Chapter 1: The Winter of My Discontent
This had proven to be a harder winter than he expected. Winters have always been hard for him, especially between Thanksgiving Day and Valentine’s Day. It had gotten to the point when he expected it like rain. As a person who suffered from depression, he knew what to expect. Around Thanksgiving, he would be mildly depressed, but functional. It would gradually increase until, by February, he would be in full on bitch mode. He would be so evil by then until no one could stand to be around him. But this year would prove to be different, more dangerous. By the time February would roll around he was about to find out how dangerous it would be.
As a person who dealt with addiction, he knew very well that he needed to be careful. He had a sponsor, friends he could rely on, and a family he could depend on. November started off like any other November. He was cautiously optimistic that he would be okay this winter. He even joked about what his winters were like. Then the second week of November happened. He came across a Facebook post, and life as he came to know it came to a halt and his whole outlook changed. Soon he started spending more time in bed, either sleeping, eating, or watching TV. His presence became less and less until he was hardly seen at all. When his friends called, he would just look at the phone and then turn over in the bed. His friends did not know what was going on, but they knew it wasn’t good. When he finally answered, he only gave one-word answers like “fine” and “okay”. He would deny that he was in trouble with his friends, but he knew that he was in serious trouble.
After the holidays were over, his life started to take a turn for the worse. When before he used drugs occasionally, he suddenly began using more frequently. His tolerance for his drug of choice grew. By this time, anyone who he was close to, he kept at arms distance. He wouldn’t make his appointments, and never even thought about rescheduling them. The only people he stayed in contact with people was his drug buddies. He used not because he body needed it, but because his mind craved it. It was the only time he would engage with people. By the time February came, he was back in full addiction mode, and his addiction was still growing, whereas he would shoot up maybe once every two months, he started shooting up 6 or 7 times in a week. He refused to pay his bills and was in danger of becoming homeless. He knew he needed help, but he also knew rehab was not the answer. You see it wasn’t the drugs that were the problem. Depression was the problem. Drugs were the solution. He needed to be in a mental hospital, not rehab. It wasn’t until his last bender threatened his freedom and his very existence, did he finally accept the help that was offered to him. He entered the hospital for a week and began dealing with the issue of his depression. He knew that he had a long road ahead for him. He looked forward to the spring, for Spring to him was a season of growth, both on the outside and on the inside. Where this season proved to be the winter of his discontent, spring would be the season of his growth and renewal.
Chapter 2: Reflection
February 17, 2018. It’s a typical sunny Saturday morning, but nothing about this morning is typical. I am not the same person I was a month ago. I am not the same person a week ago. I feel completely different and that scares me. Why? Because a week ago I came face to face with my illness and my demons and they merged into one, and a new side of me was born; one that could have taken me out of the world. I was confused, scared, high, and in my own personal hell. It is not like they had not merged before in the past. But this was different. Every facet of my life was affected, and it was now engulfing my personality and turning me into someone I didn’t recognize. I didn’t trust anyone anymore. It didn’t matter if it was family or friends. You were now my enemy. The only persons I trusted was my therapist and my sponsor and I had no problem walking away from them for days or weeks at a time. The only thing that mattered was the madness and fear that now ruled my life. I was incapable of showing emotion even though I was very emotional. I stayed angry. The only thing was changed that was the prick of the needle full of crystal meth as it entered my veins. For just a little while I was happy in my own world. Was th
at a good thing? Hell no! It only would make things worse. Did I care? No! For the next seven days, all that mattered was crystal, G, pipes, syringes, and dick. If you could not offer that, we really had nothing to talk about. I dragged friends into my madness without thinking about how it affected them. When they got upset with me, I responded with anger. I was desperate to keep the small circle of “friends” I created, not knowing how to make them happy because I could not even make myself happy.
