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Now, this is interesting. I’m nowhere near over my depression – in fact, I’ve come to hold the attitude that being diagnosed was like losing an arm, and I’m just teaching myself to eat without a fork and spoon. But from day to day, I can … handle it. I think.

See, Matt Barbour (there’s a link to his weblog somewhere, but it escapes) offered to take me on a walk last night. Went like this:

kitfox79: fancy a walk?
Raoul Duke 451: Uh.
Raoul Duke 451: Uh.
Raoul Duke 451: Okay.

And soon enough the man himself dropped by, gaining entry to the dorm via his non-res keys (the man has never actually lived in the dorm, somehow) and we made tracks to Kresge 34, home of a wonderful elderly grad student whose name I forget. Her tiny office was stuffed with candy, sodas, and various and sundry teas. Hansel and Gretel certainly came to mind. But the woman was so kind as to be disarming, ending half her sentences with the word “heart”; i.e. “I came to Northwestern because of the feeling in my heart.”

A halfway epiphany came over me in that office. I realized suddenly that I’d been doing this college thing all wrong, and needed to take it easier. The next few hours were a melange of stories, walking, and 3 a.m. dancing in the sand. I left Matthew’s sparsely-decorated dingle at 600 Lincoln feeling so much better.

And then, as they say, I woke up. At about 11 a.m. I plunged into the day’s duties feeling fine, trying to avoid Laurel – ah, there I said it. See, the problems never left, and when I came back from some reporting at 4:00 I realized I’d lost my $400 digital camera.

Much flipping out commenced.

Trash cans sailed across the suite. Chairs were ransacked, uplifted, destroyed. I tried to get the paper in order, but soon passed out on my bed, utterly defeated.

Something stirred me to waking. I called Norris. Indeed, the camera was located in the busom of their lost and found. And everything changed back; colors returned; my head stopped pounding.

If there’s a moral, it’s that I’m not much better. I don’t know when I’ll be better. But no fucking way am I going to let this beat me.

Song of the Day: Elton John, “Into the Old Man’s Shoes”

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It occurred to me recently that man, it would have made things damn easier if I had use of the internet during my nervous breakdown. Oh, didn’t I tell you? Starting Saturday, when I forgot to take my dosage of Zoloft, I went into a legendary depression during which I proclaimed a vendetta against everything. No one took it particularly seriously. I suppose I wouldn’t have held much stock in it myself, it had struck someone else. But the fact was, functioning on the most basic level became impossible. The only tasks I was able to accomplish were related, happily, to the Chron.

On Sunday, when CRC tried out a new housing process, I, as Vice President, was supposed to adjudicate. But the dorm had never gone anything like it before – my duties turned out to involve compiling a ranked list of all returning list, then holding lotteries to determine the picking order for all those leftover. It could have worked. It could have, if I hadn’t spent the whole day moping or getting on the phone with “professionals” (wink, wink). The time came, the lottery got ruined by my ineptness, we had to hold another, and sometime during the process I got fed up with living in the dorm I’ve loved for two years. After the second round of lotteries, I took out my mandatory “letter of intent” and dropped into a trashcan in 2-Blue. The feeling was not unlike an elastic band, worn and frayed, finally snapping and flying helter-skelter into a plaster wall.

On Monday I checked with a few of the girls I’m interested in if they wanted to go out this week. After collecting some negative responses, I made my merry way to an impromptu counseling session. (Suddenly I realize my boss could be reading this, in which case – Mr. Mark, don’t worry. This kind of stuff only makes me work harder.) I sought consolation from Laurel, and things were fine for a while, and now I feel rotten again.

My, this is just pathetic. The point is, if I had internet access last week I could have written in detail about this stuff for all to see, and I might have produced some prose of great historical resiliency. But instead I moped. Like every other 20-year old who doesn’t get what he wants.

Song of the day: Peter Gabriel, “Digging in the Dirt”

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This is not a fruitful time for weblogging because, well, it’s not a fruitful time for la vie. Too much rejection has forced me into a shell from which I direct the Chronicle, got to class, and have no desire to do anything else. So far it’s working – mild depression always allows me to work more and better, because it turns me off the pursuits that can waste time. But I know that many frequenters of this space don’t want to hear that, so I should update later to explain.

Song of the day: No song can properly convey how cold and wet it is in E-town. For irony’s sake I select Dwight Twilley, “I’m on Fire”