Ok, Vene, the electrical storm has passed and you had some clarity. So get this down and come back here the next time.
Your depression doesn’t come often, but when it does, it feels like mild agitation at first that cascades, snowballs, accumulates exponentially into anger at the whole world and everybody in it. You get suicidal. You get homicidal. You can’t use any of your regular coping mechanisms. Things get fucking bleak. And you can’t feel anything but blackness.
The only cure for that is drugs and sleep. Seroquel and Klonopin in continuous doses over the space of about 72 hours. No going out. No drinking. Minimal eating. Just rest. Your brain needs it or you will fall off that cliff into suicide. It’s all you can see.
But if you do it right and knock yourself into oblivion, you’ll wake up on the other side to a sunny morning, after maybe 18 hours of sleeping and really zany dreams (proof that your brain had a lot of work to do and you were being pokey under the hood while your brain, the mechanic, was checking out the timing belt, the spark plugs, the pistons).
You feel better, lighter, more rational, more imaginative. More you.
But while you were in those dark times, which can last upwards of two weeks, you might have done irreparable damage, thinking it was the right thing to do the whole time. Telling people to fuck off, mostly, and grinding their bones to make your bread. And reaching out to people who you know are bad for you. Not bad in general, but bad because of how you interact with them.
So, maybe don’t do that next time.
What did you get right this time, besides the drug-induced sleep? You didn’t blow up at anyone (mostly), you articulated your needs, you didn’t go out looking for trouble, you made art, you meditated, and you prayed.
What did you get wrong? Meh, nothing too bad.
Now that you’re back to you, here are some takeaways:
• You can’t hurry important life experiences. You just have to wait. Be a good shepherd.
• You are rarer than you think but also more common than you think. Rare for your generation, more common for Gen Z. Why? Because they had access to tools and acceptance you never had. But, that puts you in the special place of bridging gaps and being able to do for millennials and older people what Gen Zers do for each other all the time.
• If boys just want to marry some version of their mother, you’ll probably never find romantic love because, who are we kidding, you don’t really give off a maternal vibe. Heavy manic pixie dream girl vibes that hide all the damage behind, yes. Motherly, no. But what they don’t see is how fast you’ve learned and grown into becoming a different kind of mother to yourself. A safe one. One that can take care of your pretty special needs as well as the needs of others. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have made it this far in life or out in NYC. You’ve got this!
And if they don’t, that’s ok. Because you have too much to do. Boys are your addiction. They’re your cocaine. In the beginning, they helped you get into the creative zone so you could write better stuff. But then you went into that bloated, self-important rocker phase where you just wanted to write about the misery of boys. Sometimes those albums are good. Great even. But they’re rest stops on the way to rock n roll heaven.
You have to realize that it isn’t the boys that makes the writing great, it’s you. You could write about a bag of frozen green beans and still make it good.
The boys make you feel good, which makes it easier to access that thing. But they are not the thing itself.
Keep it straight, Vene, and you might get out of this life so much more than anyone ever expected from you or should have the right to.
Remember, the roots, then the trunk, then the branches, then the twigs, then the leaves. There is an order to all these things. If you are too heavy without the roots to support yourself, you’re liable to fall over in a sudden storm.
No go get ‘em, Tiger.