When I wasn’t using, the depression got worse. Nothing hardly made me laugh. The things that made me happy no longer was a source of joy for me. I stayed sad and gravitated toward television shows that made me shed tears. It was the only way I could show emotion. As I laid in bed watching Nathan’s funeral on General Hospital, it was the closest I came to finally cry and letting go of the pain I was feeling. But the show was only 42 minutes long, and by now I knew how to pull back my emotions and keep the pain in. My room was a junkyard, with wrappers, bottles, dirty clothes, smelly socks, and me, laying in the middle of it. It had gotten so bad that to avoid seeing people, I filled 7 2-liter bottles with urine to keep from walking out of my door. When I finally threw them out, the bag was so heavy it was a miracle it didn’t break. When I finally decided to clean my room, I had to get high because I knew it was the only way it would get done, for tomorrow promised to have me back in the grips of my depression and I would retreat to my bed again.
My mother has been calling me for 2 1/2 months until she finally gave up. She knows I will call her when I am ready. I recall the last conversation with when I told her that my depression was bad. I had no idea it would take me down such a dark road until it would threaten my very existence. If I didn’t understand what depression, I got a front seat 
education on it now. It took a 7-day run on 6 hours of sleep, 6 days of shooting up, being strung out on G, the huge amount of crystal in my system, the countless men, the taking advantage of friends also in trouble, and on the road of losing my room and maybe everything else to finally say, “I need help. My depression is strangling me. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. I can’t stop.” I entered the psych ward of the hospital nervous, but also relieved. After sleeping on an off for a little more than a day before getting back on my meds before my head started to clear; and when it did, the guilt and realization of my actions started to take over. Whereas the depression is getting under control, now I am faced with fear and anxiety. I woke this morning and nearly had a panic attack. I know I need to pace myself right now, but I cannot help feeling that nothing will be the same ever again and I am not the same person I was when I went to Florida. I feel like I have lost a piece of myself and don’t know if I can reclaim that part of me again. I am fearful of all the people in my life. I can’t help but ask myself, what the fuck have I done? Can I ever face these people again and will they forgive me? Will they understand that depression is real and can take you down the darkest roads if you let it? Will they understand I was not myself and had no control of myself? The question I guess I should be asking is can I forgive myself and understand that even though I am responsible for my actions, I was sick and unable to make the right decisions? I expect consequences and I have already seen one that hurt me, but will I let it take me back out there and eventually take me out? Can I come to terms of how serious my depression is, and I must stay medicated for this not to happen again? Can I come to terms that need to stay off drugs to be the person I want to be? Or will I let my guilt and shame kill me? `
I get it. I know I am overwhelmed right now. This is the closest I have been to being myself in 3 months. I have things to fix and it will not be fixed in a day. I didn’t get to this point in one night and I cannot expect everything to be okay in one day. I have a lot of therapy to do. I must understand how I let one Facebook post send me into a tailspin. I still need to understand why my family is such a trigger for me. I need to understand more about depression. It is a lot to grasp. I guess anyone could get overwhelmed if they in my shoes right now. All I know is the old me is gone, maybe forever, and a new me has emerged; a more vulnerable and cautious me. That self-cockiness and confidence are gone for now. Will it return? I don’t know. Either way, I need to accept this new me and move on from there.
Chapter 3: The Beginning
Everyone knows that when a person does something out of character, something shocking and harmful, or hits rock bottom, it did not just happen overnight. It started from somewhere and it is up to you to figure out when it began and were there signs. If you are lucky, the person who has been affected will share it with you and help you fill in the gaps. Just like I know exactly when I slipped into my latest bout with depression to almost the exact time, what triggered it, and what was the incident to set me off, I also know when I first started experiencing depression. For me, it started as early as 14 years old, even though I did not know what was going on. The signs were there, and no one could figure me out. It made me suicidal in high school. I should have gotten help then and I did try to get. I look back at my life and a lot of my self-destructive behavior was due to my depression. It would take being heavily addicted to drugs before it finally made people aware that something was not right, and I needed help.
