I Didn't Want To Tell You
a mental health series
curated by chad cochran
I Didn't Want To Tell You was conceived to share personal narratives highlighting the impact of mental health in individuals' lives.
Our aim is to foster a sense of solidarity by showcasing these stories, reassuring others that they are not alone in their experiences.
Through this initiative, we strive to destigmatize discussions surrounding mental health, making them more commonplace and accepted.
To contribute your own story, please contact cowtownchad@gmail.com for assistance.
Sweet Relief Musicians Fund
888-955-7880
MusiCares
800-687-4227
Backline
Music Health Alliance
615-200-6896
MUSIC INDUSTRY
GENERAL PUBLIC
SAMHSA
800-662-4357
www.samhsa.gov/find-help/national-helpline
NAMI
800-950-6264
Mental Health America
800-969-6642
Kira Neal
For the last nine years, my body has been a place of constant repair.
Eight surgeries. Two of them on my brain. I didn’t understand what that kind of survival was costing me until my husband gently said, “You seem so unhappy now.” And he was right. Physical illness doesn’t stay in the body…it seeps into the mind, the marriage, the self. It changes how you move through the world.
I used to live on instinct. I was spontaneous, light, unafraid of tomorrow. Then sickness taught me to calculate everything. Sunlight could trigger a lupus flare. A late night of laughter could mean days trapped in bed. Before my brain surgeries, I was taking seventeen prescribed medications. One of them gave me drug-induced lupus. Slowly, without my permission, my symptoms began to erase me. Not all at once. Quietly. At the core.
My smile thinned. My eyes stayed swollen from crying. My body changed in ways I never expected, but my mind carried the heaviest damage. I learned how to perform happiness in public: onstage, with friends, with fans, then collapse alone afterward. I let my husband see too much of the breaking and not enough of the hope, and it wore us both down. I didn’t mean to, but my pain became a third presence in our marriage.
I drank at night just to face a crowd, then spent the mornings hating myself for it. I lived in a cycle of endurance and regret. The brain surgeries helped, but they didn’t give me my life back cleanly. They came with new side effects, new losses, new things to explain. New reasons to apologize for being “difficult.”
What hurt most was the loneliness. Chronic illness is a private language. No one could feel what it was like inside my head, inside a body I no longer trusted. My hands, hands I needed, shook without permission. Essential Tremor stole pieces of my independence, my confidence, my identity. The surgeries gave much of that back, but at a cost.
A year later, my brain is still catching up to the truth: I am no longer that frightened, shaking girl. But when you live thirty-two years without control, your nervous system doesn’t surrender the fear easily. Survival rewires you. It made me someone I don’t recognize, someone I don’t want to be. It threatened my friendships, my marriage, my sense of self. Even now, I don’t always feel safe inside my own skin.
And in the middle of healing, something ugly surfaced: resentment. That no one knew. That no one read my mind and saved me from myself. It doesn’t make sense, but it’s real. I hid my suffering for years, and when I finally spoke, I was labeled miserable. Of course I was miserable. I was grieving a body, a mind, a version of myself that disappeared without a funeral.
I am not that person anymore, or at least, I am learning not to be. I am a work in progress. Some days I feel lighter. Some days I don’t. But I am still here, still trying, still learning how to live in a body that once felt like an enemy.
And maybe that is its own kind of bravery: not the surviving, but the staying.
December 2025
Jason Burchaski
I was stabbed by my mother when I was probably around 13 years old. It was at the dinner table. I am not sure what I even said to be honest to warrant it. I only remember seeing this metal object going through my shirt and it just kind of stuck out of my side as if gravity stopped working and it never fell to the floor.
You ever bite down on a piece of silverware when you're eating by accident? It's that feel of metal against your teeth that's so off putting. It's like that taste of metal and the shock of pain that makes you drop the fork down and probably say "fuck". It's no different when it's in your skin. You actually feel the metal. You feel it pull out of you. I didn't feel it go in but I absolutely remember how it felt coming out. It's the best way I can describe it.
My mom was undiagnosed bipolar I'm guessing her entire life. When she finally was diagnosed much later in life she had zero interest in admitting anything was wrong with her let alone take medication for it. I watched her spiral out of control, alienating friends, family, colleagues over the years. As time went on it was sad to watch.
That's mom though, that's her story. I was diagnosed with depression anxiety disorder when I was in my teens. I was on so many different combinations of pills through the 80's and 90's I lost track. I finally settled on Citalopram through most of my adult years up until I tried Venlafaxine and eventually weaned myself off all medications completely a couple years ago.
Coming off antidepressants is a rollercoaster I don't wish on anyone. It's not easy and much like an addict the withdrawal symptoms range from feeling like your fingertips can shoot lightning bolts out of them to severe dark thoughts.
Music was always my go to drug of choice. It could be a live show, or listening to a record. A few years back I started a vinyl club in Cleveland. We'd just chill, post what we were listening to in our online group on Facebook. It was just a forum to talk about vinyl records. It kept growing and I decided to start doing record swaps just to get together and they were a lot of fun. Turns out a lot of folks in the group also used music as a refuge from their anxiety and depression.
The story goes John Peel was talking about the sound of CDs over vinyl. "Somebody was trying to tell me that CDs are better than vinyl because they don't have any surface noise. I said, 'Listen, mate, life has surface noise."
That always resonated with me. Yeah, life totally does have surface noise. It's not supposed to be perfect. It's truly not meant to be perfect. It's those hisses, pops and cracks that make it real. It's like listening to a record. Sometimes it's going to scratch and skip but other times it's going to sound so perfect and so clear it's going to amaze you.
When I stopped seeking perfection and accepted life was absolutely loaded with those imperfections and that existence was perfectly normal with them in there? I started to understand it's completely OK that life isn't supposed to sound or look crystal clear. It's supposed to hiss at you. You're supposed to embrace the static not try to pretend it isn't there. Pretending it isn't there doesn't make it disappear, it just makes it louder and the only thing you notice. That's the shit that will drive you mad. Once you hear it all in harmony, is when you finally come to the realization, life indeed, has surface noise. It's always going to be there, so you might as well enjoy it.
May 2024
.jpg)
Corduroy Brown
Typing this out and talking about so much of this so easily feels surreal because talking about mental health never really occurred in our family life. I honestly can remember being in middle school and sobbing for "no reason" late into the nights. I would cry so much that it would make me sick to my stomach. Doctors really couldn't tell why I was getting sick. Into high school, I started self harming. I couldn't honestly explain why, but it just felt like I deserved it somehow? That continued to get worse and I got a lot better at hiding it. My family life was great. I got good grades and had a lot of friends. I played sports and music. Everything I guess on the surface was fine. In college, I started experimenting a little more with whatever I could find in my parents cabinets. I still never really knew why, but the self harming continued and got much worse. Even today, it still feels weird wearing that mask of having it all together. In 2017 after a bad break up, I remember sitting on the floor of my house, curled up in a ball, blood on the floor after a pretty significant self harming episode. That truly felt like rock bottom. I drew the lucky straw in life. So many people checked in on me. Some time had gone by, and I just started calling any therapist's office I could find. I scheduled an appointment with the first one who called back. It was the Word House in Huntington, WV which is where I still go to this day. Mental health now isn't such an impossible task. I guess it's like anything. You have to continue it to get better at it. There are days that absolutely are awful to exist in my mind. I'm really grateful to say that I haven't cut since probably 2020 or so. I never really understood why I did it until therapy in the first place. It was a type of control mechanism that I used to reign myself in when I couldn't stop spiraling. Thoughts become words, words become actions, actions become habits. It's worth it to be happy.
Photo: Vince Olonzo
Hannah Fairlight
Raised in super small towns across the Midwest my family was never what you’d call “normal”. Every town we moved to, we were always the artsy “weird” family. We were colorful and intellectual. Always shopped at goodwill. My parents were super young, and me and my two siblings kind of grew up with them. Both my parents love nature, so we camped a LOT, and we would take long trips across the States in our trusty minivan, landing at many a state and national park and lighthouse and historical site. My parents weren't very social, so we mostly had each other and our imaginations. We were poor, but we had books, the outdoors, and eventually an upright rented piano - something that arguably saved my life. I learned quickly that the piano bench was a relief zone to play away my parent’s incessant violent fights, or just to dream. I dreamed of being an Olympic gymnast, or a marine biologist, something great. Someone who could make change, leave an impact. I plodded out little melodies to narrate life, implored our babysitters to teach me to read music, found magic in learning songs by ear.
As I grew and observed, I noticed imbalanced behaviors on both the maternal and paternal sides of my family. I learned how to roll with the fragility of each day in the home and care of a mother who suffered from deeper internal struggles, ones I began to learn sprung from her parents and upbringing. I never knew which mom would be walking through the door, or how she would react to any single life event. Mental illness wasn't a term we threw around, and we didn't really talk about "deep stuff" and our feelings in our family. So I just observed, and learned how to behave. Some days were bad days, and some were good. I adjusted best I could. I became hyper vigilant and aware of others as a young person. And that was just that.
I went on to excel academically, and despite my "otherness", socially too, perhaps in direct response to my mother's awkwardnesses in this department. I was determined to be great, to be liked, to be approved of; determined to soak up all the marrow of life I possibly could as quickly as I could. I wanted to grow up NOW. I wanted to learn everything; I wanted to understand, and to appear that I understood. This fast pace and "everythingness" became my MO. Looking back it was likely a survival mechanism for the lack of warmth and stability at home, for the bitter divorce my parents would enter into. Fake it till I make it. If I live fast enough, strong enough, busy enough, if I appear wise and free enough, eventually I WILL be. I will arrive. Any scary or ugly parts, I learned to romanticize, and express through music and poetry.
I travelled extensively. I called New York City home for a decade. I lived in different countries. I burned hard for “more”ness, and I worked my butt off. I figured inner growth would naturally come along with the external, and I felt I had way too much ground to cover to slow down. Once I landed in Nashville, I would encounter some of the biggest and most challenging career opportunities I’d ever had. I would be cast in a reality show. I would land a role in a major film. I’d also meet my now husband, and we’d go on pretty quickly to have our first and then second boy together. Becoming a mother brought the inner work waiting to be confronted out, and into focus. For the first time since youth I was forced to pause and re-calibrate my breakneck pace of life. I was also forced to confront issues of mental health in my family and a strained relationship with my own mother. For a period, I started coping with weed and alcohol, emboldened and enabled by peers in the music industry. When I got my first DUI, it was handled quietly and painfully by my husband and I. When I got my second one, it was splashed all over local Nashville news and social media. I saw vividly that a deeper more insidious problem existed that had run me down to the gates of insanity. I could not cope this way any longer, not for my sake, the sake of my young family, or the sake of my career.
On the brinks of committing myself to a sanitarium, mania running high, I joined an IOP program and dove headfirst into a 12-step program. Now almost two years sober, and continuing a regiment of regular counseling and mental health support, I view the concurrence of events as blessings in disguise; an opportunity to make deep and lasting spiritual change in my life. I play better. I create better. I FEEL better. I’m able to show up 100% for my husband and boys. I enjoy the slow moments and am able to handle the fast or troubling ones with more grace. I’m able to love the parts of myself that still want everything, without letting them run my life like a motor stuck in 7th gear. I’m able to dream with both feet on the ground.
