• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

How could a person be so selfless? So strong? She was expending her last energy giving to others.

Then I told Jill’s other friends and her husband I couldn’t stay, that I had already missed the first classes, that I couldn’t miss the third as well, that I had to leave and go to work. How important is work? I thought afterward. Would these students have really cared if I canceled class again?

I had a small buzzing in my head, a background noise that continued all day. And then, in the evening, just before class, it stopped. I knew Jill was dead. I rang the hospital. A nurse answered. Her hesitation confirmed what I already knew. “Let me get one for her friends for you,” she said.

One of Jill’s closest friends, Debbie, came to the phone. “She just died,” she said. Debbie sounded peaceful. Twenty of Jill’s friends had sat in the hospital room with her, holding hands, touching Jill with their thoughts. Jill had come out of her quasi-coma once. “Am I dying?” she asked her husband.

“Yes,” he said.

Jill had closed her eyes for a minute. “Then,” she said, “when you’re finished being sad, have a party.”

I arrived at the first Bahia Street fundraiser a few days later, feeling depressed. I kept thinking of how I could have done more for Jill. A green-colored Depression, 214M, sidled up to me as I entered the door. I called him “This Project Was Stupid And Who Am I To Think I Could Do It?” He was accompanied by his red-eyed close companion “I Don’t Really Like These People Anyway.” When I saw all the enthused, expectant faces, I felt even worse. How was I going to make animated conversation or even be civil?

I had worn a short white dress, and brushed my hair long. I had debated wearing the dress: a cute, sexy outfit could make me feel good about myself, give me confidence. But if I were already feeling low and inadequate, I sometimes couldn’t live up to the outfit and would stand, feeling like a dork, acutely aware of every imperfection. These times, it was much better to wear slacks and a neutral shirt. Then my self and my appearance were at least in balance. I had worn the dress and now regretted it. I shook my head, trying to shake myself free.

“Look,” Kyra, one of the volunteers, said, “we’ve begun a presentation table, put up some of your photos. What do you think? And Pat’s taking the door.”

I looked at the beautiful display. Beside Kyra—a very bright student of mine from the year before—stood Karey and Aaron. All were in their early twenties and all looked at me expectantly. When I didn’t say anything, I saw their smiles tremble and begin to fade. My internal struggles with clawing, varicolored Depressions leapt out toward them as disapproval.

“Don’t you like it?” Karey asked. She was a Latin American Studies major who wanted to become a professional social activist when she graduated. I saw worry and hurt creep into her eyes.

“No, no,” I said, “it’s great!”

I examined the photos pasted to a black poster board with colorful writing above. A bright tablecloth covered a table decorated with Brazilian trinkets and hats. I had no idea who had brought the materials. “Did you put this together?” I looked at the volunteers. They nodded. “It looks fantastic!”

I watched the doubt disappear from their eyes and the smiles re-emerge. “This is wonderful,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

I ran to the bathroom and kicked a roll of toilet paper across the room. “Fuck you,” I said to the demons crouched inside. “Fuck you all.”

I stood before the mirror and put on lipstick (armor). Finally, I understood: how I personally felt was irrelevant. I was on stage. I had to be a persona. All feelings of inadequacy or depression could be polished and indulged in solitude, but for now, they had no place.

I had never thought about how doing this project would affect relationships. People expected me to be inspiring now, not to tell them how lousy I felt. I realized further, with some shock, that since I had