Managing Graduate School with Depression
As a student of Western science, my immediate intuition was to begin this story with data. I thought about surveying the students in my department about their experience with mental health in graduate school, as if there was a threshold of collective suffering that would validate my struggle, and perhaps make others feel less alone too.
The thing is, these studies have been done. We know that graduate students suffer from mental health challenges like anxiety and depression at rates six times higher than the general population. Six times higher. It has even been deemed a mental health crisis. So, instead of adding another survey to the growing body of evidence, I want to tell you my story of navigating graduate school–and life–with clinical depression.
Trigger warning: I am trying to be as honest as possible because I think it is valuable for people to face mental health with vulnerability when possible. This means that there will be explanations of suicidal ideation and other experiences that may trigger strong emotions. If that happens, stop reading and take care of yourself however you can. For me, that means drawing a bath and re-starting “The Office” for the ninth time in a row, letting the comedic timing and warm water roll over me like calming waves. I will also preface this by stating the obvious: I am not a mental health professional and what is written below is by no means substitute for medical advice. I will do my best to provide resources for those who are looking for support. For those who continue to read, I sincerely thank you for taking the time to hear my story.
I was diagnosed with clinical depression midway through my third quarter in graduate school, though I suspect I had been suffering for at least a year prior to that following some major losses in my life. I was isolated, working about 12 hours a day on the computer, and disconnected from a sense of community in the midst of a global pandemic. By the time I received my diagnosis, I was already mentally exhausted and lacking any internal motivation to engage with subject matter I objectively found fascinating.
After a conversation with a friend and strong advocate of recognizing mental health challenges in the workplace, I realized I was experiencing presenteeism: I was physically present but mentally absent. I physically attended my Zoom classes, but the information flew past me with very little absorption. I saw the words on the hundreds of pages of readings I was assigned each week – my eyes tracked the shapes of the letters – and yet I was barely able to comprehend their meaning.
I felt as though I was experiencing the world from the bottom of a well. Bright shapes and flashes of activity passed high above me, fuzzy and distorted, but my immediate environment was dark, void, oppressive, heavy. I still have days like this, wrapped in the suffocating blanket of depression, thankful that my body keeps my heart pumping and my diaphragm drawing in breath because I’m just not sure I’d be able to do it consciously.
This new reality was jarring for me and I realize now just how lucky I was to have avoided severe mental health challenges for most of my life. I always strived to be a hard working and resilient student, taking on extra research projects and working multiple jobs. I personally tied part of my identity to my ability to work nonstop, as capitalism has trained many in our nation to do. I think those of us who apply for graduate school are cut from that same cloth which is why dealing with mental health challenges in graduate school is uniquely challenging. Academia has the pressure of a hydraulic press, and it often feels as though one’s value is measured by how much weight they can hold up, how much pressure they can handle.
“Academia has the pressure of a hydraulic press, and it often feels as though one’s value is measured by how much weight they can hold up, how much pressure they can handle.”
When depression hit full force and completing even the simplest of tasks–responding to an email or writing a discussion post–felt insurmountable, it was as though I had lost what made me, me. That’s what depression did for me, it stole my defining features. And the scariest part was that I didn’t care.
The almost complete erasure of my sense of self and connection to the world was the most sinister symptom of my depression. The weight loss, excessive sleeping, inability to get out of bed, and disinterest in engaging with my friends and family were all terrible, but the numbness was the most difficult part to overcome. Things I had previously found joy and purpose in no longer mattered. I was simply going through the motions of graduate school and somehow, miraculously, skating by.
I was unbelievably fortunate to find a therapist at the last possible moment, before my mental state devolved into total chaos. Within a few appointments she made her diagnosis and told me that this hopelessness was a symptom of clinical depression and not my reality. While society often stigmatizes such a diagnosis, I felt relief. Finally, there was an explanation other than my own weakness for why I was having such a hard time connecting to my work and meeting goals and deadlines. I was beginning to think that with some therapy and consistent time spent monitoring my mental state and changing my habits I would be able to nip this thing in the bud (I was still relatively naive but hey, at least there was a bit of hope).
And then something devastating happened, an event that would have been an unbelievably painful disruption to my life regardless of my pre-existing state of mind. My cat, Crumbs, who I adopted as a mangy stray kitten during quarantine, got outside late one night and never returned. This little being who had woken me up every morning for food, sat with me to drink tea and watch the sunrise before I attempted to work, and provided some normalcy, routine, love, and joy in my day was gone in the blink of an eye.
