Free The Center Cannot Hold: My Journey Through Madness by Elyn R. Saks

depression; indeed,
I felt both sad and sleepy fairly soon after taking it. But I stopped
feeling like I was about to jump out of my skin. The nights grew mostly
quiet, and I was able to complete my work.
    At the end of the summer, I boarded a plane to Washington, D.C.
There I would meet the other Marshall scholars at the British
Embassy, and then we would continue on our way to Oxford. I didn't
really know how to act in this situation—what is the proper behavior
before a consul general, anyway? My anxiety began to ratchet up: I
had no idea how I was going to manage this, and then Oxford, and my
studies.
    My mother had helped me find clothes, which was one of my least
favorite tasks; there were too many choices, I could never make up my
mind, and whenever I tried to picture circumstances in which I would
wear these new clothes, the thought alone made me anxious. Mostly,
we ordered sweaters and good pants from the L.L.Bean catalog, and
bought a couple of suits with blouses for dress-up occasions. I'd need
a coat, and a jacket. I'd need shoes that weren't sneakers. Perhaps I'd
need an umbrella—I was, after all, going to England. Somehow,
having the right kind of things seemed the armor one might need
when embarking on graduate studies in England.
    The initial meeting-and-greeting in D.C. went past me in some
kind of haze. I forgot everyone's name as soon as we were introduced,
although I was gratified to see that almost everyone seemed as
nervous as I was. Of course there was protocol; to my great relief, I
didn't violate any of it, at least as far as I could tell. And then we were
off to Oxford.
    Despite our common language, it's no secret that England and
America are vastly different countries, with perhaps the biggest
difference being the fabled British reserve. Many aspects of casual
conversation that feel quite natural to Americans are totally off-limits
in England, and it didn't take me long to learn that in my new
environment. One day, I asked a British friend where he planned to
spend his holiday, and he looked quite taken aback. I later learned
that such a question should never be asked, because the answer could
reveal someone's class background. The sunny, open, Latin-tinged
mores of Miami, combined with the Old South graciousness of
Vanderbilt, seemed a world away in the far older and more courtly
enclaves of Oxford. For example, cashiers never said, "Y'all come back
soon now!" or "Have a good day!" whenever we exchanged money for
goods. I often left a shop, food or package tucked under my arm,
wondering what I'd done wrong to be dismissed so coolly. Didn't it
matter to them what kind of a day I had?
    The weather turned cool, the sunlight dimmed a little, the days
became shorter. Adding to my general disorientation was an
educational system vastly different from the one in which I'd done my
undergraduate work. Oxford's program consists of optional,
university-wide lectures and seminars, plus meeting alone with a tutor
or supervisor once a week for an hour or less. Exams come at the end
of two or three years. For the weekly tutorial, a student reads a
number of articles and then presents a paper, upon which the tutor
then comments. I was accustomed to writing two or three long papers
over a four-month period, not one short paper a week. I couldn't
imagine being able to do it.
    I made one new friend from America, a woman named Jean, who
was studying in London; we met on a cigarette break in the bathroom
at the British Embassy. Tall—as tall as I—and very thin and pretty,
Jean had studied to be a nurse until she met her doctor-fiance,
Richard, who encouraged her to go back to school and finish her
college degree. She did well, and ultimately won a Marshall
Scholarship to study linguistics at University College in London. She
was warm and approachable. I liked her, and she seemed to like me,
too. But she was in London and I was in Oxford; although we spoke by
phone maybe once a week, she was an hour away.
    From