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Sometimes, sharp memories of the phone calls we’d had would bubble up in my mind, but I’d push them back down. This didn't last for very long.* * *While I was in Spain, Thomas rarely told me what was wrong, but he would sometimes blurt out snippets of what was really going through his mind when we talked on the phone. His medication made him sick, so he would go off it for weeks. Although I tried to get him to see a counselor at UVa’s psychological services, he skipped the appointments I did get him to make.

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This would not, I know, be hard-hitting news for most people.

As I scrolled through news sites to find pitches for my Bustle articles — Israel Resumes Strike on Gaza as Ceasefire Fails, read one, while another was titled Issa Stands by Subpoena of Top White House Aide — I imagined this article next to them.

College Student Breaks Up with Boyfriend, Few Care. However, if I have learned anything from writing, it is that no (wo)man is an island.

Articulating your experiences and having someone else respond with yes, I get it, I know what you mean is a type of catharsis that few other things in the world can offer.

I watched flamenco in Granada on autopilot, hardly processing the click of the dancers’ heels on the floor, wondering who would call the EMTs if I weren’t there.

Every Shakespeare lover has a different interpretation of Hamlet’s “To be, or not to be” soliloquy: To be, or not to be, that is the question— Whether 'tis Nobler in the mind to suffer The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune, Or to take Arms against a Sea of troubles, And by opposing end them?

When I found out that Thomas was in danger of failing the semester, I brought down an ultimatum: see a therapist, or we couldn’t be together. “Has your new therapist told you what to do when you panic? I skipped my meetings.”And then he said we were done, and that was it.* * *Dating someone with depression means watching him slip farther and farther away while feeling powerless to stop it.

Hunching over a cup of cold tea, waiting for him to call and tell you he’s OK, and knowing that he’s not capable of that kind of communication.

As someone who started seeing a therapist at age nine, the matter seemed simple to me. Take arms against your sea of troubles, damn it.* * *When I came back from Spain, things got worse. “Bad days” meant that he wouldn't go to class, eat, or leave his room. I would bring him a flower or a book to read, trying desperately to cheer him up and stave off his panic attacks. “Nothing you do helps.” I became terrified of setting him off, so much so that I started to see bad moods even when they weren't there. Mysterious neck and shoulder pain led to several ER visits. This was joined by constant headaches and acid reflux that made eating difficult.

I couldn't sleep, and I stopped focusing on my writing because it took so much effort.

Except he began calling me late at night, calls that were mostly filled with the staticky hiss of the phone as he tried to figure out what to say. If I, as one of his good friends, worried constantly about his mental health, I couldn't imagine how she was able to handle the pressure. They broke up in the spring of his senior year in high school, and Thomas and I began dating as soon as I came home for the summer.

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