🎶 When Depression Takes Over (Yeah-Ah-Eah!) 🎶

Wellbutrin has entered the chat. And how finding (and building) community saved my ass.

Mar 22, 2024

There were times that I did not think I would survive 2023.

I know that may be hard to hear for many folks, especially those closest to me, as I haven’t really shared the extent of just how poor my mental health was last year. Up until very recently, I was in the worst depression I’ve experienced in ten years. However, as dire as it was, please know that I know when and how to ask for help. I’m fortunate to have a very strong support system, so strong that these loved ones of mine can read me so well, they know when to swoop in, even without me vocalizing how much I’m struggling. (And if you or someone you love is struggling, there are resources and systems of support available, such as hotlines, online chats, crisis text lines, youth-specific services, trans lifelines, and more. If you’re Black, brown, Indigenous, and/or otherwise a non-white person struggling with mental health issues, here are fifty-five resources for people of color.)

But I survived. I felt like this, but I survived:

I fell into this deep depression at the end of October of 2022. I can basically pinpoint the exact moment because, after a night of slamming them back at some hole-in-the-wall spot in the East Village, I stopped by a bodega and bought a pack of Marlboro Lights for the first time in five years before heading home. It was a few days before Halloween, and about a month before my almost-six-year relationship came to an end.

My personal life felt like it was slowly imploding, which stood in stark contrast to my professional life, which continued to grow as bigger and better opportunities came my way. While I relished these chances to grow and challenge myself as a writer and artist, I was still white-knuckling it every day. The growing gap between my professional and private life felt like a yawning crevasse. I felt like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, my life in suspended animation.

I knew my relationship was over. I’d known for quite some time by that point, but I’d been scared to admit it—to myself most of all. It was the guilt that had felt like a slow, painful death. I’d known I would have to be the one to pull the trigger, because I truly loved my partner—who I knew was ready to walk away from the relationship, too—and for every day I didn’t do the deed, I felt this crushing guilt weighing me down. I knew the relationship was holding us both back; I knew the break would set us both free.

I am nothing if not honest, so in the spirit of continuing to tell the unvarnished truth, I also found myself falling in love with one of my closest friends, who was the only one I had confided in when it came to the dissolution of my relationship. And those feelings were reciprocated, but, due to extenuating circumstances (that are not mine to share), we both knew that we had a slim shot at a future together. Regardless, this relationship was what grounded me. It gave me strength. It taught me that there is so much beauty and light to soak up during our limited time here, and that we should spend every moment we can basking in that glow, which is what knowing and loving him has taught me. Because of him, I had the audacity to hope for a better future—for myself and my ex-partner.

When my partner and I finally did break up, in November, it had come as a relief. We weren’t just both on the same page, but on the same sentence, same word. It couldn’t have been a more amicable breakup. I mean, we literally watched the latest episode of White Lotus right after we wiped the tears from each other’s eyes and promised to move on as best friends, as brothers—family forever, forever family.

It wasn’t until they moved out in December that I truly fell apart. To me, that was more painful than the breakup. The night they officially moved out, I had come back to my empty apartment after helping them drop off the remainder of their stuff to their mom’s place in Queens. I collapsed and cried on the floor until six in the morning. The home I had worked so hard to afford and to create for us felt empty, void. I felt like I had lost a major part of me, which I knew wasn’t true, but the wound was too fresh to compete with that visceral logic.

In addition to reeling from the breakup, the storm that had started to brew for my family two years prior was rapidly approaching its apex of severity, and it wouldn’t let up anytime soon. I felt like I was getting slammed from every direction. I felt completely and utterly hopeless and alone, and no accolade—personal or professional—could breach the seemingly impenetrable dome of darkness I felt closing in on me.

I retreated from the world—and myself—in December. I forewent plans with friends, family, and acquaintances. I barely left the house except to get food and cigarettes. I couldn’t read, watch TV, or sleep. I struggled to take care of myself; I would go days without showering or shaving. If my neighbors across the way looked in, they would see Tom Hanks from Cast Away, plowing stale trail mix into his mouth while sobbing over the kitchen sink.

