We Can't Keep Meeting Like This

he says. “Even getting up to take a shower—the idea of leaving my bed, forcing myself down the hallway… It was overwhelming. I—” He swallows hard, like maybe he’s regretting telling me all of this. “I’ve had this kind of thing happen before. But I was usually so busy, and my parents would be there to keep me on track, keep me working, that I was always able to snap out of it. But this time I couldn’t snap out of it. The reading kept piling up. I kept missing classes. I’d avoid calls from my parents, and the couple times I did pick up, I’d lie to them, tell them everything was going great. I didn’t even go back for Thanksgiving, told them I had to work on a big project. My roommate finally asked me if I’d gone to see a campus counselor. Said they’d helped him out with some of his own mental health stuff.”

He scrapes a hand across his stubbled jaw, and now I am picturing a different kind of stubble that grows in after days spent in bed. I’m relieved he keeps talking—both relieved and heart-achy—because I still have no idea what to say.

“It took failing two midterms—one because I didn’t go and the other because of course I hadn’t studied—to get me to make that trek across campus to see a counselor. When I got there, they gave me this questionnaire… this depression questionnaire. And at first I thought it was almost comical, because what do I have to be depressed about? My parents are great, and I’m healthy, except for all the times I couldn’t get out of bed, but I was certain there wasn’t anything physically wrong with me. And I was in college, where I was supposed to be having the time of my life. But I remember filling it out and thinking I had just about every symptom on the list, and having a name for it… It felt like finding something I hadn’t known was missing. Clinical depression. That’s what it was.” He twists his mouth to one side, a sort of half frown. “Well—what it is. Since it doesn’t just go away.”

He’s letting me into a place I’ve wanted to go for so long, except what’s going on inside is more serious than I could have imagined.

“Tarek,” I say, regretting those horrible things I said. All that selfishness. “I had no idea. I’m so, so sorry. I’m sorry for pushing you, and I’m sorry you were dealing with this.”

He gives a slight nod of acknowledgment, but I can tell he isn’t done. “I think I’ve probably had it for a while. It wasn’t sudden, but I noticed it a lot more when I was on my own. It gave the depression time to fully take control, I guess. I hadn’t had a major depressive episode—that’s what the counselor called it—like that before. So I started seeing that counselor regularly, and I saw a doctor, who prescribed some antidepressants, and it wasn’t an immediate fix. I still had some fucking awful days. But little by little, I was able to function again. I went to class. I had to beg some of my professors for extra credit, for makeup assignments, for second and third chances. That was the beginning of December. I managed to get my grades back up to Cs, so I passed, but my GPA was shot. I finally told my parents when I was in Seattle for winter break, and they didn’t want to let me go back at first. I made a deal with them—I’d make a B average in every class, or I’d come home. And I did it. I worked my ass off the next semester, and I did it. And now… now I’m feeling a lot better. I have a therapist here, too, and I’m not cured or anything, but for now I feel okay.”

I try to process all of this as the boat rocks us back and forth, the softest ocean lullaby.

“I’m sorry,” I say again. “You—you could’ve told me. I would’ve listened. If that’s what you needed.”

“I should have done a lot of things. I should have told my parents. I should have gotten help earlier. But I was so embarrassed at first. I was terrified of my parents finding out and wanting me to move back home. And part of me was worried there wasn’t a name for what I was going through and I was always going to be that way.” Slowly, I see the weight of this unhunch his shoulders, straighten his posture. “You’re the first person I’ve told. Well, besides my parents.”

Another thing I’m not sure how to respond to, except with gratitude. I was a jerk, and yet he still confided in me. If he were anyone else, I’d ask if I could hug him, but I’m not sure what we are at the present moment. I’m not sure if we hug.

So instead, I reach forward, brushing his hand with a few fingertips. A brief touch to let him know this meant something to me, too. He glances up when I touch him, his eyes full of an emotion I’m not sure I’ve seen before, and there’s an intensity there that makes me drop my hand.

“Thank you for telling me. And I’m so glad you figured out you don’t have to feel that way.” I sag back against the wall before barreling forward with my own confession. If we have any chance at a friendship, he needs to know I’m in this too. That I can be vulnerable. That I trust him. “I’ve been in therapy too. Not as regularly anymore, but for a couple years, I was going every other week. Then every month, and now it’s only when I’m really having trouble managing it. I have OCD. Obsessive-compulsive disorder. And generalized anxiety disorder, which is pretty common with OCD.”

He nods slowly, taking this in. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“I—um. So it starts with