Throughout my teenage years, I’d had spells of heavy quiet that seemed more than hormonal. There were many days I could not emerge from bed to open the window blinds, and afternoons I’d spend napping in my car, feeling too tired to attend the drama classes I actually liked. Then, like a surprise spring peeling back its chilly blanket to reveal green warmth and morning dew, the sadness would inexplicably lift, and I’d be full of vigour and hope for many weeks at a time. My self-esteem would skyrocket. I’d attend improv classes, sneak into bars with friends, and dance wildly to music on the street outside my house.