I spent the holidays completely removed from my physical self—I was either a million miles away or nowhere at all. There was no in-between. I dreaded the rest of the long winter, days turning into night before the sun could barely give you a peck. I continued to let life pass me by, seldom leaving my apartment unless absolutely necessary. I had never felt so alone, so defeated. My best friend no longer lived with me; the bedrock of my family continued to erode, and there was nothing I could do but watch, for any effort I made to help, small or large, proved futile; and the person to whom my heart belonged—the only person I wanted to be around at that moment—was thousands of miles away, literally and figuratively.

It wouldn’t be until March that I would see not just one hand, but many, reach out, ready to lift me out of the hole whose purported bottomlessness I had surrendered myself to.

***

Every year I go to this conference for writers called The Association of Writers and Writing Programs. Thousands of writers from all over the world descend upon one city in the country for three days of panels, moseying through a book fair with over seven-hundred exhibitors, and attending back-to-back off-site readings, parties, and myriad other events. That March, AWP was in Seattle. Considering the state of mind I was in at the time (read: being one-rogue-TD-Bank-lollipop-from-the-bottom-of-a-tote-bag-and-deeming-it-a-meal-away from a wellness check), I was reticent about going that year to say the least. I could no longer imagine a world beyond the limited one I had created for myself, oscillating between bed and roof to smoke.

One of my dearest friends and fellow authors, Jen, would not take no for an answer. It would be her first AWP, and she had spent a whole year looking forward to going to Seattle and shadowing me since it would not be my first time at the rodeo. I did not know how much I needed to go, but thankfully, Jen did.

Begrudgingly, and to my chagrin, I booked my flight to Seattle and a hotel room to stay in while I was there. I then posted on social media that I would be in Seattle for AWP, and received a few invites to read at some off-site events, which, to my surprise, I felt excited about, too. I actually wanted to get in front of a mic and read. It was the first time I had felt a spark of enthusiasm in a long time, and I started to look forward to my trip.

Here's the thing about this conference: it is unbridled mayhem. Every year, my schedule goes from ten (if not earlier) in the morning to midnight or later. For three days straight. You get up, have breakfast (this part is non-negotiable; I learned that the hard way in Philadelphia a few years ago after trying to attempt to do three book signings in a row after a long night of drinking, but not eating), then make your way to the convention center where the book fair and panels are, followed by dinners with friends and colleagues, readings and parties late into the night. It is grueling, but rewarding.

True to form, I hit the ground running my first morning in Seattle. I signed copies of my book, perused the book fair, went to panels, and tried to hit as many off-site readings as I could, mostly because it is the one time a year I get to see my friends from far and wide in the same city, at the same time. Each function, each hug from a friend, both old and new, restored a piece of me that I thought had been lost forever.

On my last night, I read brand-new words from a book I was working on at a local bar and restaurant. When I got up to the mic and looked out into the crowd, I couldn’t believe how many people had turned up; the crowd was spilling out the door. I test-drove my new material and it killed. The thudding in my chest was not from dread, but from coming back to life. I would be lulled by the laughs for many nights to come.

After I read, Jen and I took a Lyft back to the hotel and crawled into her bed to recap our time together in Seattle. With wine glasses as full as our hearts, we recounted the drama, the dancing, the laughter, the tears, and everything in between. We laughed at how I almost tripped on the sidewalk and ate shit right in front of one of my literary heroes eating lunch with some other people in front of a restaurant. We had had to pinch each other after we had found ourselves playing foosball with another literary luminary, with whom I became fast friends—over a year later we still talk at least once a week.

Not to be cheesy on main, but AWP is where my dreams come true. Where the fuck else would I end up splitting a cigarette outside a random bar with a writer whose work I used to read on the floor of a Barnes & Noble when I was twenty-three and broke in New York City, a writer whose words beckoned my own out of me and onto the pages of my very own book which would be published one day?

Despite how tired Jen and I were after going non-stop for three days, we were riled up. We were inspired. We had to funnel all of that energy into something. We were motivated by the folks who worked with the local bars, restaurants, and booksellers to throw their own readings. We bounced from one space to another, watching writer after writer kill it in front of packed rooms—from readings for the saphically inclined to lightning poetry and celebrations of queer joy. There was something for everyone.

