Why I Need Antidepressants

Poems that are #relatable

A few weeks ago, one of my two medications ran out.

I take two anti-depressants. One is the 'primary' medication; it's double the dosage of the other, and I take it every night. That one is an SSRI, which regulates serotonin. The second medication regulates dopamine and norepinephrine, which I can't even pronounce but which apparently my brain can't regulate on its own. I take that one every morning before 11am; if I forget to take it before 11am, I'm not supposed to take it at all that day because it will keep me up too late. It's happened enough that I have more of the morning med than the night med. So, the med that I ran out of is the most important one for me to take every day.

At the start of this year, my insurance plan changed slightly so that the company would only cover my medications if they were through their home delivery program. A prescription sent to a regular pharmacy had three covered refills, and then it was pay out of pocket or switch to the home delivery program.

If you haven't noticed before, insurance companies really suck. Despite submitting my prescriptions well in advance, calling my doctor's office, and double-checking with the office manager, I never received my refill. I took my last dose of my night med on a Saturday, and proceeded to have the worst week in a long time.

It started out okay. I was stressed about school, and it didn't seem worse than regular school stress. I got to Wednesday before feeling very anxious. Thursday, the weight of my depression slowed me down. Thinking felt like trying to walk through a thick bog. The medication seemed to be totally out of my system by then.

My therapist has described the way that I experience depression as 'somatic', a word I hadn't heard before she said it. I'm not just sad when my depression is acting up. In fact, it rarely feels like sadness. Depression feels like the biggest weight on my chest, like my blood has thickened and my heart is struggling to push it throughout my body, like my mind was given a mild anesthetic and is starting to wake up to pain. When I'm depressed I feel like the parts of my body are disconnected. My fingertips feel different from my hands, and my hands are on another planet from my shoulders. Trying to mentally work out how to move is exhausting, like my brain is trying to find each individual body part on the way to my legs and feet. The fog in my brain makes it so hard to keep up a conversation.

That day, I went to my three classes and then went to the office as usual. I went to my boss's office and explained that my insurance/home delivery company messed up so I was off of my medication for my "chronic illness". Chronic illness, that's what I tell people instead of explaining that I have MDD (major depression disorder) and GAD (generalized anxiety disorder). The idea of telling professors and employers about my mental illnesses makes me feel panicked and defensive. Besides, "chronic illness" isn't inaccurate when you've been diagnosed with MDD for over four years.

Anyway, I only worked for an hour to get something finished up, and then I went home. I was so hungry when I left the office, but by the time I got home I had used up every bit of energy and I fell asleep almost immediately. I slept for four or five hours and woke up disoriented and starving. I had dinner and did nothing productive for the rest of the night.

That night on the phone, Preet (my boyfriend) asked, "Has it always been this bad? Was your depression this bad before you went on medication, or has being on medication for a while made being off medication worse?" He went on to say that he didn't remember me being so miserable in high school, before I went on medication.

It's always been this bad, I told him. The next morning when I took my morning medication, I texted him a quick correction: it actually used to be worse, because I was not entirely off medication, just off the main one. The secondary med was still doing its job.

That day, Friday, I started trying to get the medication situation figured out early in the morning. I found the home delivery program's forms for the doctor to fax to them, and filled out my portion of it. I wrote up a little fax cover letter, which I ended up using as a script for the phone call to the doctor's office instead. I talked with the office manager no less than five times that morning and tried three different fax machines, trying to get the form faxed over so that she could get the prescriptions attached to it and sent over to the company for processing. By two or three in the afternoon, I received an email from the company saying the prescriptions were processed and approved and would be delivered by December 14th. I decided to call them after work to ask if they could do expedited shipping; I was on hold for 45 minutes while the customer service rep tried to get the shipment expedited and then, when that failed, get me an override and a 30-day prescription to be picked up at my regular pharmacy. After those 45 minutes, the gentleman got back on the line to ask for my phone number so that he could call me back once he got it figured out.

