Chapter 30: Conclusion, Confession, and Choose Your Own Adventure
When he asked me what I intended to do with the photos, I shared that I intended to start a blog series and tell a story or anecdote with each photo. Despite being over 10 years younger than me, there is an emotional maturity and old soul nature to Zachary, especially when it comes to his photographic sensibilities. We had connected during the consultation a month prior and during the photoshoot on 3/8/2022. We talked about our bouts of depression and life development we've both done. So in a moment of complete candor, I shared that I was going through a particularly bitter heartbreak and that my mental health was spiraling downward. "I sort of imagined writing a blog series as one long suicide letter", I responded to Zachary. I don't know if he took me seriously or not, or if he found it compelling as some sort of artistic curiosity.
By the time we met on 4/8/22 and I received my prints and digital photos, I was further convinced that this was the route I was going to take. Between 3/11 and 4/8, I had the difficult conversation with the woman of my dreams that my hopes for a happy ending and a life shared with her were gone. But in the process, I acknowledged the pyrrhic victory of gaining a best friend. I shared some of my history of suicidal ideations; maybe I was looking for a reason to push her away as confirmation bias of the rejection and abandonment I was already feeling. But she didn't. After our conversation, I decided to seek help. I'm privileged to work at an organization where mental health is understood and valued so my boss immediately referred me to a psychologist and I began therapy the following week.
https://daniellee721.blogspot.com/2022/04/prologue-side-character-energy.html
When I began this series on 4/10/2022, I wrote in my prologue that I would be finally telling my story in all of its messiness, of love and heartbreak, of acceptance and rejection, of joy and sadness, of life and death. What I didn't share (maybe it was obvious if you read between the lines) was that I fully intended to end my life and surrender to suicide at the conclusion of this project. What I didn't want was for people to wonder why. I wanted to finally be seen. If I couldn't have love and acceptance in this lifetime, then I at least wanted to finally feel understood.
But I did give myself an out. After all I did begin therapy. I gave myself the duration of this project, 30 weeks, to change my mind. Maybe things would change between April and November. Why would I write myself into a corner if the outcomes wasn't certain? I made this blog a declaration of life and exploration of self-worth. It became an exercise of radical acceptance: what were all those ugly, messy things about myself that I kept hidden from everyone because I was afraid that they'd reject me if they knew? So I shared some of my deepest insecurities and shame. I shared my struggles and failures. There was no need to hide anymore. And in that process maybe I'd learn to accept myself and this life that hasn't turned out anything like I had imagined. Maybe I'd find something redeemable and something worth living for.
I tried to do all the "healthy" self-care things they tell you do. I reached out to my inner circle of friends and let them know that I was struggling with depression and anxiety. I might have withheld or downplayed the suicide ideations because I didn't want to alarm them. But there was a part of me that wanted to savor each moment because I didn't know how many more opportunities there would be. I continued going to therapy weekly. I continued to read and continued to sketch. I joined a podcast. And I wrote every week, without fail. Rather than pour myself into work and continue to burn out, I began establishing a firmer life/work boundaries. I took more naps and tried to heal. And I tried to date again and "move on", probably way too soon. It's already bad enough dating when you're not over your ex, try dating when you're suicidal. Bad recipe. I apologize to everyone I met on a dating app over the first half of 2022. I apologize for the depressive rants and emotional breakdowns. I apologize for the erratic behavior and emotional disconnection. I was already tethered to an emotional bungee cord; the last thing I needed was another rejection and heartbreak to finally plunge me into the abyss.
The blog became performance art: an improvised, spontaneous lived in experience of my mental health journey and battles with depression. I may only be an amateur writer but a word of advice; if you're struggling with mental health please don't go "method" when writing. Please don't fully inhabit your character, even if you're ultimately writing or portraying some version of yourself. With each blog entry and revisiting of certain memories and traumas, I found myself experiencing them again secondhand and unable to separate life from art and art from life.
For several weeks in the summer my mental health improved. It gave me the space to explore different themes like the hero's journey and how we can apply those themes into our own testimony. There were things to feel optimistic about. I got to celebrate my 40th birthday. In July my therapy sessions scaled back from weekly to biweekly. I began going out to restaurants more frequently. I began attending live music venues again. From the outside it might have seemed like I was doing better. Really I was keeping busy and drowning out the depression with music, movies, and the sounds of my friend's laughter. I wasn't "happy" but this was a life I felt could be sustainable.
