imagine the depths of depression to be like an exhausted swimmer struggling against inevitable death. They thrash on the surface in an attempt to stay alive, with brilliant, positive thoughts momentarily interrupting the knowledge of impending doom, and brief, passing moments of hope that dart away like the scared fish below the surface.

My days have begun to feel like an endless checklist, a checklist not filled with goals, but with mere chores that must be accomplished before a yet to be determined deadline. I check them off, with no real sense of accomplishment, only to see the list fill up again the next day to my exhausted and exasperated dismay. I feel like I’ve accomplished little each day, not because I lay around and do nothing, but because what I do is not what I wish to do, but what must be done. I finish an assignment in school only because it gets me closer to graduation. I prepare a meal, but no longer for the joy of it, only because I need sustenance to continue. I wrack my brain to fill this space, but all that comes to me are thoughts of dismay and woe.

Writing has so often been a beautiful release of frustration, because I have been gifted with a way with words, an ability to twist even the most grotesque and find something wonderful. But it has become such a chore for me this semester, and I know my work has suffered, both creatively and lyrically. In my final semester, I have been saddled with my worst class, an Editorial and Commentary writing class. I was excited to take on this challenge, believing myself to already be a commentary writer with experience, and that the class would only further my knowledge of writing and gathering information for columns.

Alas, as so many classes have been before it, this one is led by a brilliant man who treats class like a delirious lune wandering through the wilderness. He was absent from the first week of class, which was led by his TA (who has not shown her face since) and the assistant dean, who gave us a lecture on plagiarism, a lecture every good journalism student could give themselves for having heard it so many times. His syllabus was devoid of a schedule, and instead, he hands out deadlines and assignments on the fly, forcing me to amend a rigid schedule with no advance notice. Finally, he is utterly incompetent in teaching; he has yet to lecture on what a good column is, focusing more on word choice and grammar, things completely unnecessary in a senior skills class. Our weekly news quizzes take close to a half hour, as he questions us from the pulpit, and the grade-grubbing bastards that frequent the major bitch and complain while trying to coax him into giving them credit when they don’t have a response to his question.

Instead of giving us genres for assignments, such as persuasive, argumentative, pro- or con-issue, he instead gives us a topic and an absurd word count (i.e. the G20 Summit, 1500 words, which was due last night at 9 p.m. after being assigned Tuesday morning). I did not attend the G20 Summit (it was held in London) and I don’t exactly have any one’s number on speed dial who did (they are heads of state and finances for the 20 biggest economies in the world; they were a little too busy to return my calls). Instead of having an opinion and giving a crisp defense of it over a reasonable 500-750 words, I was forced to churn out triple that, with no ability to report or ask questions or form an opinion beyond what others wrote on the subject.

I cannot recall the last time I struggled to meet a word count, or added filler bullshit to meet one, particularly in a journalism course, but I have been forced to do both on nearly half of his assignments (1500 words on the life of John Hope Franklin; I wrote about 950 and called it a day, netting me a C+). These forced writing exercises have robbed me of my desire to create, and the fatigue has left me unwilling to even attempt to blog. I wanted to chronicle my senior year, and for the past few months, all I’ve known is misery.

It is so frustrating to try to ignore the demons in my head, and what is worse is that I do not know why they are there. I am healthy, have friends, a girl who loves me and parents who are well-off and able to support me; yet, what little I have to complain about plagues me day and night. No sooner do I feel the clouds dispersing does some other occurrence dump rain on my head.

What do I do? Do I hide my problems, put on a smiling face and hope for brighter days? Or do I open up and bitch about the trivial problems that bring me to my knees? Readers, near and far, I encourage your correspondence. E-mail me at press.on09@gmail.com with your tales of woe, accomplishment, or messages that will act as a swift kick in the ass.