That's when I had my breakdown. I texted a friend who lives on campus to ask if he was home, intending to go over and break down in private if he was (he wasn't). I texted a friend who works at GU to ask where he was, and he met me at the front gates. He got off his bike and took one look at me and I started sobbing. (Crying in public is the worst and I hate it, but I have done it so many times in my life.) He sat with me as I bawled, and that's when I got the call from the customer service guy who said he sent my prescriptions to my pharmacy and they should be ready for me. My friend walked with me to the pharmacy, where they said they had no prescriptions ready for me and nothing they could fill. I called the company back, talked to the gal behind the counter a bunch, and left with no medication and a promise that the lady would call me as soon as they got the prescriptions together.

I didn't get my medication until the following morning. For one full week, I was off my meds, and I couldn't sleep for longer than two or three hours at a time, and the sleep I did get was restless. I couldn't think clearly. I cried more easily and apologized for things I didn't need to be sorry for. I had a constant headache.

Fun fact: the headaches were the reason I finally got help for my anxiety & depression. At the end of my junior year of high school, the headaches had gotten so bad and so constant that I went to my pediatrician, who referred me to a neurologist, who was the best doctor I've ever had. She helped the headaches and never forgot that I mentioned anxiety that first time I met her. I came in for a follow-up after summer break had started, and she asked about the anxiety. When I said that it hadn't gotten any better, she frowned and said, "But school's out! You shouldn't be anxious!" She prescribed my first antidepressant, which I think was the smallest possible dose it could be. The next follow-up appointment, I told her how my symptoms had improved, how I was so grateful it was better, and she said, "Some of that still sounds like anxious behavior. We can do better." That sentence impacted me so much. We can do better. I can feel better. I don't have to settle for feeling okay or not totally awful. I started weekly therapy and worked with my neurologist to find a medication and dosage that worked well for me. My senior fall, I got my best grades of all of high school, because the anxiety and depression wasn't keeping me from functioning properly.

There are a lot of things I have to do to stay healthy. I can't have caffeine, and I was once advised to avoid MSG and chocolate. My neurologist stressed that I drink at least 64 ounces of water every day, more in the summer. Sleep is absolutely crucial, and sleeping at the same time each night is best. I can't drink alcohol much or often because it interacts poorly with my medication. I need to get a certain amount of sunlight every day, and I use a sun-light in the wintertime. I'm supposed to prioritize exercise. I have to make sure to get multivitamins that contain certain combinations. A healthy diet is also highly recommended (but I am a college student, after all, so that one doesn't always pan out). I go to therapy every week (a different therapist from the one in high school) and see my psychiatrist every 3-6 months. I talk to my boyfriend at least once a day and call my parents every 1-2 days. I have to intentionally plan out social time. I got a cat, lovely Robin, so that I would get up every day, feed him, play with him, and clean his litter box. Having Robin is another form of therapy for me; when my depression gets bad, I don't want to take care of myself, but I always take care of Robin.

And I also take psychiatric medication. It took years to find the right cocktail to stabilize me, but last December I started my current medications. I take two antidepressants daily and one anxiety medication up to three times a day as needed. Last month I told my psychiatrist that my depression gets much worse for a few days before my period starts, and apparently that's a diagnosable condition too, so now I take a small extra dose of my main medication for a few days each month.

Before I started taking medication, all of the extra stuff I do now didn't help that much. Everything was so bad and hard that lifestyle changes could only improve it a little. Medication addresses the problem I can't, which is my brain chemistry.

Even doing all of this, some days I'm still really down. Sometimes my mood plummets, hard, suddenly, for no discernible reason. Last night was one of those times. I have to work hard to recognize when my mood changes and to communicate what's going on with me. I have to work hard to be kind and patient, because my mental illnesses do not give me a free pass to be a jerk. I still have to push myself to be open and honest, even with my therapist.

I hope that my being open with you, dear reader, contributes to a world which is more accepting of mental illness. Emotional vulnerability is hard, but I think seeing other people be emotionally vulnerable helps us to deal with our own emotions. At least, that's what I hope I can do for other people.