I was accepted into the Davidson County Mental Health Court program, which I graduated from and had the charges from the second offense completely expunged. It was a truly excellent program and opportunity instead of being cycled through the system like a common criminal. I thank my lucky stars for it, and am a huge advocate for the program. It’s an avenue I want people know about.
Hannah Fairlight
March 2024
(self portrait)
The Circle City Bandit
“I didn’t mean to die when I did. And inversely, when I attempted suicide, I didn’t die. I’m not sure why it worked out that way for me. It would be admirable to say I never gave up, but I did. That’s the truth.
There appears to be another source of thread emerging from the spool each time it seemingly runs out, far beyond my control or comprehension. And I’m grateful for that. As my life unfolds, I’m learning that what I considered to be “normal” was far more taboo. What the fuck is “normal” anyway?! Any fading tinge of normal was cast far out when I was very young.
As a 7 year old child, all in the same week; I had my first experiences with death, alcohol and rape. After these events, I had a strange infatuation with death and escaping via drugs/alcohol, enmeshed in a disorientation and severe confusion of my identity, sexuality and self worth. I built walls….thick walls. And the thing about walls is, they protect you from the darkness outside but they also block any light from coming in. I didn’t tell anyone what I had experienced and pushed it down so deep I forgot that it even happened until the memories resurfaced at 31 years old. To this day, I struggle with feeling safe, trusting myself/others and expressing myself. It was a perfect recipe for my substance abuse to take flight and I started using drugs at the age of 12. At 13 years old I attempted suicide for the first time. I didn’t understand why I was so angry and depressed. I had a loving and supportive family, was social, played sports. All looked well on the outside. But internally, I felt like I showed up to the wrong place everyday by waking up. I found myself knee deep in an IV speedball addiction by the time I graduated high school. I fancied myself a thrill seeker who experimented while pushing the boundaries of perception. In hindsight, I realize I was attempting to medicate this great painful secret I carried for 24 years that I didn’t realize I was carrying. 24 years of fighting my own shadow. My unmanaged and undiagnosed anxiety, depression and PTSD exacerbated my drug abuse to depths I didn’t know a human could endure. It opened the door to environments where more painful traumatic events took place. And they did. Some of which I’ve had to forgive someone else and some of which I had to forgive myself. This pain has always been such a huge part of my physical, emotional and mental makeup that to make a choice/commitment to proceed without it feels like a betrayal to myself and death in itself. Yet, despite the glaring discomfort and fear, there is a longing to leave this too behind, in order to un-become what I am not. Things I defined myself as and as circumstances impressed upon me and my “choices”, I found these phenomena are not me. I just experienced them. And they left their mark on me. The hardest scars to bear are the ones we can’t see.
Some of these experiences play over and over again in my head in an attempt to process and amend the outcome, but these events happened long ago. That time has passed.
There is nothing left to reconcile.
The only option is heal from the years of pain.
To become the hero I’ve been desperately calling out to come save me.
To accept the responsibility of healing from a pain that I didn’t have a fucking choice in creating.
And that feels like a shitty deal some days.
Other days, I just feel blessed to suckin’ air.
But I’ve tried everything I can to numb, run from and escape.
This is all that’s left.”
-The Circle City Bandit
Steve Poltz
I lost my mom on Dec 13, 2018 and it still stings. She suffered from depression through much of my youth. I used to try to cheer her up by playing sad instrumental songs on a classical guitar. I didn’t think of the songs as sad when I was young but now when I hear them I’m amazed at how depressing they sound. She was a tough audience. I feel like in some ways the audience has always been about me trying make my mom happy. It’s probably made me a better entertainer in some respects and less sincere in other ways. I’m still trying to figure it all out and be as honest as possible in my writing and live shows. I still wish I could’ve said a few more things to my ma before she died. I always seem to have regrets. Creating art in tiny ways every single day has helped me to work through my issues and keep me semi-balanced on this crazy tightrope we call life. It’s all just a balancing act.
Originally published in the Fall 2019 "Wellness" issue of No Depression.
Subscribe today
Elizabeth Cook
I have dealt with mental health about every way you can deal with it. I’ve abused substances, tried to ignore it, went to therapy, gone ham on diet, supplements and exercise, worked myself into madness and rode the medication slo-mo roller coaster at the hands of well-intended doctors. For me it's accepting this unending dance as part of my reality. I’ve tried to learn from the mistakes I’ve made coping in the past, note the better efforts, and keep it all in mind as I maneuver through the future. I still make mistakes. But the pressure and fear of it has subsided some by the shear product of my survival.
Originally published in the Fall 2019 "Wellness" issue of No Depression.
Subscribe today
Vanessa Jean Speckman
My mental health affects me daily, whether I’m aware of it or not, both physically and mentally. I just had a gallery opening that was beautiful and more than I could have daydreamed for. What you didn’t see was the mini meltdown getting dressed prior when the original outfit didn’t go as planned as it had in my head and once we were home after the lovely reception, I immediately vomited. All my nerves get so wound up, I can end up getting sick, or I can get completely get derailed because that shoe and trousers combo blows and you’re in a foregin country and only have one other pair of shoes in your suitcase and it’s your big art show and I wanted to look like Patti Smith and I just don’t look the way I feel thought process. Not cool, bro. Touring so much can create chaos in the sense that daily routine is the same but the setting is revolving and that can grade on liking to be in control. Touring is good for learning that however much you think you are dealing with someone else, they’re dealing with just as much with you. It’s taken me a very long time to come to that self awareness, as well as the patience and support of loved ones. I need to nourish myself frequently. Drink lots of water and watch that coffee. Get proper sleep. Move my body. Write lists. Get outside myself. Call someone I love, ask them how they are, and really listen. Spend time quietly, preferably in water. Be creative. These small tools can sometimes feel like they add up to a full time job on an already full day. I still struggle with balance and being gentle with myself. But every night I go to sleep excited to try again tomorrow.
September 2019
John Paul White
“I’ve fought with depression and anxiety for quite a bit of my adult life. More often than not, it comes just before and after really pivotal moments in my life. Anticipation overwhelms, and then the comedown after the high is quite precipitous. Thankfully, understanding of mental health in my extended family has gone from “get over it” to a much more healthy, compassionate place. Exercise, better sleep and a better diet (and sometimes anxiety meds) have become necessities - especially in tour mode. I once tried anti-depressants...but got severe, debilitating migraines for my troubles. It left a scarring - yet healing - impression. It showed me a painful alternative to whatever I was feeling, and some small glimmer of “well, this isn’t as bad as that.” I don’t know how healthy that is, but it has been helpful. Leave it to me to find solace in pain.”
Originally published in the Fall 2019 "Wellness" issue of No Depression.
Subscribe today
Jaimee Harris
In bouts of depression, I feel like I’m a prisoner of my mind. It’s so hard to discern reality from the lies my brain tells me when I’m in the thick of it. All I want to do is hide away from the world, because I feel like no one wants to be around me when I’m this miserable - and I can’t really handle being around anyone, either. I find a lot of comfort in zoning out to true crime shows, because there’s a comfortable pattern in their narrative. Songwriting helps me to carefully express what I want to say in times when I can’t make sense of anything in my head. I like having a formula: verses, chorus, bridge. When I put it all down on paper, the song typically informs me of my experience which helps me to process my pain and release the poison inside. Then, I can take my power back. There are times I’ve been on stage during bouts of depression when I’m unable to speak in complete, coherent sentences. It’s just me and a guitar up there and I have to connect with an audience. Terrifying. But, when I share those vulnerable songs, others come up to me and say “me, too” and I know that I’m not alone. The songs have saved my life time and time again. In order to help explain what living with depression is like to my loved ones, I show them www.depressionquest.com. I’ve never seen something so accurately describe what it feels like to live with depression.
Originally published in the Fall 2019 "Wellness" issue of No Depression.
Subscribe today
Allen Thompson
When I was in grade school I knew what mental illness was before I was able to give it a name. I knew certain members of my family and I would do and say things that other people would not. I knew these incidents made others uncomfortable, but I didn’t know why. That changed on Sept. 13 1992. That was the day I lost my maternal grandfather to suicide. While it seemed to my eleven year old brain like something that happened out of the blue, in reality, he’d been sick for some time. There were mitigating circumstances, which made it easy for family members to place blame on one another, but the fact was, he was 63 years old, he’d been fighting a battle for most of his life, and on that day, he decided the battle between hope and hopelessness was a battle he was too tired to fight. His oldest daughter, my mother, had always been less than stable, but she knew how to hold it together and manipulate folks into thinking she was “normal”. After that day, she dropped her mask and never bothered to put it back on. The next 15 years were a blur of ruined holidays, missed plays, recitals, and shows, broken promises, unstable new boyfriends, and crazed late night phone calls. It was complete chaos until 2 days before Mother’s Day in 2007, the day I learned that she had lost her own battle with mental illness. The police officer I spoke with told me one of the wildest stories I’d ever heard. If it had been about anyone else, I wouldn’t have believed it. But it wasn’t about anyone else. It was about my mother. And every detail sounded exactly like something she would do. The first 25 years of my life were completely shaped by the mental illnesses of the two most important people in my life. The rest of my life has been divided between advocating for those who are suffering, and living in fear that our genes will lead me to the same place and inflict the same pain on the people who love me. A few years ago I was in a pretty severe accident and almost didn’t survive. The PTSD from that experience was enough to send me over the edge for the first time ever. I’d always been pretty close to the edge, mind you, but I’d seen it and I knew what “over” looked like and knew I didn’t want any part of that. When you’re young you can keep yourself from crisis on the power of your will alone. As you get older, it becomes harder and harder to do. The folks at Music Health Alliance and MusiCares put me in touch with the amazing folks at Porter’s Call, and for the past 4 years they’ve been teaching me how to use the right tools to battle this disease. I’m so thankful for them and the work they do. I honestly don’t know where I’d be without them. Today I’m happy to say that even though mental illness has touched every aspect of my life, I’m finally learning how to keep it from directing every aspect of my life. Its a difficult process, but I’ve been through enough to know it’s better than the alternative.
March 2020
Photo: Joshua Black Wilkins
Lydia Loveless
I do not remember a time before anxiety, and I have always been quite a melancholy person. For a long time I lived my life just assuming I would completely lose my mind at some point and walk off into the woods naked after a bender, never to be seen again. Especially with touring, I can go through periods of feeling like I am falling out of the sky and things are simply happening to me. Only recently have I begun to think about steps I can take to make sure I don’t get there. Yoga, intense exercise and lots of time to myself to write and read and rest my mind help, as does the Lexapro I started taking about a year ago. At this point in my life I realize I have to view myself as a sensitive being and make sure I take care of that and don’t feel embarrassed not to “party” or be “outgoing”. I haven’t figured it all out yet and I will never be “cured” but I am on the path to management and that feels good to me.
Originally published in the Fall 2019 "Wellness" issue of No Depression.
