The night is back, so I’m holding my standard vigil: eyes huge in the darkness as I look out the window. The sky is the dull red of a bad bruise, littered with clouds and hazy lights from the city living around me. I want to get up, to be out there, but something keeps me rooted to this bed. I wrap my arms around my knees and stare at the wall, beginning to shake ever-so-slightly. I am certain that I’m going insane.

I want to pick up my phone and call someone, anyone, but I can’t bear the thought of bothering a friend (or even an acquaintance) at this hour. After all, the nasty little voice in the back of my mind tells me, not everyone stays awake all night, nervous and sad about something that probably doesn’t exist on the outside. Not everyone lives inside their own head. Not everyone is crazy like you.

I rake a hand through my hair and press my bottom lip up against my teeth. I have got to stop doing this, being upset because he didn’t call—again—or because weird things make me sad, like the music from the ice cream man’s truck or a particularly bright and sunny and hope-filled day.

I lie on my side, curled up in a little Jess-ball on a corner of the bed, and cry and cry and cry until I finally, finally fall asleep.

Up until May 2008, this was an all-too-common occurrence for me. The Big Bad Downs, as they are so often referred to, had gotten particularly severe when I was twelve and lasted well into my late teens.

Then, a few months ago, I felt as though a tremendous burden had been lifted. I’d just finished writing the 35,000 word novella, and though I experienced something akin to post-partum depression at its conclusion, the nine-month period during which I wrote was incredibly cathartic.

When I started college, I began channeling all of the sadness and pessimism I’d felt for years into everything I did. During a “relapse” in September 2007, I was talking to Dr. Katherine Fischer, Associate Professor of English here at Clarke. She said that I’d adjusted well to college, that I’d sort of hit the ground running.

“Katie,” I said, “I think maybe it’s because I have so much to run from.”

Having someone to talk to is important, I won’t deny that, but even more vital is finding something you enjoy, something that can always lift your spirits. Once you’ve found it (and you will, trust me; it just takes a little time), throw yourself into it with the complete and childlike abandon you once possessed. Use it as Catharsis Incarnate.

This does not, however, include drugs, alcohol, or any of the things out there that can harm you; God knows you’ve probably got enough to think about without that. I’ve watched enough people slip and fall from doing something they thought was good for them (including myself, as no one is perfect) enough times that I know from whence I speak.

No; you must find one pure, simple thing that you love, and when it gets so bad that you don’t think you can possibly pull through, go to it. It sounds totally lame, I know, but it works.

Actually, it’s a big part of why I’m still here.