Thanks for reading.

Time Flies

(Note: This entry was written on March 3, 2018, while flying from DC to Omaha. Apologies for the delay in posting.)

It’s odd, how when you’re in a plane, you notice when the landscape below turns into farmland. I don’t know where in the country I am right now, but I’m over farmland. The land becomes more sectioned in the Midwest; the intersections are all neat and planned-looking, and probably a mile apart each. The squares are sectioned off into smaller shapes, differentiating the land used for different purposes. In the growing seasons, it’s even more apparent, but right now in early March, practically still winter, it’s all just varying shades of brown. Darker brown for the fields that will probably hold crops later in the year, lighter brown for grazing land, the occasional thicket that I know has a house in the middle but is too far below for me to really see.

I’m in a plane, probably somewhere past Illinois at this point, on my way to Omaha for spring break. It’s been a very long time since I last wrote. I regret not writing – here or anywhere, really. In the past year, I’ve avoided reflecting on life, and that’s all blogging or journaling is. Writing a blog post describing the happenings of my life makes it almost impossible not to reflect on those happenings, and I didn’t want to do that.

In the past year, my life has changed. I’ve become more reclusive, and my priorities have changed. I don’t know how they changed, but I can feel that they’ve changed. Since my last post, I’ve been on psychiatric medication; it’s been extremely helpful for me, and I’ve attended therapy most weeks. I’ve learned how to parse through my moods and how to determine what I need and what will be most helpful. I’ve strayed from the Church, and started to come back.

It’s been a hard eleven-ish months. I lost my grandfather in June; I think about the time before and after his death often. It’s gotten easier with time to acknowledge that he’s gone, but most times I still feel my eyes start to sting with held-back tears and a lump in my throat. I’ve learned how to breathe through it whenever I don’t feel up to crying. Last summer, I cried so often, and I never felt up to it. It took a while to learn how to control the tears. I cried at least once a week, but usually more than that. I always cried at least once on the way to or from my grandmother’s house each week; I cried whenever I said “my grandparents’ house” and had to correct myself. When I went back to school in the fall, every time something went particularly well for me, I started to cry when I realized I couldn’t tell my grandpa about it. Whenever I started to feel discouraged by all of the work I had to do, I reminded myself that my hard work was admirable, and I’d be struck with sorrow that I couldn’t tell my grandpa about how hard it was to balance three jobs on top of classes and that I would never hear him tell me he was proud of me again. I know he was proud of me; recently I looked back through my old journal entries, and at the bottom of the very first one in this journal, I wrote, “My grandfather is proud of me.” I cried when I saw that. I know he was proud, and at least I have that. I don’t even necessarily wish he was still alive; I’m not that selfish. My grandpa Rich had been sick for a long time, and he was tired and ready to go. I just miss him, is all. I’m glad that he’s not hurting anymore, and I can deal with the missing. The missing has made me more sensitive to a lot of subjects; I can’t watch anything in which a parent dies, because the whole time my grandfather was dying, I kept thinking about how that was my mom’s dad, and how one day I am going to lose my parents. (I’m quietly crying on this plane now and I’m really hoping nobody tries to ask me if I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m just sad, and that’s okay.)

It honestly kind of sucks that people die. It sucks that this is part of life. I think this more than anything else shows me how young I still am. I may live on my own, work, and care for another life (albeit a cat’s), but I’m still angry about facts of life. Or maybe that’s normal. I’d like to think that one day I’ll learn to accept the facts of life, but today I think it’s unfair and scary and I want to scream and cry that I never want my parents to die, or Preet, or my cat, or anyone I love. I just hope and pray that I have a long time until I have to deal with any of those things. (My nose is runny and gross, and I feel like the Weird Girl on this plane.)