Subscribe today
River Shook
I was homeschooled for my entire education in an extremely sheltered and isolated environment. I was raised to believe that the world was full of "sinners" and dangerous people, that women exist for the sole purpose of being wives, mothers, housekeepers, and that homosexuals go to hell. (I knew I was bisexual when I was 8.) Separately and collectively these worldviews had a profoundly negative effect on my mental health. While I'm glad to say my parents have come a long damn way over the years, I'm still dealing with the long term effects of an oppressive, toxic, and patriarchal Christian belief system. I've been depressed my entire life but after years of almost constant suicidal depression in my mid-teens I made a conscious decision to view depression as a part of my natural chemical makeup in order to better moderate it with mindfulness techniques and instigated even more mental gymnastics to deal with extreme social anxiety. Working up the motivation to do the things I know help me feel balanced, going for a run, cooking nourishing food, reading a book, is the hardest part. The first step is always the toughest. Being vigilant in checking in with myself, knowing the signs of an anxiety attack, practicing as much self care as possible, all these things help a great deal as well. When the stigma surrounding mental health issues is removed we can be transparent about ourselves and supportive of each other, we can recognize others' life experiences as being just as valid as our own, we can dedicate time and emotional energy to intentionally fostering moments of joy. Depression is a part of me and always will be. But it's a part of me I can live with because I had to learn how.
Originally published in the Fall 2019 "Wellness" issue of No Depression.
Subscribe today
Jamie O'Neal
“I believe there’s a mental health crisis going on, with many in power not doing enough to reform laws and give adequate and affordable care for those suffering. While bouts of severe anxiety have affected me in my daily life it’s nothing compared to my sister’s mental health. We lost her to suicide in 2021. No one chooses to be mentally unstable. They need compassion and care. I hope we can stop the ambivalence and activate real change.”
Photographer: Angela Talley
RB - Name and Photo withheld by request
There isn't a time in my life that I haven't suffered from anxiety and depression even as a small child. I grew up with a cold, detached father who only displayed anger and his impatience with everything I did. I could never do anything right in his eyes from writing my name to making my bed. His favorite saying was "Self Praise Stinks"! He was always calling me stupid and lazy.
As a child I was on the chubby side and had undiagnosed autism and learning disabilities.
My narcissistic mother never failed to remind me that "no one would ever love me because I was "fat, ugly lazy and stupid." She would tell me all the time that I was a "side of a house" because of my weight issues. She would withhold love when she was angry even going as far as not allowing you to kiss her goodnight or give her a hug. Needless to say, I was bullied and tormented all throughout 12 years of Catholic school. If I complained about it to my mother, she would tell me god was punishing me for being bad.
When I grew up, I allowed men to abuse me physically, mentally, spiritually, and emotionally. I married a man who was just as abusive as my parents. I never experienced love or acceptance.
At the age of 50, years of depression and anxiety took a physical toll on my body and I experienced 2 heart attacks. I had stents placed and 4 months later I began to experience agonizing chest pains, constant vomiting and needed to take several nitroglycerin pills a day just to be able to function. Doctors treated me like I was crazy because of my anxiety, gave me more nitroglycerin and Xanax. They told me to go home and take a nap!
Once again I was ignored and made to feel stupid. At the same time as my illness my marriage ended when I discovered he was having an affair, I had to sell my house and my mother died. I finally found a doctor who took me seriously and I had to have emergency double bypass surgery. I had a 14% chance of survival and they couldn't close my chest for 5 days. All my muscles atrophied and by that I was so depressed, I didn't care if I lived or died.
I spent 15 days in the hospital, was home 1 day and the next day I woke up in a mental hospital. My soon to be ex husband told everyone that I was taking drugs and threatened to kill him so he had me committed for 72 hrs. The psychiatrist at the hospital discovered I had suffered a mental breakdown because of the recent trauma my body had just endured.
I ended up with a staph infection around my heart which required more surgery. 6 months later in the midst of my divorce, my husband passed away suddenly and 3 months after he died, I lost my beloved dog Bailey. Having Bailey in my life was the only time I experienced unconditional love. Since she's been gone I have taken to bed rotting. My heart issues have left me disabled.
I'm trying to sort through my broken past and my fractured soul. I still have hope and try each day to find the good. Music helps a lot.
June 30, 2024
Bonnie Whitmore
I knew from a very early age I wasn't normal. I was Abnormal. I felt emotions very strongly and often didn’t have much control over them. When I felt sad it was heavy and the effect would seem to drag out for a long periods of time. I’d get angry and wouldn’t want to lash out so I’d isolate myself. We figured out I had depression, but I still wanted to be normal or act normal, so I didn’t want to talk about it. Depression seemed to be mostly understood as sadness, which can trigger it, but that’s not all that it is. I equate it to the likes of a mental weighted blanket or fog that feels more like being in fluid. It makes it difficult to move or to become motivated and that’s hard to talk about when you can’t grasp a rational reason for why you feel this way. You only know it exists. Grieving is a necessary process when something traumatic happens, but for me as a kid I was sad and I could always say why I felt that, just that I felt “sad.” You might assign it something to try and find a rational reason, but how do you explain something that doesn’t make since to you, but is a part of who you are? When given a reason, depression can manifest itself in very destructive ways. When I was in 6th grade I had a few traumatic experiences in close secession. We lost two family friends in separate plane crashes within a few months of each other. Flying I knew could be dangerous, but also knew the statistics and death is not the common outcome. My dad was a pilot for Delta and we often traveled as a family in small planes. This was my normal. Regardless of how, even when if it was something that more common like a car crash, it’s always different when you know the person. These were men who weren’t sick and slipped away slowly, but vibrant men who’s lose was evident. These experiences were shocking for many reasons, but additionally my best friend moved away and that was crushing to me. I didn’t really fit in at school or anywhere for that matter. Most kids were nice to me, but indifferent and shallow. There was one kid who parents where going through a messy divorce and took to bullying me rather deal with her own trauma. We both were just sad kids who really just needed a friend; instead she would do what she could to break me down. I felt trapped and would often isolate myself. This was the first time I contemplated suicide. I learned a lot about myself during that time. I was able to get through it, and that is the most important part. The only way is through. Depression makes you question yourself and for me I always feel I’ll never be enough, but I’ve found a way to except myself even if I wasn’t “normal.” Normal is a four-letter word for me. I still have many ups and downs, but I try hard to stay kind to myself. I am Abi-Normal. I know I’ll never fit in, but I figure I don’t really need to.
Brian Bruemmer
The holidays have always been one of my favorite times of the year - family, friends, food, snow, leisure time, etc. Fourteen years ago, that all changed for me. On December 23, 2005, I was out with a few friends seeing a band play in a local bar. Upon leaving, a few of us decided to go to a local chili joint for some late-night food. While waiting to turn left into the restaurant's parking lot, suddenly, things went crazy – an unbelievably loud noise, then a blur of motion. It seemed like it took an eternity when it was probably only a few seconds. Once it all stopped, I struggled to piece together what had just happened. Confused and bleeding terribly from my nose, I attempted to open the driver's door. It was stuck shut. At that point, I realized my friend in the passenger seat was unconscious. I crawled across him and out his door. By then, customers from the restaurant had come out to help and see what had happened. As they helped me to the curb and told me to sit and stay still, a police cruiser came up with its lights flashing. At that point, the officer told me what had happened. The police pulled over a man suspected of driving under the influence in a nearby neighborhood. When the officer came to his window, the driver floored it and drove off, nearly running over the officer. The officer then ran back to his cruiser and pursued the fleeing driver. With no lights on, that fleeing driver barreled down the four-lane road, dodging the sparse early morning traffic. As I slowed down the car to a stop to wait for an oncoming vehicle to pass before turning left into the lot, he swerved to miss another car and rear-ended us. His speed of more than 100mph sent our car spinning and forever changed my life, my friends' lives, and our families lives. At 2:23 am on Christmas Eve morning 2005, my childhood friend in the backseat was thrown from the car and killed. That moment sent me into a tailspin of grief and guilt. I thought of all of the things I could have done differently. What if I hadn't stopped to chat with a friend before leaving the bar? What if I had taken a different route? What if I had recommended another restaurant?... and on and on. I can't say whether it was convincing, but I put up a front that everything was fine and that I was okay. In reality, I was like an old Western movie set, convincing from afar but, upon further scrutiny, just a poor facsimile of normalcy with nothing of substance behind it. I was spiraling. I ran to alcohol to numb the pain. For nearly a year, I ran. I contemplated suicide but could never get past the pain it would cause my family. It wasn't that I wanted to be dead or didn't want to deal with life, but that I didn't feel that I deserved to be here if John wasn't. I stopped wearing a seat belt. I drove drunk on a nightly basis. I woke each morning to a bottle of whiskey instead of a bowl of cereal. I smoked two packs of cigarettes a day. I shut out my family and friends in lieu of drinking buddies and enablers. I did everything I could to put myself in a position where fate could correct its mistake of letting me survive. One morning I woke to go to work, and I couldn't remember where I had been the night before, didn't remember driving home, and couldn't find my car. On the front steps of my apartment in the middle of the busy village square, it hit me. My legs gave out. In the doorway, I fell to the floor in a crouch and began crying… realizing that I was no better than the man who had taken my friend's life. The only difference between us was that I had been lucky enough not to hit anyone while driving drunk. The weight of my irresponsibility hit me like a ton of bricks. I couldn't move. I was crushed by it. I needed help. I was diagnosed with PTSD and went to therapy for over a year, where I learned how to deal with my grief and overcome the feeling that I wasn't worthy of life and love. Slowly I emerged from the darkness. That year saved my life. My friends and family, who didn't give up on me during my tailspin, saved my life. My friend who lost his life saved mine. I strive to honor his memory by making the best of my second chance; I can only hope to live up to that task.
Brian Bruemmer
Andrew Leahey
I was diagnosed with a brain tumor at 30 years old. By the time my doctors discovered it, the tumor had already made me partially deaf. It would've killed me, too, had I not decided to undergo a 12-hour brain surgery on November 7th, two days after my 31st birthday. I'm not a religious man, but I remember saying a prayer before my operation, promising whoever was listening that, if given the chance, I'd make the most of my opportunity to play music again. Later, when I woke up in the hospital, the first thing I heard was my Dad telling me that I was alive, and that the doctors had saved the rest of my hearing. I remember thinking, "Ok, game on." Within three months, I was touring the country with my band — against doctor's orders, of course — and during the years since then, I've struggled to keep this newfound drive from turning into full-fledged mania. At times, it's been hard to tell the difference. I remember playing the Mercy Lounge two weeks before my operation, thinking it might be my last show ever. I was so angry that night — not just at the situation, but at myself, because I felt like I'd taken my health (and my ability to play music) for granted. I was desperate for another chance. These days, I struggle with a different kind of desperation. If a gig goes poorly, it'll send me into an anxious spiral, because I view every show through the same lens that I viewed that Mercy Lounge gig. Every new chance — a chance to prove myself, to play a good show, to bring happiness to someone's evening through music — feels like my last chance. I'm haunted by the ever-present feeling that all of this is going to be taken away from me again, which makes me incredibly driven during my better days and utterly depressed during my worst. My wife, Emily, doesn't work in the music industry. Thank God for that. She brings a brighter perspective to my darker moments, and she's a daily reminder that real happiness has nothing to do with sold-out shows. Lately, whenever I do play a show — sold-out or otherwise — I take a moment during the set to look around the room and really SEE everything. I'll take it all in. I'll connect. I want to make sure that whenever I do play my last show, it will somehow feel complete... like I've finally appreciated this thing that we're all lucky enough to do.
