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In the winter of my sophomore year of college, I felt like a cliché. I was in a slump - socially and scholastically. I was sleeping less and eating more, isolating myself from making new friends, and alienating longstanding ones through ignoring calls or sending passive-aggressive instant messages. I was missing class and nearly missing due dates of my class assignments. I felt bad that I did not have the emotional energy to be as supportive as I wished to my family as my maternal grandmother was recovering from a heart attack. During some evenings (and even mornings), I considered withdrawing all of the money (about $460) from my bank account, taking a train to the other side of the nation, and trying at least to start again as a blank slate, or at least one whose ink did not feel quite as wet.
In the midst of one particularly intense period when it was hard to face the outside world, I would not answer the door for people who wanted to visit my dorm room for the next year to decide if they wanted to live there. The fact that they wished to see my room, a collection of inanimate objects, and not me, was a reminder of the pathos I was feeling. In response to their knocking, I literally went into the closet, shut the door, and called a friend at another school. As we talked, I imagined the confused facial expressions of the people waiting outside. I felt bad but not bad enough to let them inside. I consoled myself with the fact that next year I would be living with one of the few close friends I had on campus.
Having felt this way and sought therapy previously, I was aware that I was experiencing the signs and symptoms of depression. I looked for help in a myriad of ways. Upon the recommendation of a kind practitioner at campus Health Services, I purchased a humidifier to help with sleep. Despite never plugging it in, I eventually began sleeping better. I resumed counseling with a seasoned therapist who provided a safe space in which to describe my often negative emotions and thoughts. My supervisor at work, for whom I am eternally grateful, validated my experiences of the school, particularly of not fitting in among the privileged, and at times, elitist atmosphere. I connected with classmates, mostly older graduate students who directly and indirectly challenged the loneliness and pessimism that had dominated my view of myself, the world, and the future. Speaking to and seeing friends and family of like minds and hearts who did not attend my school was also an oasis. Praying and listening to music (particularly the 10,000 Maniacs “In My Tribe” and Sheryl Crow’s “Tuesday Night Music Club”) lifted my spirits as well.
Within this dysthymic era, there is one moment that helped propelled me into wellness. I had been trying in vain to study in the library when I learned very disheartening news. The person who had been my closest friend, and indeed the reason I applied to the school in the first place, was saying that she could not live with me next year as I was stressing her out too much.
I was fighting tears as I was ironically re-reading a passage about the applications of social psychology. As I was trying to cram into my already full mind information about theories of the power of the situation, I looked up and saw a classmate with whom I was beginning a friendship. I ardently respected and admired her – she was assertive yet still warm and had worked much harder than me to get and stay in this prestigious school.
She approached me in the computer cluster and inquired if I wanted to study together later that evening. Desperately looking for companionship and motivation, I immediately agreed.
En route to my new friend’s place, while listening in my Walkman to an audiotape of Sheryl’s “Leaving Las Vegas,” the clouds above seemed to become fluffier amidst the few stars peering through them.
We had a great time and learned more about each other and social psychology. We consumed Lucky Charms, which she was able to procure given her dining hall position, while reading each other’s class notes and then watching “Something about Mary.” I had laughed for the first time in weeks and was able to put aside the sense of being betrayed, which had felt so palpable only hours earlier.
After that night, I felt like I had the energy to keep going and even sustain that momentum. My friend’s support, without knowing much about what I was experiencing, showed me that despite my strong fears and beliefs, there were new caring people to meet and even befriend. Learning more about what my friend had endured was also inspiring and helped put some of my concerns into a larger perspective. I also realized that I was capable of change and reflection: I could go from hiding in a closet to genuinely connecting with another soul and I could understand how I contributed to my friend not wanting to live with me. However, I also realized that I could still live with myself.
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Why is this "The i’Mpossible Project?"
Inspired by Josh Rivedal's book and one-man show The Gospel According to Josh: A 28-Year Gentile Bar Mitzvah. Gospel (non-religious) means "Good News" and Josh's good news is that he's alive, and thriving, able to tell his story and help other people.
On his international tour with his one-man show, he found incredible people who felt voiceless or worthless yet who were outstanding people with important personal stories waiting to be told. These personal stories changed his life and the life of the storyteller for the better.
Josh's one-man show continues through 2015 and beyond and he is looking for people in all walks of life, online and offline, to help give them a voice and share their stories with the world.
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