Other than dealing with the facts of life, things have been okay enough for me. Last semester was challenging, and there were days that I wasn’t really sure I’d make it to Christmas break in one piece. I ended with decent grades, and I applied to Georgetown’s grad school at the end of December. Yesterday I received an email saying that I’m officially admitted into the Georgetown Graduate School of Arts and Sciences. I applied for an accelerated program, so some of my undergraduate coursework will count toward my Master’s degree. I’ll be earning an MS in theoretical linguistics; that umbrella includes syntax, phonology, semantics & pragmatics, and language acquisition. It should take me about one extra year to finish the degree.

Update: I’m over northeast Missouri, about to enter Iowa. We’ll be landing in less than an hour. I stopped crying somewhere in the last paragraph, and now I’m exhausted. For all the crying I’ve done in the last year, you’d think it wouldn’t exhaust me so much. It should be like running: the more you run, the less tired you are at the end of a medium-paced mile.

This semester is going fine so far. It’s just about halfway through. I’m not working as much, just a few hours here and there doing odd jobs. My classes this semester require more regular work than last semester or the semester before that; I have to write a lot, and I can’t get away with not doing my readings like I sometimes could before. I’m actually writing this to procrastinate writing a paper; my head felt full of thoughts, none of which were related to my paper, so I decided to put them down.

This semester I’m taking four classes: Cross-Cultural Communication (taught by Deborah Tannen), Justice and Consumer Culture (a theology class about consumerism), Research Methods in JUPS (a required course, as much about research ethics as methods), and Peace Education. The paper I’m avoiding is for Peace Education. I don’t know why I’m avoiding it. I know from some sixteen years of education that everything seems hard until I start, and then only sometimes is it actually hard. For me, it’s the getting started that’s the biggest obstacle, really getting started. I’ve put some stuff down for this paper, but I haven’t gotten to the point where my ideas are flowing easily and the work is just putting them into words in an order that makes sense.

Right now, everything is pretty much okay. There are some snags – like the fact that I haven’t found an apartment to move into in May – but my classes are going along alright, and they’re interesting enough. I’m okay, and the people that I care about are mostly okay, and nobody is worryingly sick. Maybe now that everything feels a little less intense, I’ll be willing to update this blog more often. I suppose we’ll just have to see.

Thanks for reading, and I hope you find a moment of peace today.

P.S.: This is roughly how long my paper has to be; if only I’d started writing that instead, I’d be done with it instead of still avoiding it.
P.P.S.: At time of publication, the paper was finished and submitted. Also, I apologize for the pun in the title, but only a little bit.

"Reconstruction Site"

My walk home from work & from the pharmacy today

Today I saw a psychiatrist. When I woke up this morning, I got dressed & made my bed, fed my cat & cleaned his litter, and then went to the dining hall. I ate breakfast and grabbed lunch to-go. I walked to the bus stop, and took the bus to work. I stayed at the office for a while; during lunch the real adults who work there asked me how my weekend was, if I did anything fun. "Not really," I said, "just hanging out." One of the researchers gets a kick out of my vegetarianism; he asked, "What was the best vegetable you ate this weekend?" (Zucchini.) At three o'clock, I walked down the four flights of stairs and across the street to the metro bus stop. It was eighty degrees and it felt like it. The bus itself was cold, and every time I get onto a metro bus I wonder if $1.75 a ride is a rip-off or if it's actually a decent price. I got off the bus at the Fessenden stop, walked the one block up the street, and crossed over to the unremarkable building on the other side. I sat down in the waiting room half an hour before my appointment. I settled in with my phone and earbuds, and later was startled out of my music by an unfamiliar woman calling my name.

And then, I saw a psychiatrist. She asked, "What brought you here today, and what are you hoping to get out of this meeting?"

I struggle with depression and anxiety. I saw the official diagnosis on paper just over a year ago, but I've been on antidepressants and in therapy for three years. In hindsight, I was also depressed at age thirteen and at least one other time between ages thirteen and sixteen. (Here the psychiatrist said, "Yes, it's common for depression to start up during the teenage years.") Lately I have been having a very difficult time. I have been extremely unhappy, and it's becoming difficult for me to accomplish my obligations. I haven't been spending time with friends. I take a lot of naps when I don't need to, and I cancel on plans so that I can sit at home instead. My brain feels cloudy and heavy, and sometimes it feels like something heavy is sitting on my chest.