Chance Gray
I grew up in the religious-strict region of Northeast Alabama, and as a kid, three of my closest friends were fear, guilt and shame. Those friends were in my home, at school, at church, and everywhere I went. My childhood environment in rural Alabama trained me to always take care of others, which is a great thing, but no one really taught me much on how to take care of myself. I was conditioned to never ask for help as it was seen as a sign of weakness, so growing up, I never did. I tucked every experience, good and bad, deep down inside me, and I toted that trouble around until I was 32. I remember the day that changed my life like it was yesterday. My parents divorced when I was a senior in high school, and it flipped my life upside down. I was put in the middle of my parents’ divorce war that lasted three years. My mother and younger brother needed me to be strong, so I became the helper. During these years, I endured one traumatic experience after another. My dad walked out on us after Thanksgiving dinner when I was 15, and I can still see his taillights driving away in my mind. The ages of 15-20 were the worst years of my life, though I can’t help but feel as if they should have been my best. I enrolled at The University of Alabama at the age of 20 as a Psychology major. I was on a mission to understand myself, my parents, my friends, and the world around me. I’ve never really told anyone this, but I only went to college because it was the only way I saw to run away and get out of my tiny town without hurting or offending anyone. Into my 20s, I was still journaling my pain into various notebooks that I still have to this day, and I began to write songs – sad ones mostly. I performed these songs around campfires, fraternity parties and numerous clubs and bars in Alabama. What people assumed to be my art was also my pain. They sang along and applauded, and I kept writing my vulnerabilities because I realized that doing so resonated with people and allowed me to connect with them on a deeper, more meaningful level. At the age of 25, I left my job, my family, my friends and rural Alabama for Nashville to pursue my passion of music. Through the next decade, music gave me a sense of purpose and belonging as well as a roof over my head and food on my table. By the time I reached my early 30s I was physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted. The last 15 years of my life seemed like one long war, and I was tired. My tumultuous twenties led to terrible coping mechanisms as it seemed heartbreaks and mistakes always followed me around. It was time to for a change. In early 2018, at the age of 32, I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror at The Jefferson Hotel in Richmond, Virginia before the last show of a tour. I looked at myself and said out loud, “I’m tired of your bullshit.” That was it. I was no longer a victim. That realization within myself was the great awakening I so desperately needed. I came home and began working out, running, eating cleaner, and drinking less while reading and researching on the suspected culprits of much of my suffering – anxiety, depression and childhood trauma. I threw my last pack of cigarettes out the window and within the passing of one spring season, I felt the change – a positive change that has continued until this day. When Covid arrived in early 2020, my entire life ceased to be as so many aspects of my life centered around my career of working live concerts, where I’ve served as Tour Merchandise Manager for Jason Isbell & The 400 Unit for the last five years along with being a songwriter and hobbyist photographer. At 34, I felt suspended in air, not knowing if I was going to free fall or be let down gently to the ground. The day before I turned 35, I finally got the courage to call a therapist and our work together has changed my life for the better. Throughout the pandemic, I felt as if I had a front-row seat to the suffering and struggling of my friends, my family, my neighbors, the Unites States and the entire world. As I sat in the stillness of last year, choosing to view the pause in life as if I had been pardoned by the grace of interruption, I wanted to help. I wanted to serve. After several months, I heard the calling to become a counselor, viewing it as the best way I could use my talents and abilities to help heal a broken world. I have worked my entire life for money, pride and ego, but as I sat last year holding the mirror up to myself once again, I realized a higher purpose. It is my purpose now to help and serve others in order that I may leave this world a little better than I found it, so I enrolled in a Master’s program online through Southern New Hampshire University studying Clinical Mental Health Counseling. It is my intent to return to the music industry one day and help others as I know the strains and pains so well. Though I know the road that lies ahead will be long and winding, I feel in my heart this is where I am supposed to be. If I could sum up the above paragraphs in one sentence, it would be this: I’ve been there, and that’s why I’m here.
May 2021
.jpg)
Daisy O'Connor
It’s impossible for me to write about mental illness without acknowledging my own generational and genetic propensity. My family tree has been shattered by mental illness, with the sick raising the sick generation after generation, carrying on without question because the status quo of 20th century traditional Catholics is to marry and reproduce (every sperm, even the sickest, is sacred.) I carry this legacy in my blood and bone every minute of every day. My adolescence was marked by a deep fear that I would very likely develop any number of mental illnesses, as I watched them slowly circling me in the faces of family members. Despite this fear, my childhood was all about staying strong for my very depressed, up and down and all around mom. My survival linked intrinsically with hers, there was no room to rock the boat. I learned how to take care of myself, how to not respond when attacked, and how to be a “good girl” (aka not have any needs.) These survival strategies served me well at the time, but aren’t particularly helpful now. It wasn’t until I quit social work and moved thousands of miles away from my family to pursue the path of song that I started to unravel my own relationship with mental illness. I was finally at a safe enough distance to feel how sick I had been all along, to slowly and humbly crawl toward help, and to learn how to take steps every day toward wellbeing. I have to accept that I will probably always struggle with a storm cycle in my brain, and rather than resisting and running from it, I’m learning how to hold myself through the darkness with the knowledge that I will feel better one day. Maybe not this week, or even this year. But someday. Everything happens in cycles. Good days and bad days. Seasons of bounty and times of hunger. Dark nights of the soul and summers of love. I don’t think it ends, and I’m thankful to still be here, come what may.
Daisy O'Connor
September 2019
Jake Dunn
"It took me a long time to be able accept the mental health issues that I deal with personally. Not that I was in denial, exactly, but it took me a while to become self-aware enough to realize that maybe I could use some help. It took even longer to have the courage to ask for it. I used to think that depression and anxiety were things that happened to other folks and not to me and, for this reason, I’ve always had a hard time dealing with my own emotions. I’ll work myself to death before I realize I’m just coping with anxiety or I’ll close myself off to the world and slip back into bad habits before realizing I’m depressed. After years and years of this behavior, I’ve finally realized that it’s far more important to look inward and face yourself head-on than to ignore yourself and pretend things are fine on the outside just to maintain the appearance of a “strong person”. I used to feel these things and just assume that they were normal. My sadness and anxiousness were just symptoms of a busy life and I should just buck up and power through. It took me a while to realize that what I was experiencing was more than just coping with being alive. It took me a while to be willing to admit that maybe I have some actual issues that might deserve some actual help. Being able to realize that personal strength isn’t lessened by asking for help was the biggest step for me. Now I’m able to realize that being brave enough to admit you need some help and asking for it show much more strength than hiding from yourself and denying yourself the love and help you need."
Jacob Dunn October, 2019
JD Mackinder
Suicide has played a dominant role in my life. Whether it was by friends, classmates, heroes, peers, or specifically my first girlfriend after we broke up. She failed at her attempt, but it began a pattern that followed my path throughout my life. She was 17 when we broke up, I was 16. I ended our relationship and she took sleeping pills in an attempt to end her life. I arrived at the hospital and saw her family, only to be greeted by her grandfather who squarely laid the blame on my young shoulders. Her mother consoled me, but asked me to leave. I was angry. I was angry at her, him, and myself. The whole situation began my pattern of carrying my anger, rather than dealing with it. Our township was plagued by a series of young suicides and suicide attempts. I became more and more angry about it. As time passed, I began down the road of performing music and our peers and heroes are distinguished in many ways, but quite often recognizable by depression en masse. My anger continued to grow. Shortly after my 27th birthday, my fiance died of a heroin overdose. My anger shifted. I was not angry about suicide, I was angry at the drug that had taken my love. I was angry at my love for taking the drug. I was mad at the world and everything in it. I was also suicidal. I had to learn what it meant to deal with that internally. Not that I had not felt depressed before—I had frequently, but I had not considered suicide. It is an honest statement to say in the 20 years since, I have thought about suicide every day. I tried therapy. It did not help me cope any better with my struggle with suicidal thoughts. I am glad therapy offers tools and support for others. I mostly keep this to myself, though I am aware that I am not alone. I do not want sympathy. I do not necessarily want help. I wake up every day and say little mantras to myself. Sometimes, it is as simple as, “I am still breathing, I did at least one thing right yesterday.” Other times, it takes hours of contemplative thought about what life is worth and even if it all sucks, there may be some hope tomorrow. I did not understand why someone would consider it when I was a younger, at least not seriously. It is serious, and I feel empathy for anyone who battles with suicide and depression. I am glad for every day I do not follow through with it.
February 2020
Tim Easton
No Shame In Asking For Help
Some say creative types are more prone to depression and addiction issues than most of the population. Others like to express the notion that pain and suffering is what really pushes us to create. I say we are born to create and it’s only the world which brings the suffering and confusion. We are born artists, given crayons and markers and set free on unlimited canvases, which often get displayed in our first exhibitions on the refrigerators of our homes. Then one day we turn in a piece and it doesn’t get the same encouragement. Eventually, some of us are practically forced to fit in, to join the group, to shed our individuality. Later in life we might look for things which help to ease the pain. Food, booze, drugs, television, sex…there is no shame in the quest, but it is an unfortunate fact that once we cross the line into addiction it becomes progressive, and it never gets better. It only gets worse. Scientists have been trying to sort out why some of us are prone to dark side, but there never seems to be a satisfactory answer or any relief until we ask for help for the things which we do not understand. It only took one visit to a psychologist to help nudge me in a more palatable direction. At the end of our session, the doctor asked me point blank: “Do you want to be a lonely old drunk man whose stories don’t mean anything to anybody?” Good stuff, and much needed at the time. I found out soon enough that alcohol and drugs weren’t really my problem. Unfortunately, the problem was me. Alcohol and drugs were what I used to escape. I was trapped into thinking that I was lesser than or better than or underneath you or above you. I was stuck in judgment or always comparing rather than just doing. Alcohol and drugs took all the fear away and made me blend in better, fit in more, which is actually the wrong direction for any so called artist. It’s not like I needed drugs or alcohol to create. I had been making cassette “albums” long before I smoked my first joint. I’ll admit that when my 7th grade music teacher said that “Let It Be” was no longer to be performed by my Church group because “Mother Mary” was about marijuana rather than the Mother of Jesus, I immediately thought to myself “what is this marijuana thing The Beatles were talking about and where can I get some?” Perhaps the addict is an addict before he or she begins to use and when we suddenly get something that makes us feel good we tend to overdo it rather than practice moderation. I mean, if one glass of red wine is good for you, than surely the whole bottle is better! While drugs and alcohol slowed me down and made me feel like I fit in better, these substances-or the overuse of them, eventually stripped away the finer parts of my individuality. They robbed me of ambition and compassion and empathy. They stopped me from caring about anything but myself. It is debatable that an artist may do well with a pinch of gentle narcissism to set them off on their individual path, but mixed with addiction or untreated addiction there comes a time when one becomes unteachable and therefore your art stops progressing and you become stunted and redundant. There might be more self-awareness, but eventually that is combined with an abundance of self-pity, because you realize you are not reaching your true potential. The cold turkey approach can unmask a fierce strain of depression and suddenly you become the self-centered fool. I am constantly apologizing to former colleagues for my behavior during a certain period of my life. I was a bit of a reckless mess. It seems I am making amends often as I travel this world, and I am grateful for the opportunity to do so, because how long do you think you can travel the world as an artist when you wreak so much emotional havoc in the lives of those who are trying to support you? Reaching out for help with anxiety and depression was the smartest thing I ever did. My marriage had collapsed, and rather than look at my own role in why, I was pointing fingers at others. That was a substantial mistake and today I am able to better understand the choices I made which caused all the problems in my own life. I’m still working on it, and I try to remain teachable because I didn’t get to the place of darkness overnight, so it stands to reason that I should expect that the journey of recovery is just as long. Not that reason has ever been my strong suit, but every day is a new day to walk a healthier path. Some addicts go to meetings, and there is thankfully such a large variety of self-help groups out there for nearly every persuasion of turmoil. Some choose to not go the 12-step route. I’m not knocking either way. I have zero concern for how much alcohol or drugs somebody takes, or if they relapsed after a long bout of sobriety, or if one goes to meetings or not. I’m more concerned with your happiness and peace of mind, and am always willing to discuss what I did, which is to reach out for help. Today, when I feel a bit of what Winston Churchill used to call his “Black Dog” coming on, i.e. depression, I try to remember that it will pass and I call a friend who might not be doing so well and ask them how they are doing. When you do that simple act and really mean it, you will stop thinking about yourself so much. Also, I also like to get off my phone/internet and out into nature. This, and sharing a meal or a conversation with somebody where you don’t break human contact to look at your phone. It is a fun experiment, and it may alter your day in ways you didn’t think it could. It is widely known that technology has forced us to deal with more information that we have been dealing with for the last few thousand years, and that can be overwhelming for sure. I will be the first to admit that I am most definitely addicted to my phone and Social Media, but I do take serious breaks from it as well, because how else could I get any real work done. If I follow my own words I know that this addiction will also get worse, never better, so stay tuned for the grand experiment in attempted moderation. In conclusion, I would like to reemphasize that there is no shame in asking for assistance in the realm of mental health, or talking with a trusted friend or a professional about addiction or depression or what happened to us along the way that profoundly shaped our lives in negative and positive ways. Long story short, you are not alone. Here, I must remind my musical Brothers and Sisters about Musicares, which is a great organization that helps you find the help you need, whether it be a treatment center or a psychologist. Talk to a professional, we were not born to suffer. Perhaps a strong connection was made with others while being creative in bouts of turmoil, because we have all been there and we all love a sad song, but there is absolutely zero shame in getting the help you need in order that you continue on your creative path, or simply, your path.
