In 2006, I was living with Clare, and having one of my infamous breakdowns, but at least this one ended differently. I had been binge watching The Office (BBC) during my days, while I pounded keys for yet a company that refused to recognize my value even as I acted a fool.

When I can’t convince people of the value of what I do, I make myself the most obviously firable employee for all reasons except my work. Then, when they inevitably bring me in for discipline, I tell them outright to fire me. They never have. They still miss my point, perfectly made.

Martin Freeman’s character, Tim, had realized on his 30th birthday — mine was coming up — that he didn’t want to spend his time working in a mid-range paper company. The similarities in my own life were too strong to ignore.

I pounded my fists and raised my voice at Clare, who had never earned my ire, not once. I raked my face and racked my brains. I searched and scraped my soul for how to proceed. And I found it.

The one thing in my life that I consistently looked forward to was teaching stage combat (which I called “fencing”) at my high school alma mater. I would pursue that. That realization lead me to the SAFD.

Now, nearly ten years later, my unyielding depression’s mumbles echo painfully in my ear, as I have been accepted to the exclusive, prestigious, and mettle-testing Teacher Certification Workshop. I have arrived at the doorstep of my past self, with weak knees and a dead heart. And a compass, broken, with the arrow pointing up.

“Here is where it all leads,” I say to myself. “It’s still the only thing you look forward to, but that doesn’t mean what it used to.”