We can work with that, she said. She asked me some more questions, about past medications and allergies and if I like Georgetown, and then she asked, "So in terms of medication, what were you hoping I would say today? Did you want me to suggest changing the dosage of your current medication or did you want me to switch you to a new one?" I looked around her dimly lit office before I said, "I was just thinking that whatever you do, I hope it works."

Last week I met with a new therapist. I liked her. At one point for no reason I started crying. She told me it's okay to cry and to let it out; with my head in my hands I said, "I just want to feel better. I don't want to be miserable anymore."

Today I saw a psychiatrist, and she doubled my dosage for my current antidepressant and then prescribed me a second antidepressant. I took the bus back down Wisconsin Avenue and dropped off the prescription. I studied for an hour, called my dad, and then picked up my prescription. Tonight, feeling like the world was both sprinting past me and dragging slowly behind, I managed to get out of my dorm. I walked to the top of the Leavey Center and watched the lights of the university and of Rosslyn across the river. I stood there and looked out and felt so insignificant and miserable and purposeless.

And then, I thought that maybe, just maybe, I won't have to feel like this anymore. Maybe these new medications will work. Maybe tonight is the last time I feel this awful. Maybe I won't be depressed anymore. I don't expect to feel happy tomorrow, but maybe, maybe, I'll feel better than today.

~


From "Reconstruction Site" by The Weakerthans: "Throw away my misery, it never meant that much to me — it never sent a get-well card."

Back in Black

Me, at an overpriced store holding an overpriced (but cute!) mug that I did not buy

An Announcement:

School is hard. Okay, yeah, most everyone probably knew that already, but this year school and work have been demanding all of my time and energy.

This semester I'm working two jobs, my RA position and an internship for the Catholic research organization CARA, on top of my classes and my club involvements. It sounds like a lot and it is. I haven't been calling my parents and grandparents as often, and during the week my days are pretty much just work, class, club meeting, homework, sleep, repeat. I don't regret putting so much onto my plate—I'm doing the things that I need to be doing to get where I want to be—but man, am I tired. I'm letting some things slip, like this blog, and, like, vacuuming. (Call me out, Mom.) I like the things that I'm doing, and my classes are super interesting. This semester, I'm taking four:

1. Introduction to Logic (in case I go to law school, and to fulfill my philosophy requirement)
2. Forensic Linguistics (language crimes, using language to solve crimes, language in the court room, etc.)
3. Language & Society  (how different people use language - dialects, etc.)
4. Morphology (study of words and their parts, sort of)

This summer I'm going to be in Omaha. I'll update once I figure out exactly what I'm doing, but I hope to be working for a nonprofit and taking an online class.

The best thing in my life right now? My kitten just turned one year old. 

Look at him. He's beautiful.

Cheers, all. Hopefully I'll post again soon.

World Youth Day 2016: A Pilgrimage to Peace

Jack the Bulldog in front of Świętego Józefa Church in Kraków, Poland

Since arriving in Kraków, Poland, I  have struggled to describe the experience I had while in JPII and St. Faustina’s great city. Back stateside, I always answer, “Poland was amazing!” when people ask about the pilgrimage, and I always feel like I’m lying.

The truth is this: World Youth Day changed and challenged me. From the moment my father dropped me off at the Omaha airport to the second I hugged my mother hello a week later, the trip to Poland was not an easy one. There were of course moments of great joy and companionship, but there were also moments of spiritual distress and intense physical discomfort. Perhaps great change can only come after great unrest; if so, it’s no wonder that I feel fundamentally different after visiting Kraków.

The simple, superficial reasons for discomfort were plenty. We slept on a gym floor, we walked 75+ miles in one week, we were often rained on, our feet blistered and our muscles ached. A few people in our group even lacked their luggage for half the trip as the airline attempted to find it. Bathing occurred infrequently as we had to share four showers with some fifty other people. Our trip to Poland was by no means a vacation.