T. Easton - Yaroslavl, Russia October 4th, 2019
Andie
Mental health has affected me my entire life. I always knew there was something different about me, but mental health was just something we didn’t talk about when I was younger. The more I tried talking, I felt like I was becoming a burden on my loved ones, thus creating more anxiety, depression, & alienation. Little did I know that I wasn’t “broken” or “odd”- I am unique, tender hearted, empathetic, and genuinely loving. I knew I had depression in High School, but didn’t truly seek help from a therapist until 9/11. I mourned for the whole world, for every single soul, loved one, family member, and friend. I mourned how it tore the world apart. Coping with mental health caused me to make poor decisions, lose sleep, not eat enough, withdraw from family and friends, become codependent. Unfortunately my late husband also had similar issues, and we withdrew together. When he passed, the world crumbled beneath my feet. I lost the ability to speak, to focus, to take care of myself. I had to re-learn how to be human again basically. Thankfully with the help of close loved ones, my daughter and I have come 5 years after losing my husband (her father). I still battle PTSD, anxiety, and depression on a daily basis. Mental/ emotional health is just as important as physical, emotional, social, and spiritual health. I’ve learned to love my unique qualities, and have found many methods in easing troubles with my mental health journey. Chroma therapy (color sunglasses) help wonderfully. Music therapy saved my life and is fuel for my soul. Talking about issues with someone(s) I trust and love, and spending time in nature have opened me up, and taught me how to love myself and every moment I’m here. Art therapy has been a wonderful activity for my daughter and I, and inspired us to start drawing positive messages in chalk on sidewalks, and paint Little rocks to leave wherever the wind takes us. I like to believe someone somewhere really needed to see that rock at that moment, or heart on the sidewalk. Just to make one person smile helps me. Helping others creates the need to help and give more. So here I am today, at 41, finally knowing who I am and my purpose. It has been one wild, unbelievable ride, and now I’m finally able to step up and help others who are facing/ have faced similar situations. We’ve got to lift each other up, and De stigmatize talking openly about mental health. Every single human faces challenges, and I’m happy to still be here, healthy, and willing to put my story out there to help and inspire others. It is possible to live through immense heartbreak, loss, anxiety, abuse, and trauma. I’m living proof.
XO, Andie
Mercy Bell
Taking control of my mental health is the most important thing I have ever done in my life. And I want to share what I’ve learned. We all have to deal with trauma, relationships, and the unique inner workings of our brain and bodies. I personally have struggled with OCD, depression, ADHD, and social anxiety my entire life. I have travelled through multiple diagnoses, misdiagnoses, therapists, psychiatrists, medications, recovery/12 step groups, books, and more. They’ve all led me to a better, more centered and whole life. If I could tell anyone anything it’s this: Mental health is a hardware store, a toolbox, not one tool. You need some of these tools sometimes, other tools other times. You will use them your entire life. These tools consist of: therapy, medication, meditation, relationships/connecting with others, diet, bodywork, exercise, sexuality, creativity/projects/hobbies, nature, animals, sleep/rest, journaling, recovery/sobriety/emotional sobriety,12 step groups, spirituality, self-guided learning (books, talks, classes, podcasts, etc.). The list goes on and on and on. Tell your truth. Talk to people. Ask for help. I am incredibly open and inquisitive about my mental health, but even I was unaware of how much my OCD and depression were affecting me, up until this year, and I am 35. I was also on the wrong medication for years, and it was exacerbating my symptoms. It wasn’t until I started asking for help that I was led to CBT and exposure therapy, and the RIGHT medication, which completely changed my life. Other times, opening up to people led me to help. Led me to folks who knew exactly what I was going through, and exactly what to do. Maybe you won’t get answers right away, maybe you will, but you can begin to alleviate your suffering now. You are not alone. There are people out there who know what you’re going through, no matter how dark and scary your life is. There is help. Start building your toolbox. Talk to people. Ask for help. Tell your truth. On my journey, I have seen people come back from the dead, from the depths of hell, by doing this. I believe you can too. Good luck out there.
October 2020
Sarah Peacock
Ever since I was a kid, I knew I was different. I grew up in the Deep South — the heartland of purity culture and Southern Baptist Sunday Potlucks. For the most part, I had everything a kid could want. We were an average middle class, conservative Christian family from the suburbs. But, throughout my childhood I carried the weight of a heavy secret. I’m gay. Where I come from, that’s the unpardonable sin. As I was discovering my sexuality, I was faced with the realization that everyone around me believed my very identity was an abomination. My shame caused me to hide. I was afraid of being found out, so I only dated in secret. The secrets only amplified my shame, and for nearly a decade I wrestled to reconcile my faith and my sexuality. In my very soul I truly believed that I was evil and that I needed to change. When I finally did confess my struggle, I received conversion therapy literature. This took a serious toll on my mental health. I became severely depressed, a total slave to my fear. The depression was compounded by a lot of self-loathing for being “the way I was.” If it weren’t for the music I probably wouldn’t be here now. It’s been a long road to loving myself for who I am. And I eventually figured out that God loves me for who I am too. I’ve adjusted my sails and have made a sharp turn from the fear-based version of God I grew up with. I still struggle from time to time, especially when the road gets lonely. But I am grateful to be in the business of rock and roll where there is a lot of love and acceptance for the LGBTQ community. I crave authenticity in my songwriting process, and in the rest of my life. I wouldn’t wish what I went through on my worst enemy, but it’s amazing to feel my experience manifest in such a powerful connectivity with my fans. We are all looking to find a little piece of ourselves in the story. And on the hard days, that’s what keeps me going.
march 2020
Gary Willrett
I suppose my issues with any kind of mental health issues, or depression started about nine years ago when my wife was diagnosed with a terminal illness (ALS). We went from living a fairly idyllic life: happy marriage, two kids, project house on a lake, to a downward spiral into the unknown. It doesn't take much common sense to realize that this is the kind of thing that might cause a depression, but I stoically ignored and denied it for years. I suppose I'll blame my provincial, small town, midwest, "mythical bootstraps" upbringing. About five years ago, against my own instincts and mostly to placate others around me, I started on some antidepressant or another. My attitude about it sucked, I felt weak for it, I didn't think it was helping at all. Turns out my local family Dr. doesn't know a whole lot about depression meds and had me on a ridiculously high dosage. After about six months, I just quit. Threw out the bottle and said fuck it. Don't do that. The withdrawals were interesting to say the least, and frankly could have been dangerous. Fast forward a couple more years, and I got a good recommendation for meds through a much more qualified Dr. I've been on Escitalopram for just over a year now. My, let's call it "instant onset rage," was crazy out of control before and I suppose the meds are helping with that. Early last spring, I walked myself off of them for a few months, just out of curiosity. I couldn't tell any difference, but those few people who are close to me on a day to day basis could definitely see a difference, so I went back on them and still am today. I tried one session of therapy, which was a terrible fit for me, and frankly too expensive. A dear friend put it in words that make sense to me. He said "Therapy is intended to help you get passed something, get over something that's happened, it's not so much good to get "through things." I have a few friends scattered around the country who help me with vague advice and act as strong sounding boards, so I guess they're my version of therapy. I don't know when I became so closed off and untrusting of people here locally, but I don't often open up to anyone in person. Probably fear of that same provincial small town thing I mentioned before. I definitely don't have things beat. I suffer mostly with malaise and apathy these days, which shows itself as pure laziness. I take the pills, I talk when I feel like it. Mostly, my underlying feeling is this. My wife is dying, my life is in a purgatory, half state, the family is bleeding money to pay for a nursing home. Honestly? Depressed is simply the right and logical way to feel. If the meds can keep me even enough to hopefully not mess up the kids lives too much, then of course I'll stick with them, but no pill (in my opinion) is going to make life happy again, not now. There will be another chapter or two in my life, this past decade will always be a shadow over my whole future, but maybe there is a chance to be happy later. Just keep chasing that dangling carrot until something changes.
