When I was a freshman in high school, my childhood dog, Winnie, developed cancer and had to be put down. While my family was on the way to the vet’s office, the Pearl Jam song “Just Breathe”, came on the radio. I’ll be the first to admit that “Just Breathe” is a pretty damn cheesy song. It’s a classic Pearl Jam schmaltzy number, with Eddie Vedder singing directly from his heart about a dying love accompanied by acoustic guitar riffing and swelling strings that seem designed by a scientist to make the listener feel emotion. I love Pearl Jam, but normally these kinds of songs just really don’t do much for me. They seem overly emotional, like when an actor does a bad job of fake crying. But when we were driving to the vet that day, directly facing the death of someone I loved, and that stupid song came on the radio, I couldn’t help but completely lose it. I still can’t listen to that song to this day, because of the memory it invokes in me. It’s really the only song I can think of that still holds that effect for me; where the memory it’s tied to is so overwhelming that it’s essentially overtaken the song in my mind. This is at once both the best and worst part of music, that these emotional bonds can bolster or tear away our relationships to simple music and lyrics.
I tell this story not simply because it’s sad, or that it illustrates Pearl Jam’s effectiveness at making me lose my shit, but because this moment really became a turning point in my life. After Winnie’s passing, along with a few other events that year that put me in a pretty dark place, I drew inward. Looking back on it, this was probably my first real depressive episode. For about a year, outside of playing sports, I was only interested in music. This was the first time in my life when I really went from someone casually interested in music and the people making it, to the full-blown nerd I am now. I didn’t really hang out with friends, and I shirked a lot of school work. Instead, I would be getting as many CDs as I could from my local library, and burning them onto my computer, listening to them for hours on end (nobody tell the King County Library, I’m sure they would like to have words with me if they found out!). I would eventually come out of this self-imposed solitude, but there’s no denying that this was the start of my continuing battle with myself. Music became my lifeline, providing a small light that I could depend on, no matter how dark everything else around me seemed.
I first started writing about music my senior year of high school for my senior project. By that time, I had become fascinated with not simply just collecting and listening to the albums that I would find, but also by analyzing them, and thinking about them from a deeper perspective. Writing was always something I was interested in, but it was also something that always frightened me. Essays and school assignments were one thing, but putting my own voice out there has been a source of deep anxiety and fear for me. Music was the only topic that I’d ever really felt comfortable voicing my opinions on, at least at the time. So partially in order to face my fears, and also partially to give myself a voice, I started writing. I immediately fell in love with it. I would write sporadically in high school and college, but only ever when I felt like I had something to say, or when I felt confident enough in myself to actually broadcast my thoughts. However, by my junior year in college, that self-confidence and voice has seemed to completely fall apart.
In the summer between my Sophomore year and Junior year of college, I was lucky enough to study abroad in Florence, Italy. In many ways, it was the best time of my life. I explored all over Europe with my friends, making new ones along the way. I experienced other cultures and parts of the world that I had only dreamed of. However, Florence was also the place where that all came crashing down. While going out with some friends, I had an immense anxiety attack, one of the worst I’ve ever had in my life. With anxiety comes depression, and over the course of a few hours, I had spiraled down into one of the lowest moments of my life. After leaving the bar we were at, I found myself alone, standing atop a bridge overlooking the Arno river. What went through my head then is not nearly as important to me as the Italian woman who stopped and asked me to, “Please step down from there, you do know that it’s illegal to stand that way?”. When I walked back into my room and woke up the next morning, the whole incident felt like a dream; like a moment that was so far removed from myself that it couldn’t have been real. I believed that if I pushed that moment aside, it would never rear its ugly head again, and I could move on with my life. But of course, throughout college and even in the year post-graduation, my anxiety never went away, and my depression persisted alongside with it. And yet still, I did nothing about it.
