his sentences were. Pausing momentarily, he looked over my shoulder to the view he adored so much, searching for the right thing to say. Little did he know, he didn’t have to be perfect, especially not with me.
He ran his hand through his jet-black hair, which must have sparked something, because he continued with his story. “When I graduated from high school, I couldn’t move away fast enough. I thought being on my own, meeting new people in a new town, would be the solution. As it turned out, I felt even more isolated. My depression robbed me of my desire to leave my dorm and meet new people; it took away my personality, my passion, my drive to accomplish something with my life. Still, I somehow managed to drag myself out of bed every day. Because of that, I kept telling myself that I would snap out of it, that it was just a phase in my life that would pass, and any other lie I could come up with because I didn’t want to admit the truth to myself. I became so consumed with trying to convince myself that I was okay that I lost the ability to focus on anything else. And then my grades came out, and I found out that I was failing my classes. That was it. That was the final straw. The catalyst. I didn’t belong at home, I didn’t belong at school, and as I had convinced myself, I would never belong anywhere.”
I rested my hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to continue, if you don’t want to.”
“I know, but this next part is the most important part of this whole story.” He cleared his throat, pulling the rolled-up sleeves of his plum-colored, button-down shirt back down. “The night I found out I was failing, I returned to my dorm with a bottle of Advil. I figured an overdose would be better than other methods. I didn’t want my aunt and uncle to have to identify a disfigured, bloodied corpse. Then I scrawled a quick note to them, thanking them for taking on the burden of raising a child who wasn’t theirs, opened the bottle, and dumped a handful of pills into my mouth, washing them down with a bottle of water. And that’s the last thing I remember.” He fell silent, staring into his shot glass as though it contained the strength he needed to continue.
“Another fact about me is that I hate cliffhangers.”
“Then I’ll regale you with the details.” His posture was more relaxed, relieved now that the most difficult parts of his story were over, and those details could once again be locked away inside of the vault from whence they’d been pulled. “After I lost consciousness, the RA made rounds through the dorms. Usually, the dorm doors lock automatically when they close, but for some reason, on that particular evening, my door hadn’t. When the RA knocked on my door, it creaked open and he saw me on my bed; my face was blue. He called 911, and the rest is history.”
I took his hand in mine, something I certainly wouldn’t have done had I not been only one sheet shy of three sheets to the wind. “I’m so sorry, Phin. Now I feel like a real jerk for taking your granola bars from the break room.”
“That was you? Why am I not surprised?” It was nice to see him grin again after such a heavy story. “It’s strange, because as horrible as that experience was, I honestly believe I was reborn that day—like a part of me actually did die. When I awoke and I was told the details of what had happened, I decided then and there that my life must have meaning. So, I sought treatment, returned to school, and worked my ass off to get to where I am today. Almost dying made me realize just how much I wanted to live. I’ve since learned what works for me when I feel myself slipping away again, and I manage it.”
“I’ll say. Just looking at you, no one would ever be able to tell that you had a care in the world. You conceal your troubles well, but you don’t have to. If you need someone to talk to, you know where my office is.”
He nodded. “That’s the thing about depression. I liken it to an iceberg. On the surface, it may not look all that impressive, but underneath the still water its complexity