That weekend I was grading over 600 test questions as a TA while simultaneously scouring the neighborhood and hanging missing cat posters. I didn’t sleep. I went into periodic catatonic states where I couldn’t move or speak. I began thinking about the most convenient ways I could end my life so that my family wouldn’t have to come home to a body. I hadn’t quite realized how little there was left in me, how serious my depression had gotten.
Graduate school gave me very little space in my life for anything other than being a student, and yet my life no longer had space for school. I was supposed to be finalizing my literature review for my thesis, defining the methods to use for my data collection over the summer, turning in homework, and preparing my students for their final exam. Instead, I sat paralyzed, terrified, and hopeless, unable to visualize a future that I wanted to be a part of.
I am eternally grateful to my peers who covered for me as I was out searching for Crumbs in back fields, jumping in the car the moment I got a call about a potential sighting around the neighborhood. Without them, and the support of my parents who helped me search and kept me alive, I likely would have failed out of my third quarter. I am equally grateful that my therapist suggested I go on an antidepressant, something I had been skeptical of trying for antiquated notions that I “should be strong enough to tackle my depression on my own.” But I was at a point of no return; either I tried something new, or I wouldn’t have the option to try anything ever again.
After receiving my prescription I was hoping to see a drastic improvement right away. I had a plan to make up the thesis work that I had neglected during the quarter and to begin data collection and analysis…just as soon as the meds kicked in. That didn’t end up happening until mid-August, about three months after my episode of suicidal ideation and several dosage adjustments. Even then, I was only just noticing small moments of joy, appreciating the sun and the wind and the laughter of my friends.
I ended up taking the entire summer “off,” although I spent every day thinking about the work that I should have been doing. Now, at the end of my fourth quarter, I am thankful to say that I am no longer teetering on the precipice of mental collapse. My resilience is not at all what it used to be. I get fatigued after only a few hours on the computer or engaging with work (perhaps the idea of a 40 hour workweek–or more like 80 hours for graduate students–needs to be reevaluated entirely). I still have days where I find it hard to get out of bed. I constantly remind myself that even with antidepressants and regular therapy, I am still clinically depressed.
While I don’t think graduate school was the initial cause of my depression, the environment of academia certainly didn’t help. The constant pressure to perform and the exhaustive workload makes engaging with other healthy activities, like having a social life, difficult. The feeling like I was constantly in over my head, engaging with subject matter more fit for someone in their late career, heightened my stress and exasperation. Conversations about imposter syndrome are common among me and my peers, yet there only seemed to be one solution: grin and bear it.
Academia needs to go beyond simply recognizing that burn-out, anxiety and depression, and other mental health challenges are real and common and begin to value them as they would physical illnesses, family emergencies, and other aspects of life that pull attention away from work. Mental health needs to be a normalized discussion and a perfectly acceptable excuse to take a break. In fact, it needs to be something people, companies, institutions, readily work to provide services for.
The biggest thing that helped me pull through this period of my life was talking about it. That’s partly why I wanted to write this article: to actively work against the notion that these feelings should be kept to oneself. I spoke about my depression with my thesis advisor, who listened with unbelievable compassion and grace. We check in each week to make sure I am taking care of my mental health. I am immensely grateful for this as I know that is not always the case between advisors and advisees. I have been open about my experience with my peers in the hope that if they feel similarly, we would both end up feeling less alone.
Naming depression and calling attention to it intentionally, not wrapping it in shame and disappointment, has helped me immensely with accepting the difficulties of navigating grad school and life. I expect that I will continue to face depression for some time. It has not been a linear process for me.
Daily, I try to remind myself that nothing is worth driving myself to the place I was at last spring; not publishing in a prestigious journal nor winning a research award, or even graduating on time. I’ve been slowly, slowly learning to afford myself some compassion as I move through work and life. I only hope I can offer some encouragement and inspiration for others to do the same. Whether this is your 10th day or 10th year with depression, there are resources out there to help and people who are willing to listen. Be kind to yourself, practice self-compassion, validate your experience and know that the pain you feel is not something that you can simply get over. It does not make you weak. In fact, moving through life, choosing to wake up everyday and try again in the face of mental illness, makes you pretty damn strong.
If you related to any part of this story and are looking for support, here are some UW mental health resources as well as some wider resources that I found helpful:
National Suicide Prevention Hotline: (800) 273-8255
Are You Thinking About Suicide? How to Stay Safe and Find Treatment
How to Get Therapy Without Insurance
Antioch University: Low-Cost Seattle Community Therapy Options
GoodRx: resources for lowering the cost of medication
The Role of Self-Compassion in Buffering Symptoms of Depression
Self-Compassion can Relieve Depression