I was 14 years old and the middle kid in the family when my mother decided to get married. Suddenly there were two more kids in the house that demanded attention. I had my brother and step-sister with their teenage rebellious streaks, a narcissistic step-brother with a smart mouth, and my younger sister who was about 5 years old. Because I was so quiet, it was easy for me to blend into the wallpaper and go unnoticed for the most part. I was very insecure, which was a catalyst in my depression. The first signs that I was in trouble were my lack of personal hygiene. I do not know from the start why I was like that, but it lasted for years and was one of the main reasons I was bullied in high school. I was also becoming
aware of my sexuality and confused about it. So, put together my hygiene issue, questioning my sexuality, and insecurity, and you have a very troubled kid. No one knew what I was thinking because I never told anyone. All I knew was that I was in a lot of emotional pain and did not know how to handle it. By the time I was 16 years old, I was suicidal. I went to see a counselor in school and cried about how much pain I was in. I didn’t get much help in high school, so I carried that torture until I was 21 years old, when I went to a therapist for the first time. He was not that interested in me or his job and it was evident because he kept falling asleep. It ended up not lasting long when I was forced to tell my mother and she did not handle well. She thought I was telling the therapist that all my problems were her fault. Between that and my strong religious background, who frowned against therapy, I was done in a month. I secretly saw another therapist some years later, and all we really talked about whether I was bisexual or gay. Also, I was trying to seduce him because he was so attractive. That also lasted a few months. It would be 10 years before I would seek and find professional help. Within that time, I would come as being gay, develop a serious alcohol problem, lose a great job and my first apartment, become a convicted felon, and last, of all, become greatly addicted to crystal meth.
Chapter 4: My Personal Hell
What is it like to slowly lose yourself in your own personal hell? To check out involuntarily and have no way to stop it no matter how hard you try? For me, it was like falling into a well and everyone trying to grab my shirt before I fall into the well; missing me completely. It made everyone who wanted to be there for me feel helpless because I had was deep in the throes of my depression and there was no one would save me…except myself. I had experience depression all my life, but this was the one that would threaten everything I own, everything I had work for to establish myself as a photographer and graphic designer, and eventually, my sanity and possibly my life.
I think of my mind like a light bulb. When my mind is sharp, the light shines brightly. When my depression sets in, that light dims and eventually go out. Even though I know exactly when the light switch went off, I am not sure why I could not turn it back on. At first, it wasn’t that bad. Looking back, the light was flickering for a while. There were quite a few times in which I retreated to my bed and stay there and refuse to answer my phone. It was an easy way to check out, to ignore people to figure out my next move. But the past year has been different. The amount of time in bed seemed longer and I would have times of extreme sleep or insomnia. Neither one was good. It got to the point when I would wake up in time to see “Who Wants to be a Millionaire” at 1:30 in the morning and sometimes stayed awake to see the local news at 4:30 or 5:00 in the morning. I just chalked it up to getting old. When I slept, it was like I had planned on it happening. Sometimes because I used I would look forward to those hours of sleep because it was a continuation of unconsciously checking out. I continue to live like this for most of the year until the night the light went out and I could not turn it back on. My personal hell had begun.
Those dark days became figurative and literal. There were the days I stayed in bed an observed as my room grew dark with only the light of the TV the barely lit up the room. I had a lamp right next to me so I could see but it was better for me to stay in that darkness. It was my way to hide. I displayed some bizarre behavior that didn’t really seemed that bizarre to me. Who sits with headphones all day in a room so that you can hide in your own room? Who fills up 7 2-liter bottles of urine to be away from society? Who lies in a filthy room knowing how filthy it is and unable to clean it up? That was me. As the days went on, the days grew darker and darker. Imagine being on stage and the only light in the theatre in the spotlight that is on you. That spotlight was my world now and I was unable to expand that spotlight to include others. As much as I fought my anger with people, when I finally let go, it was mean. You hurt me and now you are no longer a part of my life. There was no discussion; no chance for forgiveness. That compassionate, funny, sarcastic, and light-hearted person had vanished and what appeared was a moody, sad, depressed, and tortured soul.
