The world hasn't become any all that much more evil, people have just begun to wake up and see it for what it is. I think it drove me insane for a second there, and I'm still working on fixing it. A broken, miserable, and squandered version of me is no good.
I stared at my guitar yesterday, and stroked its waist–all the days it spent touched accumulated onto my fingertips. If I cracked myself open, I feel that I might be all full of dust, too. It wasn't until recently that I could put a finger on exactly why I've been sad since forever.
New Year's Eve, I went to a "dive bar" in NoHo that served $7 drinks. The crowd did the 10-second countdown, and I excused myself shortly after. The hangover the next day humbled me. Then I got sick. Then the wildfires happened. I drove down to OC clutching my chest, hyperventilating. A few days later, I came back to my messy LA apartment with a newfound gratitude that I am embarrassed took so long to form. Alongside this gratitude, however, was a glaring, non-missable issue that would derail my life.
On election night, I asked my roommate for a cigarette. We ended up walking to a 7/11 and smoking on the stoop. We agreed–it was a much more intense, real feeling than 2016. Back then, she had allowed herself to go partly mad: obsessing over the news, mourning every landmark broken down, and despising the part of the world that opted for it. This time, she said, she had to look away. To preserve herself, to stay sane, to be okay, because ultimately, not being okay is a win not in our favour.
For weeks, I complained about every headline, every injustice, and just how scared I was for the future of the world. Understanding where she was coming from, but stubbornly immersed in anger, I let it consume me. It intertwined with my panic after the fires, and blended into this terrible, dark thing that I lost all control over. The OCD I knew I had and didn't get help for, the fear of losing everything I had, the idea that the world was ending, and I, too, was ending.
Anyone who could see me for the last six years knew I was struggling. A friend actually used the word "deteriorating". Always sad and figuring it was just a baseline, my curiosity to become better never really crossed my mind. Or, at least, I didn't seem to want it enough–sometimes depression can feel comfortable. Yet, there I was, understanding that I was finally, finally at the mercy of my mind. I thought about the days my mother spent worrying I might disappear, nights when my brother would stay on the phone with me, and every moment in between when I clung onto whatever I could to keep me tethered.
Self-medicating is a popular vice, but it often lead to me laid on the bathroom floor, dissolving a Zofran tablet under my tongue and regretting my decisions, my life, my third Moscow mule. The idea of taking medicine to function felt like giving up. But I was at the end of my rope. And I was scared, and tired.
After my psychiatric stay in 2023, I was given a pamphlet for online psychiatrists. I dug it up, called the first number, and asked for a psych, as soon as possible. The next day, a bald, 30-something-year-old man with neck tattoos greeted me, and with tears pouring down my face, I asked for help. The first three weeks of Zoloft were so difficult; being on the other side, I can still understand why I avoided medication for so long. I couldn't sleep, I was sweating through my sheets, and each morning I called my girlfriend while she drove to work in Chinatown. I had 20 minutes with her to cry, complain, and melt down before clocking into work.
My friends stayed on the phone with me while I slept in 15-minute increments, and my girlfriend fed me when I was refusing to eat. My brother FaceTimed me and set the camera up in front of my cat, her pink nose and green eyes drew close to the camera, then away, uninterested. I learned about NOCD and set up therapy. Lucky for me, even with insurance, each session was a dent in my wallet.
I kept waking up early every morning, and walked around the neighborhood, ignoring the drizzle soaking my hair. It's never actually been fun, being severely mentally ill. In some twisted sense, there's a level of familiarity with it that makes it seem like it's not all that bad. The eating disorders, the anxiety, the panic, the depression, the perfectionism, all of it was slowly devouring me. I was deteriorating.
All the scripts I have never finished, the guitar I couldn't will myself to pick up, the times I've looked in the mirror and felt dread, all of it started to make sense. Giving myself nosebleeds over school projects, crying in restrooms in malls, pushing myself to be something or someone I couldn't even describe. I met with a very old acquaintance, and we talked about how it felt. She said something that resonated with me so well, disturbing, but comforting, that someone else could feel that way: "Sometimes I wish I could rip my skin off." When you are so full of panic and dread, you want to jump out of your skin. Come out of your sick body, and feel relief for a moment. Not in a suicidal way, nor out of self-hatred, but because the pain is that severe.
I thought about myself sitting in the tub in my old studio, water just over my nose, holding my breath, thinking it was never-ending. Those stupid times I sat outside, smoking bad weed, staring at the stars and feeling like shit. Running full speed on public tracks, withering away. All of it was avoidable, had I simply asked for help. I can't rewind time and be better to myself, but I hope all of those moments have come together somehow and made me a little more empathetic and stronger.
When my psych diagnosed me with inattentive adhd, I thought, fuck, another one? I don't know exactly where I begin and end when all of these things have become so enmeshed in me throughout my life. I guess the therapy will help me figure that out. In any case, I've made it this far–become this smart and kind, and I hope that I can cling to that as I work my way out of the very, very deep hole I have been digging for years.
The world is still scary and evil. I just feel less like jumping out of my skin. A little more grateful for the things I have, and very protective of the little bundle of hope I have had forever! If change really weren't possible, we wouldn't even be able to dream of it. I am no good to anyone if I'm not good to myself. I want to be the part of the world that gives a shit, but, like my very, very wise girlfriend has said, actions mean more than words. All the anger, sadness, and fear have to be channeled into something. Time, money, and effort have to be spent, not just spoken of. We (those that are not fascists, obviously) fixate so much on what's wrong in the world that, while we become irate, we also become inert.
We're supposed to be uncomfortable, but we are also supposed to be sane enough to do something. What that looks like, I think, many of us are still figuring out. It's perplexing, frustrating, and agonizing to feel like nothing we do matters. That we ourselves don't matter. That in and of itself is a triumph, but not for us. Clearly, not for me.
I got so depressed, anxious, and rigid about the world that I forgot to look for the good. I forgot what my whole purpose was–to advocate for people, to take up space in rooms even I felt I didn't belong in. Now, more than ever, it's so important that I am okay. And right now, I am not okay. I'm medicated, and regardless of how I feel about it, I am ultimately stronger with it.
To close, and because it's cool out and I want to go for a walk: my therapist told me, "If you think you're going to be bad at something, then be bad at it. Sit with it. Write, and intentionally make mistakes. Allow yourself to create without the pressure of perfection. Remember, the goal is to embrace the process and the learning that comes with it."
With that, I will absolutely not be proofreading this. That being said, I doubt anyone really is!
Sincerely,
Elena
Elena
photo: poetry in motion 1 (II), Anna Razumovskaya