A quick warning: this essay discusses mental health and suicidal ideation, and may be upsetting to some readers.
I know what to expect from myself. I just don’t know when
. Allow me to explain: for as long as I can remember, my life has been marked by cycles of depression and anxiety that swap in and out seemingly at random. They are as familiar to me as my heartbeat at this point, and yet they still find new ways to annihilate months of my life at a time, leaving me scrambling to meet my deadlines and handle the basic responsibilities of adulthood. Even on my good days, they’re not gone, just more distant, a dull roar in the back of my mind waiting for the next opportunity to get louder.
There is a myth — a prevalent, dangerous, beautiful myth — that success, however you define it, will be the thing that fixes all your problems...