The return of crystal meth proved to be my vicious ally. I had a partner in crime and no one would be safe from me if I had a say in it. I may not have owned a gun, but what I had proved to be more lethal than any weapon I could find. I had the ambition and calculation of a drugged mind, and now you would be my victims, and I unleashed it with such fury. People who I considered my dear friends, were now my playthings for my satisfaction, not yours. I became very manipulative to answer all my curiosity and usually once I found out what I wanted, I was done. Those were the lucky ones. The other ones I took it to the point of no return and most of the time I had no remorse for what I was about to do to you. I made no apologies because you wanted it to happen. I told you to your face that I knew exactly what I was doing. I made you compromise your values to satisfy the pain I was experiencing. Never once did I think how what I was doing was hurting others. Never once did I think about the pain I was inflicting on myself or how my behavior affected others. Never once did I think that taking my pills may alleviate the problem. 4 pills would have changed things and I couldn’t make myself do that. What was the result? I hurt the people I care about. I damaged friendships, maybe even ended them. Was it worth it? I don’t know. I know that I wasn’t the person I was used to seeing in the mirror. But, how could I? I was surrounded by darkness; both literally and figurative.
January felt like I was in a complete fog. My brain started to shut down and I didn’t realize it. My intake of drugs had now increased dramatically and my reasons for it started to change. It wasn’t my body that craved the drug, instead, it was my mind. It was the only time I could now have a conversation with people, to have a little bit of the old me back. It only lasted for a few days and by the end of the week, my personality demanded it. It was the only way I could now get things done. I depended on that high to finally clean my room. If I wasn’t high, I was in bed by in the catatonic state I had now grown used to. I only had 5 days that my head was clear during the entire month. On one occasion after using, I had some clarity and called my sponsor and talked with him for 4 hours. That would be the last time we really had a coherent conversation until a day and a half after admitting myself in the psych ward. That was the middle of January, which means that for next month, I don’t have a clear recollection of what really happened. It is coming back slowly and painfully. All I do know is that it was maddening. A friend who usually sees me at least 4 or 5 times a week, now barely saw me for 2 weeks. I came and went like a blur, and usually without warning. I broke off friendships because I no longer trusted them. I shied away from social media because that would mean I have to answer questions I was not prepared to answer…
Chapter 5: Delusions and Depression
The last week was the worst. I was starting to identify with a serial killer and why he acted the way he did. It all made sense to me. I met someone I liked and respected and almost everything I did either hurt him or pissed him off. It took only a day for him to put that wall in front of me, even to the point of asking me to leave his place at 5:00 in the morning one morning. I had been awake for 5 days on 6 hours sleep. I knew I was screwing up and I had no idea how to fix it. All I had to do was go home and get some sleep. It never occurred to me to do so. I eventually ended up at the next guy’s house that afternoon. Where I could somewhat carry a conversation, if you asked me a question, my answers made no sense. I felt so trapped because I know felt like I was slowly going mad. 
I was getting increasingly upset and felt like my depression was strangling me and endangering my very existence. By now I knew that I needed help and right away. The very thought of going into a psych ward scared me but it was now my only option.
The saddest thing was my inability to pick up my camera and do the one thing that usually brings me joy and gets me out of my funk. I stopped all my graphic design projects and neglected my Facebook page and Instagram account that helps me get noticed for my photography. When people would suggest going out and take photos, I just said I didn’t want to. I let the winter season almost go by without taking appropriate photos. Not only did I cease to exist socially but professionally as well.
