Dealing With Depression On A Major League Level

He didn’t want to look in the mirror that morning. He’d been floating by mirrors for some time now, his reflection a shadowy distortion. He didn’t like the face he saw, either. He didn’t like what he was becoming.

He reached for the stubble on his chin as he dragged his feet across the natty hotel room rug that morning, eyelids half-mast and not too eager to begin a new day with a hot shower. He hated the dark place where he was; only he didn’t know he was in a dark place. Maybe today will be different, he tried to convince himself. Maybe I’ll look forward to going to the ballpark and throwing again, he thought.

That’s when Taylor Buchholz hit his nadir.

He had no idea what was coursing through his body. But something gripped him. Clutched him hard. His joints locked. He couldn’t stand. Buchholz remembers bracing himself up against the bathroom tile of the shower stall and realizing the water falling from his face wasn’t coming from the showerhead. They were his tears.

He pounded his fist against the wall in frustration, wondering where this overflow of emotion, where the uncontrollable sobbing originated.

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