January 2020
Jeff Fasano
My Journey with Mental Health
I have always heard people say, you have to love, honor and value you. There was a time in my life when I had no idea what that meant. Love me! Honor Me! Value me! What the hell is that? Who the hell am I? I just knew that I needed to survive life. And that’s pretty much what I did. I’ve had breakdowns, panic attacks, gone deep into the abyss of darkness from which I never thought I’d return. I’ve contemplated suicide, thinking that I was worthless and unlovable. I compared my life to others seeing what they accomplished and thinking I have accomplished nothing. I looked at my bank account and measured my self worth based on what I had or didn’t have in it. Thinking that when they all found out, they’d say, “You’ve lived this life and you have nothing to show for it.” The daily chatter in my head was about what I haven’t done, what isn’t in my life. Constantly beating myself up day after day. Always trying to prove to others that I was worthy and lovable. Joy! I never knew what that was. I would wake every morning with a feeling of emptiness inside of me. This was my life for a very long time. I felt something was missing and I looked outside of me for it. I looked outside of me to fill that emptiness. At times I did but it was fleeting, just a hit to my nervous system that wouldn’t last very long. I was like an addict looking for a fix and never could find it. It was endless and I knew I could not live my life like this any longer. I had grown sick and tired of living a joyless, empty life. A friend introduced me to her healer/ therapist and that is when things began to turn around. I was 40 years old and everyday since has been a process to see life in a new more simplistic way. It has been and still is a challenge but through a daily practice, using the many tools I have been given, I have found what was missing and it was me. I am learning to love myself more. I have shifted my relationship with me to see that I am lovable for being who I am. Please, if any of this resonates for you, know that you are not alone. I used to think I was. Know that there are many folks feeling the same feelings as you. Know that there are folks out there who will help you, those who do honor you just where you are. I was 40 when I began this inner journey and 62 today. Life has gotten much better. To many it looked like my life was wonderful, but underneath the mask and the veneer I showed them I was dying inside. I was frightened, scared and felt so alone. I have now realized that there is more than hope, there are answers and life can turn around. This affected me so much that I felt compelled to write a book about it and did. It is called Journey of the Awakened Heart and it gives you tools to go within to remember who you truly are and to love. honor and value you. Please know that you matter and you are lovable for just being you!
October 2020
Photo by Roxanna Lisenby
Jeremy Squires
I’ve fought and struggled with mental illness my entire life. Ever since I can remember I’ve had crippling anxiety and panic attacks. Both my Mother and Father were mentally ill and had addiction issues. My Father left when I was 5 and my Mother remarried shortly after. My Stepfather was abusive and physically and verbally abused me daily. My Mother left him because of this when I was 9. I lost my Grandparents on my Fathers side and my Grandfather on my Mother’s side shortly after. I moved in with my Grandmother when my Grandfather died when I was 11. I was having panic attacks multiple times a day and was prescribed medicine for it. I learned to cope as best I could at such a young age.When I was in 8th grade I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, panic disorder and generalized anxiety disorder. I was prescribed medications and I hated taking them. I hated the way they made me feel so I stopped taking them in high school. Growing up I had many ups and downs with moods and my friends didn’t understand. They thought I was just “crazy Jeremy.” I can remember almost dying multiple times due to reckless behavior.My Father passed away from a heart attack when I was 17. I felt guilt for not talking to him before he died. I was self medicating with alcohol and I was depressed. In 2001 (I was now 21 yrs old) my son Jonah was born and I knew I needed to get help. I was diagnosed again this time with both Bipolar 1 and 2, Panic Disorder, Anxiety Disorder, and PTSD. I started taking medications and for awhile they helped. Over time I started feeling different and I went through many different changes in medication. I had nervous breakdowns and tried to commit suicide. I was hospitalized twice in my twenties. Finally, about 2007 I had enough and I didn’t want to feel like this anymore. The medications were not working and I was experiencing psychosis. I was willing to do anything to feel “normal” or like a human... so I agreed to have electro shock treatments (ECT.) It was either that or I know I would’ve died. I lost a lot of memories and forgot a lot for years. I had to reteach myself all that I had lost but mostly everything slowly came back. In 2009 my daughter Violet was born. I quit my factory job and stayed home with her and focused on music full time. I built a nice life and career. I was feeling “normal.” Then in 2014 my Mother died. This was an unexpected tragedy. My Grandmother found her on the floor dead. She died from an opioid overdose. My wife left me and I went from having my kids everyday to having them a few days a week. This was all a lot to handle and then my Grandmother had a heart attack and I took care of her until she was able to return to her home. In 2017 I remarried and we found out my wife was pregnant. We were so over the moon. Then the unexpected happened. Almost 4 months into the pregnancy she miscarried. This was devastating to us and we still grieve the loss everyday. Not too long after the miscarriage one of my worst fears came true. My son Jonah was diagnosed with bipolar 1 disorder. He also suffers from addiction. I carry a tremendous guilt having passed generations of mental illness down to him. I see myself in him everyday, both the good and the bad. I help him as best I can.Since then I’ve been taking my medication, playing music and enjoying my family. Every day is different but I am living and I am here.
August 19, 2020
Photo: Shelley Ann Squires
Jon Davis
I have experienced, like everyone else, some sort of mental “glitch” not caused by anything but just being human. I know that all encounters in life, no matter how extreme or calm they may be, have an affect on the mind. Emotions are what I have focused on for the past 3 years now. I have found this....an emotion comes through, like a storm, or a high or low wind, or a season moving on to the next one, or an electric current running its course, or a peak becoming a valley, or a fire changing shape, or a wave in the ocean forming crests and troughs.... essentially constant flow. That’s what our emotions are. (Hell, that’s what life is.)They come and they go. The only reason that it’s been difficult to deal with is because I have attached myself to these emotions. It’s like standing in a river and pushing against the current instead of letting go and flowing with it. I now sit back and watch emotions go by, not clinging to them nor believing that I am these thoughts and emotions. I’m not. They are a happening and now I know this. It’s a practice to “see” it this way...but being sad, depressed and clinging to my emotions were also a practice without even realizing it. When I accepted change, that’s when it all started coming together. Puzzle pieces if you may. “Life is life because it’s always disappearing”. That’s it.. One love to all! Go with the flow.
Jon Davis, October 2020
Photo: Self Taken
Todd Farrell
During my sophomore year of high school, I was falling behind in math. I was excelling in creative writing, English, history, while also teaching myself to play guitar and playing two sports. I just couldn't figure math out. My parents took me to see someone, and I did a few cognitive tests... puzzles, word association, that sort of thing. Results came back, and I was diagnosed with ADD. The doctor said I'm incredibly intelligent, but if I come across something I have no interest in, my brain shuts down. My parents refused to medicate me, in fear that I would lose my personality and creativity. This was both wonderful and terrible. I floated through high school playing in bands and writing poems in the school magazine and having a mildly successful football and track and field career... but I could not pass a math class. During my senior year, I was in the same algebra class with sophomores, and I would try and hide from my other friends when coming in and out of the classroom, and hide my books behind a copy of Guitar World Magazine so they didn't know what class I was in. I was terrified about being the stupid kid. I certainly felt like it. Fast forward ten years, I was on the road as a full time musician, and the issue didn't seem to come up much, except when having to do "real world" things. When my wife and I had our daughter in 2018, I decided to come off the road and get a full time job in order to help better financially support my family (and also spend more time with my family), which meant more time in the "real world". My current day job is a music business job in Nashville, but my role has nothing to do with music. I'm endlessly thinking about what I would rather be doing; playing guitar, writing songs, recording, creating. Our culture has been conditioned to value things that create results: grades, salary, status, and stuff. Unfortunately, my brain has been programmed to not really give a shit about any of that. I like to make things, spend time with people, and perform. It's a constant battle between what I want to do and what I have to do, knowing the scales are tipped from the beginning. I feel a circle trying to fit into a square. I've found solace in a few things. I cope by running for 30 minutes on my lunch break every day that I can. The endorphins and sense accomplishment help me feel good about myself, and there's no better way to let out your frustration than a long sidewalk and a death metal playlist. With the infinite wisdom and help of my wife, I've been able to set specific time aside to be creative. I have no better supporter of my creative endeavors than she. Remembering that the people you work so hard for (family, friends) are also the people who are there to help and support you when you need it is important. As scary as it seems to ask for help, you always have people who are ready and willing. You only feel stupid if you don't try.
October 2019
Jordan Smart
Growing up with people who struggled with mental health, I didn't really know there was any other way. For a long time I thought that everyone had these same problems and felt the same things, that everyone struggled the way I, and people I loved had. For whatever reason I was always wary of prescription medication for my depression...and after a hazy troubled decade of self-medicating I am finding that my self-medicating was most likely a major contributor to my struggle. In the past couple of years I've come into more of a balance with my depression, and have learned to live with it a little easier.
September, 2019
Kasey Anderson
I was diagnosed with Type I Bipolar Disorder in 2012, at the age of 33. I could have — should have — been diagnosed about a decade earlier but throughout most of my twenties and early thirties I had very little interest in being honest about anything, let alone examining my own behavior. I knew that not everyone stayed awake for days, sometimes weeks at a time without a noticeable dip in energy. I knew that not everyone went through periods where what they believed to be reality bore no resemblance to actual reality. I assumed that was the collateral damage of creativity. My diagnosis came on the heels of an intervention that took place over a series of days in Seattle, Washington. A month earlier my band had been on stage at Red Rocks and then, seemingly suddenly, everyone around me knew I was not sober (something I had been lying about for years), and that I had and committed fraud, and stolen hundreds of thousands of dollars. There was a long stretch of time when, to varying degrees, I caused harm to any and every person I encountered. I saw two psychiatrists — one on a recommendation from a friend and another I had been seeing off and on since I was a teenager — and both were quick with and certain of their diagnoses. Both doctors told me they could not treat me unless I got sober, so I got sober. I went to rehab, and I started taking lithium, and then I went to prison. I want to be clear: my diagnosis did not and does not serve as a comprehensive explanation for my behavior, nor does it excuse what I did. Sobriety, medication and therapy have changed my life immensely, and being able to work with peers has been an integral part of my recovery, but making amends is a lifelong process and, seven years after my diagnosis and four years after my release from prison, I still consider myself in the beginning stages of that process. I'm grateful to have found work I love with a recovery organization in Portland and am grateful that I'm still able to write, record and perform occasionally but there is not a day of my life when I don't think about what I did, and the people I harmed, and I cannot imagine that will ever change.
Sept 2019
Micah Schnabel
“When I was 10 years old I had the best jump shot in the Riverside Methodist Juvenile Psychiatric ward. My friend and roommate, Mario, called me “The Answer”. He said that jump shot would solve all of the problems in my life. A couple days later I woke up in the middle of the night to him screaming and smashing his head against the cinder block wall of our room. The nurses pinned him down, put him in a straight jacket, and dragged him off to the rubber room. There really is a rubber room. But it’s not soft like a bouncy castle. Just rubbery enough you don’t break your neck. I’m 37 years old and I’m still figuring out how my mental health effects me day to day. I believe my most honest answer is that creating has saved my life. As long as I am waking up and doing my work, I know I’ll be ok. I have to force myself to focus every single day. I’m pretty sure most humans struggle with the same thing but I believe for me it’s a choice of life or death. And please note, I’m not saying my work is any good. Or something worth dedicating a life to. What I’m saying is that my work has given me a purpose. A reason to be excited about waking up the next day. I did three full stints (and one admittance but pulled out 2 days later by a mother’s love) in that psych ward by the time I was 14. I learned a lot in there. Most importantly, how fortunate and privileged I am. I carry that with me every day.”
September 2019
Rod Gator
The ones before me called it “the blues.” Both sides of my family have a strong history of mental illness. I remember hearing about one member of the family that had decided he was Jesus. He was going to prove this to everyone by walking on water during the family reunion. I also remember hearing about an aunt that had received shock therapy. I would begin to think about all these things in my early 20s. The mood swings. The constant muttering to myself. The sudden rush of inspiration that would come followed by an awful crash. The constant need to be high or drunk. Anything to slow the gears down. Though eventually it all flys off the rails. Last year I was hit with an awful depressive episode that put me in the hospital. Thankfully I was able to get on a new medication and move past it. I ended up losing around twelve pounds. Not long after that we took the photos for the new record. It’s hard to look at them now just cause I know where I was at the time. I was able to bounce back from it thankfully but it was a reminder that I’ll always struggle with this illness. I just won’t let it define me anymore.