Currently, I was seriously contemplating seeking professional inpatient treatment. The very thought of going into a psych ward scared me but it was quickly beginning my only option. I was realizing how dangerous my depression and if I didn’t do anything soon, I was going to end up there, and not my own choosing. It was that or commit suicide. I viewed death as an option because of the personal hell I could not escape. I kept that a secret because if I said anything that even suggested that route, I would be picked up as soon as the words left my mouth. I was enveloped in a dark fog, unable to do simple things like go to sleep, take my meds, ask for help; and being under the influence nonstop by now only made things worse. I thought all middle-aged white men were working as undercover officers and was observing my actions; and maybe that was partially true, especially in the society of fear we live in today. It is not a chance you don’t take. I put myself in a dangerous position by trusting a flaky drug dealer and narrowly missed being arrested. I flipped out on him in the street and begged to find a cab so I could get the hell out of dodge. I was completely paranoid and scared to death. I feared for my freedom. One would think that it would be enough to make me take action and stop, but no. I was under the influence of crystal meth and GHB, totally oblivious of the trail of destruction I had created for myself. It eventually peaked on Friday, when I had no choice except being an adult, handle my business, and beg to keep my room, so I did not end up on the street. I was afraid for anyone to see me because I was still high. While I was at the last guy’s place, I found out how high I was. Once again, I injected crystal and did GHB. If I was laying down, I was moderately high. When I stood up to get dressed, it went up 50%. I was flying high and fully aware of it. I wanted to ride it, but I had to handle my business. I took a Valium to come down; an option I used for the second time in 12 years. The words I had been dreading to say out loud to another person fell out of my mouth. I need to go to the psych ward or the combination of this deep depression and drugs was going to take me out. When someone asked me if I was high, I lied and said no, but it was obvious that I was high. I had now broken every single rule I set for myself which included not letting anyone I knew see me like this. I went to my counselor, surrendered and said yes; I would check myself in the psych ward to get some help. Finally, I was allowing myself to get out of the darkness and once again come into the light. It was time to get out of my personal hell and seek the help that I desperately needed, and face redemption. I went shopping and bought so much junk food, it could 
kill a diabetic. I was obsessed with chocolate for some reason. After the embarrassing trip on the train, I was once again in the safety of my room. I allowed the paranoia to subside. I allowed my body to take over and collapsed on my bed and wouldn’t wake up for 5 hours. The last time I had allowed myself to sleep, I woke up in a state of complete confusion. My friend blamed it on the GHB. This time, I felt safe when I woke up. When I saw my therapist, I knew to some degree how bad things had gotten. It still didn’t allow the fog to lift. It would not lift until I was in the hospital. After my writing class Saturday afternoon. I bought more food and quickly went home. I would not get out of bed again until time to go to the hospital. I spent all day Sunday watching Roots and eating all kinds of junk food.
Monday morning. Time to follow through on everything and I was scared. This was an important step that needed to happen. I saw one of my caseworkers and immediately broke down. I had no idea who I was anymore or how I felt. I was embarrassed by it. What sat in front of was someone I did not even recognize. After seeing her and my therapist, I dragged my feet in the direction of the hospital saying I should have said I would do this on Tuesday. I knew what to expect due to a prior incident. I made it to the hospital and said the most important sentence I had said in 3 months: “I am here to check myself in for depression.” For the first time, the light switch was turned on and that light flickered, even if it was a faint flicker. I had finally decided to get help to get out of my personal hell I had been trapped in for the last 3 months.
Chapter 6: Psych Drugs vs. Street Drugs
My crystal meth addiction occurred for several reasons:
- To build my confidence
- To meet other men
- I was a sex addict
- To deal with my depression
NEW YORK CITY (2005-2009)
I was considered to be a “late bloomer” at the age of 38 when I started using crystal meth. I was the kid who “just said no” when it came to drugs growing up. I had a problem with alcohol, but when I had a blackout, I quickly put a lease on it and cut my alcohol down considerably. When I started using drugs, everything changed. When I first tried crystal meth, I instantly liked it. Where it had originally used for sexual reasons, I quickly discovered how it helped with depression. Not only was helping me to be more outgoing and promiscuous, but it helped me with my depression. I knew what was once I got that first hit the depression would disappear in a matter of minutes. And that it did. Every time I started using, 3 big hits was all I needed, and I would have such a big smile on my face. Just like any street drug, my tolerance got higher, so I had to take more. My crashes would be painful, physically and emotionally. I thought I was the only one feeling this way until I went to a meeting and quickly found out that everyone feels this way.
