I was an award-winning student and athlete, but sometimes I had tremendous amounts of energy, and, on occasion, I could barely move. At that point, I had experienced more mania than depression. I knew that I smiled and laughed more than most of my friends, and sometimes I became extremely intense. People told me to, "Take a chill pill!" (a popular expression at the time).
The winter before this picture was taken, I slipped into a depression. I got up, got dressed, and went to school, but that was about it. I quit wearing the makeup I was used to wearing on a daily basis, didn't do much to my hair, and dressed in the first thing I pulled out of the closet. I was also really quiet. A couple of my teachers called my parents to ask if I was okay. They were worried that I was taking drugs, which I wasn't. One Friday night, a guy who was friends with my sister, coaxed me out of the house and took me to a party. He thought it would help, but I felt totally isolated and alone in the crowd that night.
My parents didn't know what to do, so they asked around and found a psychologist for me to talk to. He was a kindly older man with a beard. We talked for a long time, and he advised me to leave my small city and encouraged me to apply to Ivy League schools. That was flattering, but I can't say it helped. Eventually I got better though, and kept moving forward. I had slowed down, but I still hadn't broken down. That would happen a year and a half later.