For the second half of my blog I tried to explore the concept of self-actualization as a pivot from my exploration of self-worth Isn't self-worth recognizing that life has an inherent value? One doesn't have to justify one's existence as being valuable and worthy, it is valuable and worthy because it is. That doesn't always work with someone struggling with their mental health and when depression questions the basic conceit that their life has value. So if I couldn't find value in my existence, then maybe I could find its purpose as a reason to continue. Maybe my life hadn't turned out exactly how I thought it would, but maybe I could remind myself that I'm further along than I gave myself credit for. Maybe I would realize that I'm exactly the person I set my intentions to be. Maybe if I saw the forest from the trees and dissociated from my depression, then I would feel gratitude for the life I have and how I've chosen to live it. Once I stopped trying to live up to a model minority myth, stopped living under my mentor's shadow, stopped trying to appease my parents, and finally created a life on my own terms, I could recognize the self-actualized version of my myself and celebrate that.
For those who grew up in the 1980's and early 1990's they may remember the Choose Your Own Adventure children's books where you the reader would assume the role of the protagonist and make choices that determine the character's actions and plot's outcome. Life seems to work a lot that way. We go down certain paths based on the choices we make; sometimes we're fortunate enough to retrace our steps and proceed a different path whenever we reach dead ends. Each suicidal ideation was a dead end that caused me to retrace my steps and start over. Only it seeming like every decision and action I took was leading me right back to the same final outcome.
My mental health declined again in October. The depression wasn't just constricting my view of the forest, it was burning it down. My friends who I relied so heavily on as a support system, all were getting busy, more and more texts were left on read, plans to catch up kept getting pushed back, and people were finding new loves and I felt utterly replaceable. They were moving on with their lives and leaving me behind. Work at the DV was unrelenting as there was no break; there's always another victim and another trauma. When does it ever get better? Another rejection, another "I want to take things slow" immediately followed by "I didn't feel a romantic connection" further reinforced my fears that love and connection was a pipe dream.
My blog was nearing its conclusion and despite my best efforts and "choosing my own adventure", I was running out of time. I had failed to change my mind. The suicidal ideations returned like an inevitability. Beckoning me to join Robin Williams and Anthony Bourdain. Who would miss me? Look at how quickly everyone had moved on. I was tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of grasping for reasons to hold on. Shouldn't my existence and inherent worth by enough? News flash, it's not.
"In order to love who you are, you cannot hate the experiences that shaped you." - Andrea Dykstra
On October 25, 2022 I had a consultation with a psychiatrist to get on antidepressants. It was the last act of self-love that I had for myself. Even though I began on a very light dosage to increase incrementally, I felt the effects immediately. The lingering, throbbing headaches disappeared. The suicidal ideations faded into an inaudible whisper. My libido went down to zero, which let's be honest probably only confirms what most of my dates assumed about me. At least now I have a medical reason. The brain fog of depression finally cleared and I was left to sort through the mental clutter.
I wish this story had a more satisfying conclusion. I didn't find any clarity of purpose. I didn't find anything additional that is worthy. None of my problems have gone away. Work still feels overwhelming and I often struggle with the idea that I'm making any lasting difference. I'm still lonely and have fears of abandonment. I'm grateful for my friends but fear that eventually those relationships too might come with an expiration date and I'll have to start all over again. My heart is still broken and I've accepted that there are certain parts of me that will always grieve that. I don't have any new hopes that anything will change in my future. When my therapist asked me what I had to look forward to, I let out an exasperated sigh and couldn't think of anything for myself. My response to these uncertainties and fears are "f*ck it, I'm on meds now"; I'm not happy but don't even feel like dying anymore. In the end I chose love. I chose life, though I'm not exactly sure what life I chose to stick around for; it may be better, worse, but not the same as its been before.
I suppose it's satisfying enough that this story won't end in suicide.
This was never meant to be a happy story. This wasn't meant to be a love story. This was a journey through the ups and downs of mental health in real time. This was a story of purpose and choice. This was a story of a deeply flawed, sometimes pretentious and condescending, often melodramatic, mostly self-aware and earnest, but always sincere protagonist.
Whoever's still reading, thank you for sticking with me til the end.
Roll credits.
Portrait Photography: https://www.zacharyleeportrait.com
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