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A couple of years ago at a follow-up visit, I told my psychiatrist that the medicine he’d prescribed had really helped with depression. My symptoms were still there, but they were manageable.

It was my last semester of college, and I was in my “thesis” course: Advanced Creative Writing. The instructor had a strict policy: for every absence over two, no matter the cause, your grade was lowered by half a letter. He told us he didn’t care if our grandma had died.