Wednesday, September 16, 2020
From that year until my early adulthood, every spring, around the anniversary of my cousin’s death, my despondency would return. My panic attacks started when I was 16; I waited until I was of legal age to add an unhealthy relationship with alcohol to the mix.
Through therapy, I’ve become good at recognizing the signs of depression and warding off the worst of its effects. I can note my own social withdrawal, recognize that I have slipped deeper into an overwhelming sadness and correct some very basic things in my life — diet, exercise, sleep, returning phone calls — to help me get back to normal.
Since the day Donald Trump was elected, this hasn’t worked.
The author, a Mr. Smith, is no relation.