Photo by David McClister
Roger Hoover
Growing up, both my parents suffered from some form of anxiety, depression and alcoholism. Mental health was never openly discussed. My predisposition to anxiety and depression were never discussed - not that it would have really helped much. I feel my path to recovery was just as it should have been. Probably because I know no other way. When I was 23, my father had a sudden, massive brain hemorrhage most likely brought on from years of boxing and alcohol abuse. What I didn't discover until a few years ago was that he also had a failed suicide attempt a few weeks before he died. He jumped from a cliff into a cold, blue quarry, narrowly missing the boulders that would have killed him. Instead, he fell into a lake and suffered a likely concussion which led to his hemorrhage. In the hospital, I was given the responsibility of signing the paperwork to take him off life support. With my mother and little brother in the hallway, I discussed the severity of this. I still don't know if they understood at the time what we were doing. Watching him die was painful. Close family was near, as was my guitar player and longtime friend in the Whiskeyhounds, Freddy Hill. There was much left unsaid between my father and I. Still much left unsaid. In many ways, I've had to figure this life out for myself, alone without someone to gain insight from, or to shed some light on who I am and how I operate. A week after my father passing, I discovered that my girlfriend was pregnant with our first child, who is now 16 years old. It was a terrifying moment for me, yet I was eager to prove a better father than mine had been. Still, I wasn't prepared for it. Every day was a daily battle of anxiety and panic. There were moments I couldn't leave the house. Freddy booked tours for us and I would map out the closest hospitals in case of what I believed to be an imminent death. Alcohol became vital to my performing, to getting by. At first, alcohol provided me the courage to be social, the numbing to forget anxiety, and, if I drank enough, I could sleep well through the night. This continued for a few years. I made calls for help. I just didn't understand any of it. Why I felt the way I did. Why nobody else understood the way I felt. I didn't know anybody else like me. I wrote an album about it, Panic Blues. People loved that record. It was so hard for me to sing those songs in front of people who cheered on my pain. I used to tell people, "I'm so grateful my misery and suffering makes you feel so good." Shortly after I tried Paxil, which didn't work at all for me. I was absolutely brain dead. I could still create but I felt groggy. Much of those years are a haze to me. I remember little things now and then, but not much. My crippling anxiety, panic, depression and insecurity were major factors that caused me to wreak havoc on personal relationships. Cowardice caused more. Fear of talking out loud, fear of seeking help. They destroyed a lot. I put up walls and lived inside them for many years. I had a lot of success with the Whiskeyhounds and Magpies. I'm not entirely to blame for their breakups, but I accept my responsibility in their lack of overwhelming success. I've known Freddy Hill most of my adult life. He's seen me through it all. I heard Freddy tell my now wife, Ysabel, a few years ago, "There's pre-father dying Roger, post-father dying, and Paxil Roger" and that made me terribly sad. It was like looking at myself through a cinema camera, watching it all play out but with missing pieces here and there. There's a fourth Roger here now, one that knows his limits and triggers. One that is more secure. One that is happy. Everyday there are struggles, but I can face them now. I have two, incredible daughters that teach me about love, compassion and happiness. My oldest daughter has anxiety, but she's more brave and aware than I ever was and she's dealing with it gracefully, intelligently, and moving her life forward in ways that would have been unimaginable to me. I know they'll leave a mark in this life and I know that somehow my trials happened in order to give them the guidance they need to overcome some of these same issues. I have a wonderful marriage with a partner that challenges me in very patient ways. She's helped me to talk about my past, to forgive my past, to forgive myself and my family. My father's ashes sit in a makeshift urn next to a photograph of him boxing. I see it everyday. I hear my wife speak to a father-in-law she never knew. My children ask about him. The horror of my childhood and his death is still in me, somewhere, but it recedes. It fades, like my inner turmoil. But, every once in a while it all creeps back up. There's a boxing philosophy my father taught me that he learned from Muhammad Ali, the great heavyweight. It’s called Rope-a-Dope. When you have an opponent stronger and faster than you, you let them pummel you against the ropes until they wear out. Then, in the final round, you give them all hell. They're worn down. You pummel and win. I'm playing life like a Rope-a-Dope. I won't know if it's successful until the very end. I'll be around to let you know how that plays out, somewhere down the road.
September 2019
Xanthe Alexis
Mental Health has always been in the forefront of my life. I grew up in a chaotic home with an alcoholic Father who struggles with Bi Polar. I would always say "that wont be me." When I was 20 my sister, who was 16,died of heart disease. I had a three month old baby. My family was all living in Michigan and I was alone in Colorado. The isolation of grief was unbearable. A dark shadow fell over my life. I felt hopeless. I spent my 20s and most of my 30s wrestling with that shadow. Then the man I loved left abruptly and I began secretly using alcohol daily to numb the pain. I had become what I swore I would never be. My Mother is a mental health professional and encouraged me to try Somatic Trauma Resolution. She was afraid for me, I was afraid too and willing to try anything. Slowly I began unraveling the years of pain. Three and a half years ago I got sober. I began rebuilding my life and became certified as a Trauma Therapist. I am so grateful that the people I love didn't give up on me. That I didn't give up on myself. Helping others come back into the light is my way of giving back for the miracle of my own healing. I still have hard days, especially with the state of our world now. But I have tools to help me with those shadow places. My Father is sober now too. We are healing as a family. I hope sharing my journey in my music and in my practice as a Therapist helps others believe that they can heal too.
April 2020
Photo: Matt Chmielarczyk
Lindsay Jordan
I wake up every day and live a lie. I’ve built my life around running from my past. I always tell the fun, charismatic stories of my childhood and purposely dodge all black marks. Even though some of the fun stories lend a glimpse that my life hasn’t been a box of peaches, I’ve used humor and my personality to build a big giant invisible bubble around myself. If people don’t ask, I don’t have to tell, and then it’s like it never happened. I have only ever wanted to be accepted by those who could never relate to me. It’s always been, and for whatever reason, has remained an unspoken goal even through to where I am now in my late twenties. Although no matter how hard I try, it’s always nipping at my heels. For better or worse, this has been my chosen defensive mechanism. Protecting myself from what I believe to be certain ridicule from my peers. Even writing this, I have not been able to allow myself to even come close to going into any further details. The mental stress of this life is painful, and often lashes out at the weirdest times in the strangest of ways. One of the largest stigmas with mental health is that if you talk about it, it makes you weak. I have been bred to believe that if I let my guard down at any moment, I will be viewed as undesirable and weak. I refuse to be weak. I have been working tirelessly to unlearn this way of thinking, and find a line where I can actually deal with it all. I am so terrified to open that gate because I know I’m not equipped to deal with the flood. Writing this and acknowledging my suffering is a good first step in the right direction. Thank you for reading. When we meet again, I’ll be requiring your emails to ensure that you can all subscribe to my Daddy Issues.
October 2020
Sylvia Rose Novak
It's 2004. I've been told by another girl that I have love handles. I have no idea what those are. But I'm a size 4. I've always known that I'm not tall and lithe. But I never thought I was fat. Not really. I live in t-shirts and jeans. I play trombone in the band and I'm on the soccer team. I still ride my two horses. I go to football games. I eat chocolate. And fries. -- I was absent when our soccer team placed their t-shirt size orders. My friends order me a medium and order smalls for themselves. I am also a small. It’s 2005. I’ve vaguely noticed my weight climb. But I’m moody and confused. Artistic and withdrawn. But that’s nothing new. I’m a teenager. My friends and I eat terribly. I can no longer wear a size 4. I’m a size 6. I know what love handles are. I’m not playing soccer anymore. But I’m still in band. And I’m very good. I’m angling for first chair. I’m guaranteed section leader. A boy I’m dating leaves me because I’m fat. I didn’t think I was fat. Now I do. I intentionally throw up for the first time after eating. It won’t be the last. It’s 2006. I’ve started running. I’m still in band. And I’m becoming more and more restrictive with my food choices. I see the weight start to come off. I’m a size 4 again. I can now run 6 miles. I eat a cup of yogurt. A slice of cheese on wheat bread. A powerbar. A salad. Every day. Maybe a smoothie. Maybe a pita. Maybe. I have a steady boyfriend who runs with me. I’m tan from lifeguarding. I’m lean. And I’m happy. It’s 2007. I’m anemic and alone. My bones protrude. I wear a size 2. My friends have mostly given up on me. I’m in weekly treatment for anorexia. But I still run. I was playing soccer until my brittle knee broke from a hard hit in practice. I use the cross-trainer with my leg in a full brace. I’m bloated and miserable. So I throw up. Every day. Sometimes twice a day. I’m even more bloated and miserable. I meet a man. He’s five years older than me, and I love him. So I start to recover. I run a marathon. And I get a new horse. It’s 2008. I’m still running. I develop a yoga practice. I’m gaining weight. I notice that my pants are tighter. I’m back in a size 4 and start caring more about the world’s problems than my scale. I’m involved and happy. This is short lived. It’s 2009. I’m in my first apartment and in a very abusive relationship. Mostly verbally and emotionally. Physically once. I’m still running. I run so much I burn the motor out on my treadmill. I’m a size 4. But I wear a size 6. I start to drink. I was never a drinker. But I start to drink. I purge red wine. I paint Leonard Cohen lyrics on my bathroom wall. And I call a suicide hotline for the first time. I run a half marathon in the mountains and develop hypothermia. I still won’t eat. I sleep for 24 hours. When I wake up, it’s snowing. My weight begins to plummet as I replace wine and purging with gin and starvation. I’m caught in a loop and everyone is tired of my shit. I leave that relationship. I start a new one with a wonderful woman. It’s 2010. I still have a drinking problem. I’m a size 2. I’m training horses and restricting calories. But I’m eating. Sometimes. I rarely run anymore. You don’t need to when you ride five times a day. I binge eat sometimes. I begin purging three times a day. At least. When I eat at all. My girlfriend wants me to go to inpatient treatment. I refuse. I ruin another relationship. And another. And another. I exist to exist. I pierce my upper lip. I trade horse training for waitressing. I stop paying attention to my caloric intake. I’m not running at all. And I’ve already broken my scale by lobbing it through my mirror. I’m on a new medication for anxiety. It’s 2011. I trade waitressing for bartending. I come off of my new medication after it causes a psychotic break. I’m the heaviest I’ve been since 2005. I’m a size 6. I drink entirely too much. I don’t sleep. I eat terribly. And I hate myself. I trade bartending for another horse training job. I begin purging again. Briefly. I start a new relationship. He doesn’t drink. I make new friends. I join a gym. I am diagnosed with Celiac Disease. Things begin to improve. It’s 2012. I suffer three unimaginable losses within a two-month span. I exercise two hours a day on top of training horses (I’ve moved my business to my own farm). I stop eating. The weight is falling off of me. I don’t notice. I’m anxious and I’m sad. My size 6 pants don’t fit anymore. I buy 2s. I ruin my good and stable relationship. I can kill a bottle of scotch without blinking. It’s 2013. I began my career as professional musician. I put my heart through the ringer. I run myself into the ground about it. I am bones and lean muscle. I’m rarely hungry. I wear