The wonders, adventures, and realizations made the pilgrimage so much more than these physical discomforts. I walked the streets of Kraków with the deep conviction that I was meant to be there and I simply had to wait to discover why. I was surrounded by the love of God, embodied in the careful & adoring architectures of the the churches and in the joyful demeanors of my fellow pilgrims and of the Polish citizens. One morning a short Polish woman stopped me and two of the other Hoyas on the street, asking where we were from and profusely thanking us for coming. She hugged each of us and asked us to pray for her; I can still clearly picture her beautiful and excited smile.

Father Greg Schenden and a Polish nun in the Adoration Chapel of Świętego Józefa Church

In the most simple terms, Kraków gave me a reason to live, a reason that is all my own and not motivated by external factors and pleasures. During Saturday night’s vigil, Pope Francis implored us essentially to do better and do more. I cried through most of his speech. How, I thought, can I do better and more when I already feel tired down to my soul and aching for rest? I had come to Poland hoping to rejuvenate my spiritual life and no longer wonder why God makes me and others suffer. Instead of being given that peace, I was asked to try even harder, to push through the pain and reach out a hand to my neighbors. I felt almost betrayed and scolded.

The next morning during the closing Mass, something within me shifted. I can’t tell you what, but I could feel it; suddenly I knew that I must live even through physical pain, even through mental and emotional anguish, even through spiritual desolation, not because doing so is what’s right and moral but because I am here on this earth for something. Sometimes life is hard and rest does not come, but I am here and will be until God decides my time here has finished.

World Youth Day is an indescribable experience with love and pain and God and friends, and in Kraków this summer I found peace. So despite the vast oversimplification, I will still say: Poland, World Youth Day, Kraków, was amazing.

Dziękuję, Polska. Dziękuję, Cracovia.

Again, But Better

VCW 237, finally decorated after being occupied for three weeks

Robin the kitten in a friend's backpack

“There is a kind of magicness about going far away and then coming back all changed.”
― Kate Douglas Wiggin

Hello again, dear readers!

I have been back on the Hilltop for a little over three weeks now. I'm living in Village C West again, this time as an RA (resident assistant). I have thirty residents, who are all lovely and will likely be extremely successful here at Georgetown. (None of them is friends with me on Facebook and therefore none of them knows this blog exists, so I'm not just saying that!)

Classes just started last Wednesday, and they're picking up slowly. I know I should cherish the free time while I have it, but I'm getting antsy without that much to do. I am currently enrolled in four classes and on the waitlist for a fifth. I might actually get off the waitlist for the theology course, which would be fantastic; I had the professor last semester and loved her, so I'd probably enjoy taking another of her courses. All in all, I have a decent academic workload this semester! I have Tuesday afternoons entirely free, Monday and Wednesday from 11 to 3:30 free, and Fridays after 12:15 free. It's a solid schedule, and gives me plenty of time to attend to my many obligations. Below are my classes for this semester!

1. Linguistics: Grammatical Analysis
2. Linguistics: Language & Social Justice
3. Justice & Peace Studies: Peace Is Possible
4. Spanish: Gateway to Linguistics
5. Theology: Judaism & Gender

So far I really enjoy being an RA. I've been able to meet such incredible people that I otherwise would not have known, and I love being a resource and support for first-year students. My residents seem to love my cat, so hopefully that means I'm actually helpful to them in some way, even if it's just by providing some relaxation through kitty play time.

My kitten Robin is adorable and wonderful, and he is learning not to attack my legs, so overall, he and I are getting along well. For the most part he seems happy in the dorm room; he does get annoyed when I spend a lot of time outside of the room, but I try my best to give him enough attention and let people come over to play with him when I have to do work.