Ever so often, my addiction would get so bad until I had to go to rehab. Life had become so unmanageable until rehab became my saving grace. When I would do the intake, I would tell the doctors I suffered from depression. They would prescribe Wellbrutin and things would perk up. But within a few months I would stop taking my meds and start using in earnest once again, and next thing I knew I was back being depressed. The problem was I preferred the quick fix over the long-term fix. I would never give it a chance. Also, I hated taking medications and that was evident because I also stopped taking all other important medication to keep me alive and end up either in ER, or even worse, admitted for a few days. A truly vicious cycle that I never would take into account what it was doing to me until I had no choice but to finally deal with it.
I continued seeing a therapist from time to time when the depression was too much. I would go from weekly and but talked about surface things; never digging in deep about what was causing my depression. But then my depression was not that bad, and if it was, I surely was not paying attention because I was always trying to get high. Also, I never put the two together that both my depression and my addiction was working together to wreak havoc in my life or working against each other and still causing havoc in my life. Between 2007 or 2008, both had gotten very critical. Now I was dealing with anxiety, and when I injected crystal meth into my veins, my body would react by involuntary ticks like I had Parkinson’s Disease. I was so uncomfortable when I rode the subway due to the constant stares I would get on the train. Sometimes it was bad enough, that I had to go to the ER, and I was given Valium to calm me down and sleep. Eventually, they stop giving it to me and I had to develop coping skills for my anxiety to ease the ticks until they stopped. Either way, due to my failure to take either seriously, I had no choice to leave NYC in 2010. If I didn’t, one or the other promised to kill me in six months. A week before I left NYC, I used one more time, and the result was disastrous and this time, very dangerous. I had a complete nervous breakdown with the involuntary ticks going full blast. The only reason I didn’t die was that my family tracked me down, and my mother brought me to her place in Pennsylvania to recuperate for a month. This was the first time my whole family got to see how bad my depression and addiction was. Then in February 2010, I headed to the sunny state of Florida to start over again.
FLORIDA (2010-2015)
I moved to Boca Raton, Florida in very bad condition. I have still had those involuntary ticks. I moved into a halfway house and was giving an apartment alone because they were scared to put anyone in the apartment. Within time, my ticks went away, and I was happy. I took my psych meds regularly. I was doing well and staying sober. During that time, I would meet Drew, the first person who directly affect my life and in 6 months, my life would change and I would be spalled out across my bed, covered in urine, shallowly breathing, and probably close to death.
Drew was from Pennsylvania and was proud of his sexuality, something I still had issues about. I was drawn to Drew even though he was half my age. Drew was everything I wasn’t, and I was envious of that. Living in NYC made me so insecure about myself and had no confidence in myself. I felt like he was the exact opposite of that. That I what I liked about Drew when we became friends. It was during that time when I started to have fun. We did a lot of things together and went to a lot of places I would not have gone to by myself. I felt I had to look after him due to his age, he did a lot of foolish things, including getting kicked out of the halfway house for relapsing. I was furious with him but eventually, I calmed down and he came back. I met his mother that July and made a promise to her that I would look after him. That would be words that haunted me for over 3 years and still bothers me from time to time today.
August 24, 2010. I will never forget where I was when I got the phone call. I had just started school at the Art Institute of Ft. Lauderdale three days earlier studying photography. After two days in school, a series of events the night would have a big effect on my life and my future.
