The Struggle: Sex, Drugs, And Slitting Your Wrists In Law School

You may be able to help a law student who needs to know that someone else has been there before and survived.

depressed head in handsWelcome to The Struggle, a series where we examine the mental-health issues that students encounter during the oftentimes grueling law school experience. We are posting these stories because sometimes what law students really need is to know that they’re not alone in their pain. Sometimes what law students need is to know that they’ve got a friend who is willing to share not just in their triumphs, but also in their struggles. These are real e-mails and messages we’ve received from real readers.

If these issues resonate with you, please reach out to us. Your stories need to be heard. You can email us, text us at (646) 820-8477, or tweet us @atlblog. We will share your stories anonymously. You may be able to help a law student who needs to know that someone else has been there before and survived.


A few years ago, my dear friend passed away of a drug overdose while attending a middling law school in the Midwest. I felt helpless, angry, but above all, soul-crushingly sad. I let my sadness consume me, and in so doing, gave his death little critical thought. This friend had struggled with drug abuse throughout the majority of his adult life. I chalked his death up to his personal demons, internal curses that no outward circumstance could either relieve or exacerbate.

Now, I’m not so sure.

Shortly after his death, I began attending law school. After completing my first two semesters, I thought of almost nothing beyond how naive I must have been to assume that “law school” had nothing to do with my friend’s demise. And this, of course, is due to what I experienced during 1L.

The rote machinations of the first year of law school are, I’m sure, seared into the minds of you and your readership. But the effect these machinations had on me was shocking. 1L does a ruthlessly efficient job of robbing its participants of their agency. My classes were chosen for me. My schedule was planned for me. My living quarters were picked for me.

Every one of my grades, based on single examinations, was achieved through the exact same study methods as everyone around me (take notes, rewrite notes, copy outlines, rinse, repeat). My writing professor insisted on precise formulas intended to deliver him the information in the manner he desired. When I pushed back on this, I was both penalized and chastised.

I could go on, but in the interest of sparing you from the further complaints from another whiny ex-1L, I’ll jump to my personal fallout. In short, I sought every coping mechanism available. I drank in exorbitant excess; once I even woke up in an alley near my studio. I indulged in a splendid nose-centric white powdery substance with such frequency that at one point I thought it prudent to take a bump before one of my final exams. I slept with more women at the law school in two semesters than I had my entire first two years of college.

And then, one morning deep into second semester, after a nasty evening of profligate consumption following a bitter fight with the girl of the week, I awoke to find myself lying on the floor of my kitchen, a vertical wound in my forearm some 6 inches in length, carved by my hand with a serrated steak knife.

This was… disheartening. I hadn’t taken a blade to myself since high school, and even then, infrequently. It should be noted that, outwardly, I was the vision of success. On the inside, not so much. I spoke to precisely nobody of the internal chaos ripping me apart day-by-day. I felt an oppressive pressure to succeed coupled with no control over the daily occurrences in my own life. And all of that set in a learning environment I would characterize as counterproductive and counterintuitive.

I go to one of the 20 best law schools in the country. I am tall, athletic, attractive, smart, and wealthy. I will be financially successful, and nobody will, or should, ever feel sorry for me. But these exact same descriptors, to a T, could have been used to characterize to my dead friend. And god damnit, do I ever feel sorry for him and his beautiful family.

I blame lots of things for his death. Drugs mostly. His own problems plenty. But now, after confronting my own tremendous issues with law school, I cannot help but think that it may have played some role in his passing, as well. Perhaps that is unfair; he, as I, had serious problems well before law school. However, I am no unbiased observer. And it is my belief — my jaded, exceptionally bitter belief — that “law school” should shoulder some of the blame for killing one of its own.


If you’re depressed and in need help, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (1-800-273-8255) or a lawyer assistance program in your state. Remember that you are loved, so please reach out if you need assistance, before it’s too late.


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Staci Zaretsky is an editor at Above the Law. Feel free to email her with any tips, questions, or comments. Follow her on Twitter or connect with her on LinkedIn.

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