It's interesting to be back at Georgetown after three months away. In those three months, I visited Spokane, Washington, and met students from other Jesuit universities around the country. I spent many long days helping my family or avoiding do any work at all. I missed my friends and my cats, but I got to see many friends as well. I sang Outkast's "Hey Ya" at the top of my lungs with my best friend, in her car with the windows rolled down, and a woman in the next car over smiled at us. I spent time in Kraków, Poland, an experience so incredible and extraordinary that I struggle to fully describe it. While in Poland, I formed relationships with fellow Hoyas I had never met and/or spoken to before, people I now eagerly spend time with back on the Hilltop. My relationship with God entirely changed in Poland; my relationship with myself entirely changed in Poland.

I'm glad to be back, I'm excited for a new year, and I'm blessed to have more opportunities to love, to learn, and to change in this school year.

Take care!

Exeunt, Pursued by Bears

National Mall, May 8, 2016

My apologies for breaking my biweekly post schedule! I was waiting to finish finals and get back to Georgia. I am now, officially, finished with my freshman year of college! I've been home for a week and a half; I'm unpacked, mostly caught up on sleep, and settling into summer lethargy and heat.

I ended the semester with a 3.7 GPA! I still don't know my class schedule for next semester because I'm waitlisted for two courses. Now I have an entire summer to help the family move, say goodbye to Georgia, and indulge. Since my family is moving mid-summer, I won't be interning or working, so there's plenty of time to help renovate and pack, to read, to research, to run, and to enjoy the sun.

The week before I left DC, my friend Audrey asked me, "What did you learn this year?" I've been thinking about that question frequently lately. Of course I learned about linguistics, ethics, Hispanic culture, theology, and justice & peace theories, but I've learned so much more than that, too. I've learned I'm not good at sharing a living space, and I've learned I need structure to survive with sanity intact. I've learned I'm a lot like my dad in more ways than one, from our music tastes to our need for solitude and peace. I've learned the value of dialogue, of listening attentively to others' opinions and thoughts, of engaging with others' ideas. I've learned how to find God in just about anything, but especially in religious and spiritual texts of other traditions. I've learned my way around DC, ways to stay safe, the value of a square foot of space, and how often to call my parents.

This past year was far from easy, but it was worth it. I'm nervous for my sophomore year, because I'm still trying to solidify my new friendships and being home again has shown me how much loving relationships keep me emotionally and mentally healthy. One of my main goals this summer is to form strong healthy habits so that I can start my sophomore year in good shape.

I'm not sure if I will update this blog throughout the summer, or how frequently those updates may come. I hope you all have a wonderful summer whether you are working, studying, traveling, or resting! Take some time to appreciate your growth in the past twelve months. Every day is a new challenge, a new adventure. Let's enjoy it.

Untitled #2

Dahlgren Chapel in 1952, from the University Archives

On Friday night, Annemarie Hodge died. Mrs. Hodge was my kindergarten teacher, an incredibly kind and caring woman. In a parent-teacher meeting, instead of calling me bossy she said I had "a tendency to overuse [my] leadership abilities." She pronounced my name differently, in a way that made five-year-old me feel fancy. She was patient and supportive, even when I was poorly behaved (which happened often at five years old). After leaving her class, she always greeted me with a big smile. I felt painfully awkward and out of place as a child, and Mrs. Hodge always made me feel welcome and important. I don't think I was particularly special in that regard; she treated everyone like they were important and special. She taught many children, including special needs students. Mrs. Hodge had two young sons and a husband who works at the Johns Creek Police Department. It's hard for me to explain why her death is so upsetting to me. I haven't seen her in at least two years, possibly more. Her role in my life largely ended fourteen years ago. Still, her influence was incredibly important in my early development. I wasn't bossy, I was just learning when to be a leader and when to take a step back. I wasn't a nuisance or a bad kid, I just needed some patience and kind but firm direction. I don't think it's fair that Mrs. Hodge died. Of all the people in the world, she was one of the better ones. She helped so many people, me included. She's left behind two sons and a husband, among other family members, and there are so many people that she could have helped.

Recently I was in conversation with Father Greg Schenden and Reverend Bryant Oskvig, the University's Catholic and Protestant Chaplains, respectively, and both men agreed that they prefer to officiate funerals over weddings. When I asked why, Father Greg explained, "At funerals, people come searching for meaning." Weddings, they said, are much more perfunctory, but at funerals, their services are fully utilized. In the face of death, we all search for meaning.

