For the record, I was never a Tom Cruise enthusiast, but I never in my life thought taking antidepressants would be for me.
For starts, I never suffered from depression. Sure, I had the teenage angst years where I boo hoo'd over the boyfriend who dumped me, and the "what do I really want to do with my life" mindfuck when my graduate department admitted they had erred when they let in too many students ahead of me and there was to be no financial or professional assistance in the form of grants or jobs in my future. Sure, I wrote overly-emotive poetry and listened to Pink Floyd's "The Wall." I had a solid six-hour cry 18 months into my trying-to-conceive misadventure which was odd enough that my husband came home from work early to sit with me. But I always felt a solid foundation going through these moments -- a sense that there was more to me than that. I watched a friend crumble after failing her pre-lims, and realized she had wrapped her entire life -- her entire identity -- into this potential profession. It hit me (as I passed the kleenex) that I was rather lucky: I liked this profession enough, but I had other stuff too. I liked to cook, I liked to run, I liked to travel. I had super friends, a fabulous boyfriend (who became my husband) and I figured if I had my wits about me, I could probably make money somehow. Oh, and someday, I wanted a family.
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Tash is a guest blogger for Bridges.