“The Depressing Truth”
Or “A cycling accident on the way to the Golden Gate Bridge kept me from throwing myself off of it.”
We don’t talk about depression. And when we do, we patronize those with it. How is it any different than asthma? Or tinnitus? It’s a medical condition that some of us have, and sometimes we need to plan our lives around that reality. Robin Williams’s death has forced me to admit a few things that I want to tell most of you for the first time. I battle with depression. And it seems like my heroes and those I admire do — or did — too. Kurt Cobain. Spalding Gray. Junior Seau. My friend Scott. Unfortunately, more and more of them are making a choice I feared I would make myself.
But it’s time to come out of the shadow of depression. To shine a light on the pain we feel, to some extent, every day. We need others to know that we have to deal with it as best we can so they’re not shocked when we ask — if we ask — for help. In an effort to start to break the stigma of this medical condition, and to make it easier for others to talk more freely about their trials with it, I want to tell you a story:
Late one night toward the end of March 2010, a bike accident saved my life. After that evening’s dinner, a conversation with Katrina about the future of our relationship got serious. Then contentious. Then heated. The details have faded from my memory at this point, but the main rift centered around a baby; she wanted one, and I didn’t feel like we were ready. Well, I didn’t feel like I was ready. I had what felt like a million reasons, some valid, some vapid, but there’s no half-way in a discussion like that. No compromise. Someone was going to end up unhappy. And probably alone.
At its most heated point, I decided that I was out. Not just out of the relationship, but out of options, and out of life. I was already at a real low point. I had just learned I was getting laid off, and felt professionally inadequate. I hadn’t written any music worth a shit in ages, and felt creatively inadequate. I was breaking the heart of a woman I loved dearly, and felt emotionally inadequate. I was a disappointment. A failure. Every day that I woke up around this time was a painful reminder of all the ideas I had yet to finish. Or start. It hurt to be so bad at life. And I wanted that dull, constant ache to go away. This was my tipping point.
So, rather than stay in our kitchen hollering about facts that wouldn’t change or desire that wouldn’t budge, I stormed out of the house. I don’t really remember deciding what I was going to do, but I found myself on my bike, in the middle of the night, meandering around a city I thought would hold all the answers. Unfortunately, the question seemed to be, “How do I make this stop?”
I headed down Market Street, in the direction of the Ferry Building, and then turned left onto the Embarcadero, toward the most majestic finale I could think of: The Golden Gate Bridge. I know; no points for originality, but as far as easy solutions go, I had one very close at hand.
I got a little lost near the tourist distraction that Pier 39 has become, but ended up getting enough wrong turns right to spit me out near Crissy Field. I could see the lights of my final destination now.
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It was dark out there, and the blinking light on the front of my handle bars only worked hard enough to let cars know not to run me over, not to actually light my way. I had just passed the Sports Basement, gliding along the bike path, when I marveled at how quiet and still everything seemed. It was relaxing, but the calm served only to steel my resolve. I had no idea if I would have the guts to go through with it once I got to The Bridge, but I was definitely going to find out.
Crunch.
That’s when I flew over the handle bars. I had hit a concrete parking block that separates the lanes of the bike path. In the dark, I hadn’t seen that one of them was askew, jutting right into my path. My front wheel hit it, and sent me ass-over-head into the air. I came down, right shoulder first, onto the other end of the concrete separator with such force that I felt like my entire right arm had been cleaved clean off.
On the ground, groaning, I rolled over, trying to toss my bike — which had come down on top of me — off into the grass. I knew I was hurt. I couldn’t move my right arm, but I could shrug my shoulder. It hurt like hell. I lifted myself off the ground, stumbled to a nearby bench, and flopped down on it. After a few moments, I thought I had just dislocated the shoulder, and, if I tried hard enough, I could pop it back in — “Lethal Weapon” style — and get back on my way. To do what, again? Oh, right. Throw my damaged body off a bridge. Makes sense.
Instead, I picked up my bike, tried as best as I could to straighten the handlebars with my one good arm, and headed for home, gritting my teeth through the pain the entire seven miles along the way. When I got there, I woke Katrina up, told her I was sorry, and asked her to drive me to the emergency room. Where I made a joke about badges on Foursquare. I never did make it to The Bridge. Obviously.
In high school, I thought it was normal to think about killing yourself. Not just whimsically, like when a girlfriend breaks up with you or you have a paper due that you can’t finish on time, or when you can’t go see Kiss at the Sundome. I mean really plotting what it would take. Where to do it. What last song you would listen to. Apparently, that’s not “normal.” But for some of us, it is. Until we find help. Or a coping mechanism. Or both.
I live a life of immense privilege. I understand that. I’m white. I’m male. I have means. I posted this to Medium. I’m self aware enough to know these all indiacte the many advantages I’m lucky enough to have. But that’s not how depression works. It’s not how it worked for Robin. Or Kurt. Or Spalding. Or Junior. Or my friend Scott. The appearance of happiness or success or confidence doesn’t eliminate the depression. They only mask it. And for better or worse, that’s how some of us survive. I also know I’m taking a big risk by speaking for many with this affliction, but these are the commonalities I’ve discovered from talking with others who fight this every day.
I have depression. I am not depressed. I have an illness. I also have a community of others to turn to when I need them. I hope you know you do, too.
My right shoulder has a permanent deformity now, the result of the third-degree separation I suffered that night in late March of 2010. It serves as a constant reminder of how close I came to taking my life. I make sure to look at it everyday. Along with a picture of my beautiful daughter. They are the check and balance of both my struggle and my triumph.
To my friends and family, I want to assure you that I’m doing fine. For now. That may not always be true. But I know that you love and support me. And I love you for that. To those who don’t think they’re as lucky as I am to have the support system that I do, please know that you’re wrong; you do. There are resources just a click or call way.
At the very least, you have me. I’m still here. Just let me know how I can help. Any time. We can get through this. Together.
