I can't go. I cannot move to New York. I can't.
When you’re depressed, you think about laying down a lot. Constantly, actually. Get close to a couch, and every part of your brain is suddenly convinced that everything would be better if you’d just sprawl out. Go ahead, it will say. Just a few minutes. You’ll feel so much better. Of course, you won’t. You’ll lay there staring off into the middle of nothing, trying to get back up but physically lacking the ability to do so. Hours may pass. Eventually, you’ll have to go somewhere -- a job interview, say, or even just the bathroom -- and you’ll summon the courage to break this sorcerous paralysis and get up.
To be fair, Kids was hardly the only thing that floored me back then. Before I understood my depression, any little thing could. A weird text message, a disappointing grade, a rainy day, sometimes even a sunny day: pretty much anything threw me into a silent emotional tailspin that I couldn’t comprehend, much less articulate to my peers. But the Kids ground-out was particularly severe at a time when my carefree collegiate existence -- in many ways, an extension of childhood -- was winding down. The havoc it wrought on my perception of NYC nearly convinced me not to move there at all.