First admittance

Bone-deep exhaustion floods through me, every shuffling step feeling like it might be my last. Years of fear and frustration boiling up and then subsiding because feeling anything at all is too much effort. I walk into the computer lab silently beside my classmates; turning right and heading towards the back of the class instead of my customary front-row seat. A few people glance at me quizzically, unsure of what I’m doing, but I ignore them and seat myself in the back corner, head leaning against the wall, the coolness a stark contrast to the raging inferno inside my of my head.

Professor Montoya doesn’t know what to make of me. She asks loudly over the conversations of the rest of the class, “Are you ok?” I glance up at her, debating whether or not to respond, and choose to simply allay her concerns with a thumbs-up. Lying about how I feel has gotten me this far in life. Hopefully it can get me through the rest of this class as well.

Everyone’s working on the lab assignment; extensive defining of terminology for their research projects. Usually I would be up at the front making a spectacle of myself as I debate with Professor Montoya about semantics and how certain definitions could be misconstrued. Today, I don’t even bother turning my computer on. Instead, I lower the chair all the way down, and place my head on arms. I inhale and exhale slowly, wondering if I can breathe in enough oxygen to wake myself up even a little bit. But even the action of deep breathing is too tiring to continue for long.

Listening to the conversations of research partners towards the front of the class, I quietly thank whatever deity exists that my perpetually flaky partner is absent today as well. Just as I think this however, I hear the professor scolding him for showing up late. I don’t even bother raising my head. Hiding behind a massive computer screen, I hope irrationally that he doesn’t notice my massive frame hunched over in the back. My hope is dashed.

“Hey buddy, what’s going on?” he asks, plopping down in the seat next to me. I’m simultaneously overwhelmed by gratitude for his kind voice, and completely infuriated that he couldn’t take the hint that separating myself from the rest of the class meant I didn’t want to be disturbed. I offer a non-committal grunt.

“Can I do anything to help?” His sincerity and open demeanor aren’t doing anything to help at the moment, because indifference is easier to deal with than sympathy. My head still buried in my arms, I shake it back and forth slowly, mentally begging him to go away. Thankfully, this time my telepathy has apparently worked because he pats my shoulder awkwardly several times before returning to the front of the room.

The conversations in the room become louder and louder, as people try to be heard over their neighbors, until what seems like a deafening cacophony of voices are all debating definitions. Professor Montoya’s voice rings above it all calling for quiet.

“Alright! Enough! That’s plenty of time to work on your operationalizations. Now we’re going to cover the types of tests you’ll be using for your data. Who can tell me what a chi-square test measures?” I finally raise my head from my arms to glance around the room, noting that the only person looking in my direction is the professor. I lean my head against the wall again, closing my eyes and wondering how upset she would be if I left early. As I debate the pros and cons of blatantly walking out of class in the middle of the lecture, I notice that my name is being repeated.

“Joseph? Can you enlighten us?” Professor Montoya is staring directly at me now, and the rest of the class has turned around as well to hear my response. I stare back nonplussed, mind blank, wondering what on earth they were talking about. I shake my head, unable to form words, a sudden lump of anxious build-up making its home in my throat. A few people look at me askance, unable to determine why I’m not on my A-game today, but blessedly turn back around when the professor returns to lecturing on homogeneity and independence. The world blurs for a moment, colors blending together, a vacuum-like silence descending on the room as the sound rushes out. My eyes droop, not quite closed, but not absorbing any information regardless.

“Joseph, talk to me, what’s going on?” The sudden voice from my left startles me, jumping slightly in my seat as reality snaps back into place. I turn to see Professor Montoya staring at me with worried eyes, eyebrows scrunched together, slowly reaching a hand out. I flinch.

“You’re really worrying me, please talk to me,” she implores, lowering her hand but still looking at me too closely, too much scrutiny in those eyes. I look away, desire to confide in someone conflicting violently with my lifelong refusal to ever admit any emotional pain.

“I’m just really tired today,” I whisper, trying not to let the sound of exhaustion and tears enter my voice. Judging by the look on her face, I doubt I succeeded.

“It’s more than being tired, I know what tired looks like, this ain’t it. Come on Joseph, you know I’m a mandatory reporter. If you don’t tell me what’s going on I’m going to have to assume someone’s hurting you or you’re hurting yourself. Please, talk to me.” I glance up at her face, and can tell she’s deadly serious about the reporting if I don’t give her something. I take a deep breath, trying to steady my inner turmoil and find the courage to admit a tiny portion of what’s happening in my head.

“I’m on new meds,” I respond, refusing to look at her, speaking more to the keyboard in front of me than anything else. “They’re just making me really tired. I’m sorry I’m not participating.”

Her silence in response forces me to look up at her again, wondering what her reaction would be to hearing this. If she would stop probing. Wondering if she would leave me alone again so I could pretend to be present. She stares at me intently, seemingly searching for something that she doesn’t find. The pressure of maintaining eye contact becomes too much, and I look away again.

“Meds for what?” she asks in a no-nonsense tone. I can tell from her voice that she thinks I’m lying, that I’m on drugs, downers, maybe took too much syrup this morning.

My breath is coming in shallow gasps now, heart pounding so hard in my chest it feels like the motion is rocking me back and forth. I shake my head again, hunching over, shame flooding through my at the thought of admitting what’s wrong with me.

“Joseph?!” She asks in alarm, a hint of panic seeping into her voice, clearly dismayed by the sight of me. “Joseph, I need you to verbalize to me. What’s happening? You’re scaring me!”

I realize that if I don’t say anything, she’s going to call campus safety. That idea more than anything else spurs me into calming myself long enough to respond.

“Depression,” I mumble, the word escaping from my lips like a pulled tooth. “The meds are for depression.” My whole body is tense, drawn taut like a bowstring, ready to snap at the slightest hint of scorn or doubt. I wring my hands together so hard that I can feel my bones creaking in protest, knuckles so white they look dead. My previous exhaustion is replaced with a post-adrenaline rush of shakiness, breath still coming out in nasally exhales. I can’t bring myself to look at her.

“Ok,” she replies. “Thank you for telling me. I understand. Don’t worry about the classwork today. Feel free to take off whenever, I know you don’t need the practice.” With that, she gets up, walking to the front of the class towards a raised hand, never looking back. An overwhelming sense of relief fills me, a prickly feeling building in my eyes. Curious, I reach up, feeling wetness, confused as to what it could be.