Depression: my lover, my friend

My phone is buzzing, an incoming call vibrates from inside my dresser drawer, someone is attempting to contact me even though I’ve permanently left the “Do not Disturb” setting on for months now. I do not walk across the room to relieve my cell phone from the innards of my hand me down furniture, instead I turn the heat up on my electric blanket and turn an old movie on. There is a pile of clean laundry at the foot of my bed that has been there since last week and is now covered in dog hair from my terrier laying on top of it as he stares at me, wondering when I will finally give him his walk. Piles of cardboard boxes filled with pressings of my second album are in a stack at the corner of the room, “I’m not that person anymore” I think as I peer over at the stray vinyl casing sitting on top of the pile, covered in dust. It’s been months now since I sank into this bout of depression, it all began when I was dropped from my record label at the end of October, at first I thought I was just experiencing the backlash of simple rejection, that I would get over it soon, until a few weeks ago when I realized that my daily routine had simplified into drink a cup of coffee, smoke a cigarette, watch old movie, drink another cup of coffee, smoke another cigarette, repeat, repeat. I know in my rational mind that my depression has taken over the way my brain is functioning, but that doesn’t stop me from truly believing that I have no talent and that my future is surely doomed. I don’t even long for success anymore, I see people I know headlining festivals, being nominated for Grammys, sitting sideline at Paris Fashion week and I think “that looks fucking exhausting” and “I’d rather just stay home”. The things that I used to dream of, the things I used to strive for, suddenly seem meaningless, vapid, and self-indulgent, and given that I make my living in the music industry, this isn’t completely false.

How does this kind of depression affect my life? Well, my lack of ability to answer the telephone led to the cancellation of my April tour, I don’t even bother with thinking of alternative career choices or life paths to follow, for now the sticky warmth of my uncleaned sheets pairs with my empty schedule perfectly. Emails are stacking up in my inbox and I desperately need to see a dentist, some days start off better than others, those are the days that I set out to finally clean the bathroom and pay my parking tickets, other days my boyfriend tries to peel me out of bed to force me into having some fun, he tries to show me how good the world can be, but I usually end up hiding the tears swelling in my eyes as a plate of ravioli is placed on a candlelit table. I rummage through all of the reasons I should stay on this earth and generally am left with only one, that my mother would be broken to see me go, and then I think of all of the people on earth who are suffering in ways I could never imagine, and I wonder why I can’t suck it up and move on with my life given the lack of injustices I’m faced with each day. Usually with a lengthy stint of suicidal depression such as the one I am in, I begin to worry that opportunities are passing me by, but this time, I happily allow them to travel elsewhere. Sometimes I see interviews with other musicians who claim that performing is what makes them happiest, that they have to feel the heat of an audience to get their fix, I think about the idea of walking onto a stage and nearly vomit with anxiety. What is wrong with me? Am I so ungrateful? Do I enjoy this pain? Have I taken it on myself?

The truth is, I lost my dreams a long time ago, for years I made music with the hopes that I would have some sort of validation for my body of work, I thought “if I could just be good at this, then I will reach some sort of finish line, and then, my life will have meaning.” It wasn’t long after I left home for Los Angeles that I realized, there are no finish lines in life, you just keep going on and on until you’re dead in the ground. To be honest, I never really thought of myself as a singer, as a teenager, I wanted to be a painter, I imagined sitting in my big old creaky house and making oil paintings for a living. Then, one day I realized that I could sing pretty decently and I signed up for the school talent show, it was only about 6 months or so later, that I found myself looking over record contracts with my mom at her kitchen table. When the opportunity presented itself, I realized that this was something that I couldn’t turn down, so I abandoned my decision to go to art school in San Francisco and boarded a plane to London the day after my 18th birthday. My life for years was a whirlwind, I couldn’t believe the experiences I was having, I had wedged my way into the music industry completely by accident, and I didn’t really believe that I deserved any of it. My self worth early on in my career was as low as you can imagine, I measured the perimeter of my upper thigh three or four times a day and obsessively weighed myself morning, noon, and night, my mom used to secretly take the scale with her whenever she visited, so I hid one in the trunk of my car, under my bed, and in the back of my overcrowded closet. Once the music was released, I would constantly flock to the negative comments and permanently etch each one into the darkest part of my psyche, nurturing them like heartless little flowers in the back of my mind, constantly putting myself in check, if ever I felt I might actually be worth a damn. Inevitably, this mindset led me to a downfall, and I was suddenly forced to get my state of mind in check.

After a several year long streak of luck, things had begun to slow down, I was twenty-two years old when I was dropped from my first record label, and I found myself back where I began, living in my mom’s attic in my hometown, no manager, no label. Something in me kicked into high gear then, I snapped up out of bed each day and worked on writing songs, I wanted to prove everyone wrong, I wanted to prove that I could make a good album all on my own. I had spent ages 16 to 21 being constantly dissected and contorted by people in the industry and I had no idea who I was without the ever looming opinions of the people around me, suddenly I had been spat right out by those controlling forces, and I was fucking pissed off about it. So, I wrote and I wrote and I wrote, my entire life was committed to my creativity, I dreamt of my career reaching further despite the loss of my industry connections. Soon, more or less, it happened, my second album was more successful than my first, and I began to work on a third. I signed a fancy recording contract and hired a team, the album was released and then I found myself back to square one again, no label, no management, only this time I was living in a rent controlled apartment with my boyfriend and dog.

So, here I am again, at square one, 30 years old, three albums under my belt, and I’ve had a lot of amazing things happen in my life because of my music. But now, rather than kick myself into high gear, I realize I have nothing to prove, that this is what life is, it’s a constant cycle of rinse and repeat, and I find that I no longer crave the validation I needed when I was younger. I no longer think that a successful album will bring me anything other than a paycheck, I no longer crave bigger stages, fancier dresses, brand deals or a higher follower count. I can see that this is not indeed what life is about, if it was, maybe I’d be able to get my ass out of bed, maybe I’d be in the studio, maybe I’d be shmuzing at industry events to get myself some opportunities. Time, and my depression, has made my life look so trivial, in reality, I realize I am not a musician because it’s my passion, I am not in it for the dream, I don’t do it because it is the only thing I am good at, I do it because it’s truly the only thing I ever learned how to do properly. That’s it. So now what? I guess I just need to get my ass out of bed and just do it.

trying my best

-A