I wanted us to carve a space of our own, all while fostering community, which is where we got the idea to host our own reading series. I threw out an idea about writers reading unpublished work—either cut, still looking for a home, or just rotting deep in the bowels of their hard drives—and pitched the name “Spring Cleaning” since we wanted to throw it the following month during The Los Angeles Times Festival of Books. I specifically chose to do it in LA because I knew there was a robust community of writers out there, but it’s not like New York, where I know where to go and when, if I want to connect with my fellow wordsmiths. I can go to Franklin Park on the second Monday of each month to catch a coterie of literary titans read from their books. I can hit up Pete’s Reading Series every third Thursday of the month to gush and bask in the glow of writers whom I deeply adore and admire. But in LA, I didn’t really know of any readings that regularly took place; I’ve only connected with other writers by attending book launches and other bookstore events.

When we couldn’t make Spring Cleaning work the following month, we decided instead to debut in LA that summer under a new name. That July, Empty Trash was born. Writers and fans of writers from all over the city flocked to Dynasty Typewriter that Sunday afternoon to watch their peers and friends blow a full house away with their “trash,” which was better than even my most-polished work. Afterward, friends and fellow writers kept coming up to tell us that this was what was missing in the LA literary scene, that this was what they had been waiting for.

It was then that I decided that Los Angeles would not just be a home for Empty Trash, but for me, too.

***

When I returned home to Brooklyn after Seattle, I started to slowly regain control of my life. I talked to my psychiatrist at the time about my severe depression. He prescribed me Wellbutrin and after a few weeks of taking it, coupled with talk therapy, I finally felt a glimmer—not of my old self, but someone new. Someone fertilized by the collective tender love and care that I felt from being with my friends and fellow writers, finally sprouting after finding a new source of light, internal and ignited by realizing my purpose as a community builder.

Spring announced its return with longer days, dousing my Brooklyn apartment in a fierce and fiery light as the sun continued to drift higher in the sky. The loneliness, hopelessness, and despair I had felt crushing me like a hydraulic press started to recede, and before long, I started to love my own company, and began to look forward to hanging out with myself after finishing my work for the day. I would watch the sunset from my bedroom balcony every night, and then leave the door open to let a cross breeze in after opening the windows in my living room. Those nights spent gliding from room to room, listening to music and swaying like Stevie Nicks (while probably listening to Stevie Nicks) with a joint in my mouth, lolling in the soft glow from the lit candles and neon signs, are some of my happiest memories.

It was the perfect end of an era.

I was unearthing a softer, more tender side of myself—but if I wanted to get to know him, know me, fully and completely, I had to leave the city I had lived in for over twelve years. At least, physically. My DNA is NYC. Every facet of who I am is textured by it; I would not be myself without it; I would not be the writer and artist I am without it and its people and the various communities I’ve found fellowship—and family—in since moving there at eighteen. All of my dreams came true during my time spent living there: I published my first book, got my first bylines in places like The New Yorker and The New York Times—the three dreams that led me to move to NYC in the first place. Still, I’ve known, deep down, that I was ready to start a new chapter of my life for a while. When I walked down its streets, I felt like I was walking alongside all of these previous iterations of myself that I’d grown into and out of over the years—and it got too crowded. How was I supposed to grow into the person I felt myself becoming if there was no more room for another version of myself to take root and flourish?

As I plant down roots in LA, and find myself embodying the version of myself I left NYC to chase, I remain faithful to myself and the commitment I have made to protecting my light. A light that turns into an inferno when I’m surrounded by the community I’ve found—and continue to build—here. I have a lot of self-doubt as a writer—I don’t know anyone, especially a creative person, who doesn’t contend with self-doubt from time to time—but the one thing I know, deeply and unequivocally, is how to love and care for other people.

I wouldn’t have learned this if it weren’t for my ex-turned-best-friend, Pete. They gave me the greatest gift I’ve ever received—or ever will receive. I don’t regret one minute over the course of our almost-six years together. Because of them, I learned the thing that I’m proudest of—what I want my legacy to be—is how I love. I’m proud of the partner, friend, colleague, son, brother that I am. I will bend time and space into a goddamn pretzel for the people I love and care about, and that remains my North Star as I continue moving on from some of the darkest years of my life. It feels like coming home.

I’ve spent so many years looking for a soft place to fall. Turns out I had to fall to learn I’ve been a feather all along.

SOS (Save Our Serotonin)

Discussion about this post