It’s way past noon. I’m in bed, fusing with a blanket I aptly nicknamed Second Skin. Not much is going on up there. I gave in to the numbness of a sedentary lifestyle a few days ago, after binging yet another reality TV show whose name I can’t remember. Slept through most of it.
The only thoughts that occasionally creep in are: God, I hope my ass doesn’t completely atrophy from being supine for this long and Fuck, not again.
It’s been a while since I was embraced by a major depressive episode. And no, it wasn’t during Covid. I thrived then. Hot take, I know.
People were dying, the world was on fire, and buttholes were dirty. But as an artist who still doesn’t fit into the mold capitalism deemed acceptable, I felt free. I made music, watched sunsets, meditated, and didn’t work a job that was killing me slowly. I mean this figuratively and literally. I was a bartender with no reason to stay sober during any shift.
The big one came years before that. I was new to LA, living in West Hollywood, with a car that worked. I could’ve done anything. Instead, I spent my days barricaded by laundry in a 10x12 bedroom. In it lived a computer I didn’t turn on, synthesizers I didn’t plug in, and lights that spent their nights off.
I entertained myself by watching delivery drivers en route and playing a one-sided game of hide-and-go-seek with my roommates.
If I stay quiet enough they won’t know I’m here, and I’ll never have to face the shame that comes with rotting in bed all day. After day. After day.
The only exercise I got was moving my car once a week and occasionally slipping into a bar with a hive of friends hiding their hopelessness better than I was. It was easier to exist under the dark cover of the night; it reminded me of being in my room.
This lasted about three weeks. I was thankfully unemployed.
My current state of affairs is similar but different. On day three I rose. Took a walk to the grocery store to nourish myself with something that wasn’t fried. I opened my computer and stared for a while. Then went back to bed.
I stared at the computer again the next day. This time I did some research before a group session scheduled a few hours later.
Okay, I’m coming out of this.
The day after that I hosted another session, before which I tried desperately to reschedule in my head, but the part of me who doesn’t want to let people down kept me from crawling back into my Second Skin.
The day after that I cancelled my session.
Then stared at audio files I was supposed to have edited weeks ago.
Then crawled into bed.
Then cried.
I was so tired. I felt like someone shoved a siphon down my throat and slowly sucked the life out of me. Between knocking out for 12 hours and napping for 6, I either wept uncontrollably or ate to choke back the tears. This felt different than the big one years ago.
I’m not depressed. I’m burnt out, and not just by work.
A friend of mine died about a week before this implosion. The grief didn’t hit until I’d spent days ruminating. I stopped replaying our last interaction, which I ended with something like “we’re never playing music together again.” I had my reasons then. I and was planning on inviting him to play the July show I’ve since dropped.
What consumed me was him as a person. What was he thinking at any given time? Feeling? What made this time different? He had just gotten off a major tour. Had shows scheduled. Why now? What was it?
As someone who struggles with finding unwavering purpose in this fucked up world, my mind couldn’t help but wonder; are some of us doomed to keep trudging along without ever feeling aligned? Because as I witnessed it, not only did he do what he loved every day, he was loved.
What was he missing, and was he so sure he’d never find it?
A couple of weeks before he passed, I bid farewell to Camela, the first role I’d ever had in a play. For an entire month, my Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays were devoted to putting on a show. It was a lot of work. Worth it since it gave me life.
All of it felt natural — the prep, the waiting, the silence backstage, and the mingling after. But I was spread thin, trying to juggle this temporary life and the one I’d been tending to for most of the year. Part of me was glad when it ended. Most of me was shook. I tasted what it felt like to be a working actor. And I loved it.
Currently, I live in one of the coolest neighborhoods in LA and I pay next to nothing for it. I was sure a loft-style apartment designated for artists would bring me peace. My home is a modest studio, but it’s spacious, the ceilings are high, and there’s a big common area for when claustrophobia sets in. I was under the impression my neighbors were painters and sculptors — introverts, basically. And for the most part, they are.
Until my hypervigilance came back. I thought I had escaped the on-and-off-drugs, physically volatile girl next door who, in an altered state, decided to smash everyone’s front windows in. Midday.
I now live a few doors down from “Junior,” an ex-military vet who spends his time scoring crack and cagily wandering through every part of the building, either talking or screaming at people who don’t exist. He tried breaking into one of the girls’ apartments and has a firearm in his. Now there’s a cockroach infestation, the nest undoubtedly somewhere inside his room.
He doesn’t make art. I rarely make sleep.
Now that I’m out of bed again, I can see why I broke. I remember packing a suitcase and feeling winded. My partner’s stream-of-consciousness jokes gave me minor panic attacks. All I wanted to do was dissociate, either alone in my room or alone at the pinball spot down the street.
The first thing I learned from this experience is that I’m too generous with my energy. With company, it’s like my aloofness, empathy, and proclivity for internal processing inadvertently turn me into a sounding board for everyone’s neuroses. Sounds harsh. But this is how it feels.
I’m so used to soliloquizing that letting people in feels like a fool’s game. I don’t know what to talk about anymore.
Between my relationships, work, living situation, and whatever the hell was happening inside my own head, there was literally nothing I could do but power down and recharge.
Surprisingly, I didn’t shame myself for staying in bed this time. There were external factors beyond my control. The fact that I still had the strength to go on walks every other day helped too.
There was also a light at the end of this long, long, long tunnel. A friend offered me his place for two and a half weeks. A house to myself.
It took me about ten days to finally drag myself there. Which is fine. One week was enough to change everything.
I felt safe, finally. I wasn’t waiting for an unsolicited knock on the door. I didn’t have to waste energy saying hi to every person I passed down the hall or wondering if the neighbors could hear my vocal exercises through the walls. I didn’t hear them either. I just had me. Funny how that’s all I needed to find peace again.
I took another day to stay still. My body needed the rest. So I listened.
Speaking of listening, work doesn’t feel so daunting anymore because I finally listened to what I needed. I’m too old and clearly too tired to keep doing things that aren’t aligned with who I am.
To be fair, my mind changes constantly. Some people call it growth. I call it torture. Either way, I’m looking forward to hearing what it has to say next.
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