a size 0. I’m running excessively. I’m still drinking too much. It’s 2014. I’m blonde. And gaining some muscle mass. I’m working steadily and preparing to release a record. I gain. I’m a size 2. And gain. I’m squeezing into a size 2. And gain. I should have been wearing a 4. I’m “heavy” again. I don’t care. I release my first record. I’m not the skinny and nearly feral creature on the cover. I look in the mirror. I’m bloated. I’m horrible. My thighs touch. I care now. I join a band as their full-time bassist. It’s 2015. I’m still at war with my scale and my mirror. But life settles down a little. I’m still working as a professional musician. I find myself in a bikini more than I have ever been. Our drummer has a pool. I notice the weight more now. I pay attention to food. I drink my liquor straight. I start to lose weight again. I notice. I begin actively trying to lose weight. It works. It works well. I can wear the 0s again. It’s 2016. I buy a size 2 and shrink them in the wash. I count calories. I work out at least 5 days a week. I’m aware of my disorder. Painfully aware. It causes a lot of arguments. I pick my body apart. My ribs are visible. My hip bones protrude. I wear baggy shirts. I have thigh muscle. People make comments about my quads. I hate it. It’s been slowly dwindling as I refuse to lift. I drink significantly less. But sometimes still too much. I fall asleep at the wheel. I walk away from a wreck that should have killed me. I internalize survivor’s guilt. I eat less and less. I release my second album. Nobody likes it. It’s 2017. I’m training polo horses and working on my third record. I’m getting married in April. I wake up early to go to yoga or to work out. I eat a protein bar. I eat lunch sometimes. I don’t eat enough carbs and my sweat starts to smell like ammonia. My hair is long. My hair is falling out. I weigh myself on my wedding day. I weigh less than I did at the height of my disorder in High School. I’m thinner than I was a decade prior and I’m *proud* of that. I work long and hard days. I feel good about my fading body. I take promo photos in a crop top. Flat. Everything is flat. My stomach. My chest. My ass. My emotions. Flat. But somebody still says something about my thighs on the internet so I eat less and less and less. It’s 2018. My third album is slotted for release. I was drugged on New Years Eve. I think it’s bad luck. I eat less and less and less. I’m almost double digits. I feel like it’s fine. Like it’s normal and okay. Everyone wants to know if I’m sick but I feel so alive. I feel so confident. I’m the most anorexic I have ever been and I don’t even know it. I go from flat to bones. I get dizzy a lot. I black out. I end up seeing a specialist the month that my album releases. It’s 2019. I fight myself into further recovery. I’ve gained weight. I can run again without my joints collapsing so I do sometimes. My husband hides my scale. I learn that I also have Body Dysmorphic Disorder. The whole year is a blur. I write a rock album about bipolar disorder, OCD, and drinking too much. It’s 2020. I’m still struggling and I know that what I want for myself isn’t right. I’m releasing my fourth album and the world is engulfed in panic and loss. I’m frightened and I’m trying to control the only thing that I think I can - my weight. You wouldn’t look at me and think that I’m anorexic. I’m small, but still a pretty normal weight and I eat “enough”. But my thoughts are consumed by body fat and flaws and calories. I still talk to a therapist. I wake up every day ready to fight for my own life. I thought this would be the year that I recovered. Forever. But some people just fight and fight and fight for themselves. And if that has to be me, it does. I will fight. And if that’s you, you’re worth the fight too. And you’re not alone.
April 2020
Photo by Merideth A. Singer
Mark Beckelman Jr.
On August 1st, 2007, I was medically retired from the United States Marine Corps. A fourhour class— to erase eight years of training, develop a resume, and file my claim with theVA—was the expressway off-ramp to my youth and identity. It was an anticlimactic close to whathad been my lifelong dream, and just one more blow in the shit storm I was dealing with.Merging on to I-5 north I took stock; six months earlier I had caught my wife of three yearscheating, kissed my six-month-old daughter goodbye, and watched them leave. Now doing 80 inthe Southern California sun I wondered how long I could keep ignoring the whispers to plow mytruck into the next canyon, or bridge. Would I hear the gunshot or just end? What was I going todo now? Who am I? Will the pain ever end? I swore if one more doctor tells me it's all in myhead I’m climbing a tower with my rifle. It was all rapid fire, like sweeping the FM dial, quickdisjointed thoughts, a soundtrack to cruise your own highway to hell with nothing but shit on theradio. When pain, nightmares, and other issues started back in 2004 I had climbed in a bottleto cope. I sucked it up and did my duty to the best of my ability, relying on my mental toughnessto make it to the next sundown, my next drink, and to hopefully catch 2-3 hours of sleep before Idid it again. I had a purpose. Something bigger than myself to drive me to cope, keep fighting. I was short tempered, prone to violence, and generally an asshole. Service to myMarines and providing for my family became the only thing I had. A surprise visit by a concernedGunnery Sergeant finally cut the tightrope I was walking. My home was a mess: dirty dishes,clothes, empty bottles, and desperation strewn about making it look like the stands after your team loses the big game. I didn’t want to let him in, but he called it an inspection. Followingorders I opened the door. Expecting an ass-chewing, I stood at attention. Looking him in theeye, I saw compassion, empathy and worry. He sat with me the rest of the afternoonpulling—like infected teeth—what I was dealing with. Then he started cleaning, all while I sathating myself for failing to live up to the standard of the Corps. At the next morning's muster, I was called aside by our Commanding Officer andushered into his office where a Lieutenant Commander from the Battalion Aid Station waited.My life quickly became a shuffling deck of Corpsmen, doctors, tests, and visits with theheadshrinkers. Psych evals, CTs, bloodwork, X-rays, and more pokes than a porcupine's hug;then pills, in burnt orange bottles one for each symptom of the rainbow. Within months I couldn’tthink. I would stare at my shoelaces knowing there was something I was supposed to do, but Ididn’t know what. Names, places, and appointments faded into the fog. This is when thewhispers started. “Just take the whole bottle.” “You’re a burden.” “Good luck having a careerafter this, you fucked up by the numbers.” “ She doesn’t love you anymore, you fucking junky.” The pain and the apathy left me hollow and too lazy to actually end it, if I could haveeven remembered how to do it. I kept these whispers to myself, while I fought to revive andsave my career. After 18 months and perfect Physical Fitness Test scores, the PhysicalEvaluation Board announced I was Unfit for Service and to be Medically Retired. That drive home in 2007 became my life: pills, booze, and doing whatever I could to getby. I stayed home—fucking gold medal level social distancing. The only real thing I could clingto was my daughter. She needed her dad, so I worked dead-end night jobs, picked her up every weekend, and tried to find an answer. In 2009 I couldn’t afford some of my medication and thewhispers went away. I could think. I hurt, but I could think. I reached out to old friends, picked upmy guitar, and began looking for something—hell anything—to make the pain stop. Off thepsych meds, but still needing the pain pills and muscle relaxers to keep me functioning, I finallyfound a doctor who listened. It wasn’t all in my head. After another round of testing, low andbehold injuries I had sustained had progressed to the point that my right arm was no longerreceiving blood flow properly, and the pain was my nerves dying. Intensive physical therapybegan and I started to crawl out of the darkness I had wrapped myself in. Tired of being alone, Ithrew my line in the water of internet dating. After some witty exchanges I finally met a beautifulwoman who, with a feather in her hair, walked into a Killer Pizza from Mars and walked out withmy heart. She listened. She held me when I woke screaming in the night. She knew I neededspace when an unexpected backfire or popped balloon drained the color from my face. Afterthree months of dating she braved her fear of hospitals to stay with me as I recovered fromsurgery to save the use of my right arm. For four days she stayed with me, making sure to tellthe nurses when my stubborn ass needed pain meds. When I was released it was her I leanedon during recovery, trips to physical therapy, doctors appointments, and one hell of a fight withthe VA. Ten years later, do the ghosts linger? Yeah, I have to keep my demons on a short leash.However, I have a career, three beautiful children ( we won full custody by the way) and a wifethat I would move heaven and earth for. So when you ask me “How has mental health affectedme?” I have to say it made me the better man I am today. It gave me perspective on how veryprecious life is, and how each person's story is worth listening to. All of our journeys will bedifferent- some easy, some hard, but all unique each with burdens of their own.
March 2020
Photo by Chelsea French-Beckelman
Sarah W
I don’t remember the period in my life before I was sexually assaulted for the first time. I know it exists, because the alternative is unthinkable. When I look at photos of myself as a child, I think, was this before or after? I search my child eyes, my body language, my affect to see if I can will the thoughts of the girl looking back at me to return to my present mind from deep in my memory. Depending on where the photo was taken--my grandmother’s house, camping in our vintage trailer, my parents’ living room--I try to invoke the smell of the room, the sharpness of the grass under my legs, the feel of the furniture in order to resurrect any recollection. Often, no clear mental image arises, but what I do perceive is the vibrating dull hum of anxiety, fear and suspicion. That photo, then, is an “after.” There is no way to describe the bewilderment that accompanies this kind of trauma, whether it was orchestrated by another child or by an adult. It is a total and sudden horrifying understanding that the world is dark, it is shameful, and it is unsafe. It also sets an expectation that at any time, for no reason, people will use you, because you are only valuable if you are of use for their gratification, their pleasure, their needs. Absent that purpose, you are worthless. When I internalized--and I did, deeply--that I had essentially no reason for being except to be available as a vehicle for what other people wanted from me, it did two things to my identity. First, it allowed me the space to curate a perfect collage of all the “right” qualities an 80s Catholic girl needed to be successful: bookish, friendly, school spirit-y, focused on college and career. I made all my decisions based on what could cause the least amount of stress to my parents and extended family. I picked a “safe” college--where I was quickly targeted by a predator upperclassman. The burden was then on me to carry the embarrassment of having been raped, to be the girl who had gotten what she deserved. I added a second major and minor and then went to graduate school and then law school, so that I could focus on something besides the black void in my heart, my inability to maintain healthy relationships, and my increasing desire to simply disappear. I tried to keep my veneer of emotional equilibrium shiny and unblemished, even as that veneer, as it is wont to do, cracked and eventually shattered under the strain of my living with unresolved, unaddressed, repeated trauma. Second, because I put so much mental work into ensuring my external self was compartmentalized and controlled, my internal voice was discordant, fraught and fearful. For years, I sabotaged any opportunity where I could try to love or allow myself to be loved. I could not believe--and to a certain extent, I still do not believe--that in and of myself, I was enough. I have value. I am not merely alive to be used. I am worthy. The insidious whisper of humiliation buzzes through my mind maybe not daily, but certainly weekly. I have clinical depression, anxiety, and post-traumatic disorder. I often feel I wear the mask of an imposter self; I put her “on” in order to function. If I take her “off,” no one would want me. Rejection is inevitable. I spend my days actively supporting, outwardly loving, and openly acknowledging the beauty, talent and gifts of the women I know, especially the young women, because that’s what I needed, and no one came. There was no hero in my life. Now, if I can be the hero for one person, I feel that my 40+ years of self-doubt, distrust, and fear of loss might eventually heal.
October 2020
Photo: Self Taken