Yesterday the Georgetown student body received an email from the Vice President of Student Affairs, titled "Sad News." A junior from the Business School died, the second Georgetown student to pass away this semester. The first was a freshman from the School of Foreign Service over Easter Break. We're all searching for meaning.

In Other News

On a happier note, I have some updates on my life. This week is the final week of classes of my freshman year. Next Monday is the last day of classes, and Tuesday through Thursday are study days. Finals begin Friday and last until May 14th. God willing, I will be back in Georgia by May 15th. I have approximately eight more assignments and/or exams until it's time to pack up my dorm room.

Last Friday I met with the director of the Justice and Peace Studies (JUPS) program, and declared my double major! Introducing Hannah Q Wingett, linguistics and JUPS double major at Georgetown University. Tentatively my JUPS concentration is Religion/Catholicism & Peace/Social Justice. The title will be formalized later in my Georgetown career.

Next year I might be leading a small faith group through Campus Ministry, possibly on "Suffering & Healing." I'm hoping to continue my involvement in the organizations I currently support, so next year will be quite the challenge with my preexisting commitments, my RA position, and leading a small group. Prayers and support, as always, are greatly appreciated.

I hope you all have a wonderful day, readers. Remember to appreciate the moment you're in. In the words of C.S. Lewis, "The humans live in time but [God] destines them to eternity. He therefore, I believe, wants them to attend chiefly to two things, to eternity itself, and to that point of time with they call the Present. For the Present is the point at which time touches eternity. Of the present moment, and of it only, humans have an experience analogous to the experience which [God] has of reality as a whole; in it alone freedom and actuality are offered them." Be well.

One Year Later

Dahlgren Chapel & Healy Hall, March 28, 2016

One year ago today, I filled out some paperwork, paid $900, and thus officially committed to Georgetown. I hoped to get a room in New South, major in linguistics, and prepare myself for a career in international diplomacy. I had a house in Georgia, two cats, and no idea how dramatically my life was about to change. Right now I sit in room 301 of Village C West, a linguistics and justice & peace studies double major with a potential minor in Spanish. I have no cats, and my house in Georgia will be sold in the next three months. I've seen the Pope, met Vice President Joe Biden, and sat fifteen feet in front of presidential candidate Bernie Sanders. I've learned more than I knew could be learned in just one year. I've been introduced to so much music.

Today I woke up late and put on a sundress. I had scrambled eggs and cinnamon rolls and soy milk, and then I ran a few errands. Afterwards, I did a few readings before getting dinner with my lovely friend Julia, and then we went for a short walk that ended in Dahlgren Chapel. We said hey to Jesus, and then parted ways to do work.

A year and four days ago, I was still grappling with the overwhelming prospect of student loan debt. A year ago, I took a big chance, and decided that Georgetown would be worth it. I was right. Despite my mental illness, which still plagues me and occasionally makes me more miserable than I want to admit where my grandma is going to see it, I'm happier here at Georgetown than I could have been at any other university. I've learned so much about life, about people, and about the world. Georgetown fosters communication—I've learned to listen here better than ever before. I, thankfully, can read at a much faster rate than I could in high school. My mind is being opened to so many ideas, and my heart has grown so much.

In the end, this is all to say, I'm grateful. I'm grateful I listened to my instincts telling me I wouldn't be happy at UGA, even though UGA would have been a much smarter financial move. I'm grateful my parents trusted me when I made my decision. I'm grateful that Georgetown gave me as much aid as they did, and that Wells Fargo stepped in to supply the remaining balance. I'm grateful for every faculty & staff member at Georgetown, who form the atmosphere and philosophy of the university. I'm grateful for the prospect of change. I'm grateful I survived the transition to college. I'm grateful my family could visit me here in DC. Thank you all for reading and for supporting me. I appreciate you all very much. Be well, and trust your instincts, which are the Holy Spirit working through you.