College was one of the first times in my life that my musical tastes were challenged, in good and bad ways. I didn’t know very many people at all who listened to the same kinds of music that I did. As a result, my music opinions and tastes became my own personal thing. While I would certainly let my opinion be known, and I would pride myself in finding songs that everyone else would like, it became something that separated me from others. I thought of myself as the “music guy”, as I’m sure many other music nerds and audiophiles do. Music didn’t just become a passion of mine, but part of my identity; my essence. And when dealing with my anxiety, it became my first and last line of self-defense. At parties, I would try to be the Spotify DJ, so that I wouldn’t have to talk to others and instead keep to myself. When walking around campus or waiting in the hall before class, I would always have my headphones in, so that I didn’t have to talk to strangers or meet new faces. And when I did have an anxiety attack, I would bolt to my house, so that I could be by myself and listen to music, usually while playing video games and feeling sorry for myself. Music became not just part of my life, but also a kind of crutch. It was something I could always rely on to hold me up, even when my I couldn’t myself.
After graduating, I got myself a job and tried to transition into being a fully-grown adult. But, like most first jobs tend to be, that career was cut short. On my own volition, I left my first employer. This was for a wide variety of reasons, but perhaps the largest one was that I wanted to follow my first love: writing about music. I knew it would be hard, but I sent out feelers for freelancing gigs, and started the blog that you’re reading now. But as months went by, and the stress of finding some sort of monetary stability added up. About two months ago, I had another good old fashioned mental breakdown. While it never turned out as bad as my summer in Florence, I knew all of those emotions and remembered the cycle that I had gone through before. But this time, there was one major difference: I was living with my parents. They knew me too well to let this go unchecked. With their help, along with my friends, I saw my feelings as valid for the first time, and have finally tried to make a change for the better.
I’m telling everyone this story for quite a few reasons. Firstly, I’m telling this because this is not something unique to me. Depression and anxiety is incredibly common for men my age, and yet still, it continues to be one of the least discussed diseases in our society. I kept my secrets hidden because I thought I didn’t know anyone else like me. Of course, that’s not true, but it’s not exactly an easy thing to talk about with your homies while you’re watching a football game, now is it? Secondly, I wrote this today for myself. As I said earlier, writing for me is really anxiety-provoking. My hopes are that by telling my story, and putting myself out there for all to see, I can discuss these issues more openly. Instead of feeling self-conscious or embarrassed when I have an anxiety attack, I can admit it to myself, and stop the spiral before it starts. And finally, I wrote this as an explanation as to why I’ve stopped writing over the last few months. This period of time for me has been different to say the least. In an effort to get better, I’ve been trying to be more relaxed. I’ve been focusing on bettering my mind, and not necessarily on my writing. But I want everyone to know that I will still be following my passion, and that if you are interested in my writing, to please be patient. I’ll be back soon, better than ever.
I wanted to end this on a lighter note, since depressing blog posts aren’t normally really my thing. When I was in college, and I was on one of my streaks of good spirits, I went to Cabo San Lucas for spring break. It was an amazing week, in many ways the stereotypical Spring Break that people think about college people having. The first night we were there, we got the chance to see Waka Flocka Flame perform live at one of the Cabo clubs. Flocka has always been a rapper that I feel gets no respect in the music biz. His album, Flockavelli, set the precedent for how rap music is viewed as a pop outlet by making trap music acceptable for the masses. Plus, his shows are absolutely bonkers live. About halfway through the show, some friends and I had somehow worked our way to the front of the stage. While standing there, Flocka started his song, “15th and the First”, a song that I think is one of the best trap songs of the 2010’s. As he went into the chorus, he stared at my friend and I with this wild look in his eyes, pointed at us, and screamed the chorus at the top of his lungs. It sounds like a stupid memory when I tell it, but I think that’s kind of the point. In the end, music is all about those stupid memories that we have tied to songs. Whether good or bad, there are few things in the world that can have that effect on us. And because of that, I think that music isn’t just a part of my essence, but essential to everyone’s being.




