By this time Drew had his own car and he would always be with his boyfriend. Then one night Drew disappeared. We had no idea where Drew was. I suspected that he was using again. To make matters worse, I caught his roommate high and passed out on the sofa. The next morning, I had just finished my class, when I received a phone called from the halfway house. I thought they were going to tell me that Drew got into some trouble. Instead, I was informed that Drew had been killed in a head-on collision the night before. I think at that moment I was in shock because I did not react at first. I made it on the bus and then my grief began the tears began to flow, and I started crying uncontrollably on the bus. In fact, the pain of hearing about his death was so bad until I got off the bus a few stops later. By then, I was beyond being inconsolable. The pain of death was both physically and mentally great. I somehow made it back to Boca Raton, grabbed some clothes, and went to his ex-boyfriend’s house. I no longer felt safe there and blamed them for his death. I grieved his death like I had never grieved anyone before; not even my father and step-father. My biggest mistake was not getting grief counseling, and because of it, my descent back into my addiction began; and in 3 months, I resumed using street drugs to deal with his death. I suffered for a year and a half until I attempted suicide because I could not deal with the pain any longer. After taking a combination of anxiety pills and vodka, I woke up from a 36-hour sleep disoriented. I was able to ask for help, admit myself in the hospital and get the help I needed. I met Mary Garcia, a kind woman from NYC, who would serve as my therapist for the next 3 years. We started to deal with my addiction and started back on psych meds. For the most part, I stayed on it. The only time I was not on them was when I was using, which was now steadying increasing once again. The more I used, the less I would comply with my psych meds. Street drugs were now winning over psych meds and now my depression was starting to get worse. It became easier for me to retreat to my bed during those depressive periods and not contact anyone; especially my mother. She would call the school to see if I was okay because I would not call her on my own. My schoolwork suffered because of the combination of my depression and addiction. The only way I could find a relief from both was through my photography. It was the only thing that would give me purpose. But to get me to do it, people would have to beg and plead. I went back to NYC for 3 weeks to get my head straight. The result was anything but successful. After a week, I went full blast with my addiction for two weeks. I disappeared once again in plain sight until the day I went back to Ft. Lauderdale and used even heavier than I had in NYC. It got to the point when I could no longer depend on myself to do the right thing, so I took a hiatus from school and entered rehab for the fourth time. I didn’t even know if I wanted to go back to school. I was mentally exhausted. The counselor at the rehab helped me to realize that if I gave up now, it would be something I would regret for the rest of my life. It was the motivator I needed to get back on track, lessen my use of street drugs, comply with my psych drugs and eventually graduate with a bachelor’s degree in graphic design with an emphasis in photography in September 2015. My time in Florida had proved to be useful because even though I suffered from depression and dealt with a major addiction, I was able to accomplish so much. I became the school photographer. I was the president of a few clubs and at one time, one of the most popular kids in college. I worked in the dean’s office and got to meet and work with a lot of the administrators. I gained the respect of my fellow classmates because I was upfront and honest about both my addiction issues and depression. But most importantly, I started to believe in myself. I embarked on a new journey to Southern California that put both everything to the test and threatens everything I worked for.
SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA (2015-2016)
I felt it was time to explore new opportunities so three days after graduating from the Art Institute of Ft. Lauderdale, I boarded an Amtrak train to Los Angeles, CA. I was very excited about going back to CA again. My first time did not go well at all. I got sick, was in the hospital for 3 months, and unaware of how much my life was hanging in a balance. I wanted this experience to be different. With a college degree, I felt like I had a chance. I couldn’t have more wrong.
When I arrived in Anaheim, I was excited to be back on the West Coast. Being surrounded by the mountains opened a lot of opportunities for me as a photographer. This was a whole new adventure. It was a different topography was different from Florida with the hills and mountains. The adventure turned into a nightmare literally within 2 hours of arriving in CA. My friend picked me up from the train station 45 minutes late, to begin with. When I entered his home, at first I like what I saw. It was in a beautiful complex near Anaheim surrounded by the mountains. I soon found out that he failed to tell me the one thing that would have stopped me from coming out there. He was still using and using heavily. For the record, you do not put a huge amount of drugs in front of a recovering addict. It is a recipe for disaster, and for me disaster hit quick. By the middle of the afternoon I was completely fucked up and by the end of that weekend, I knew I had made one of the biggest mistakes of my life. What would happen over the next few months would test my sobriety and my sanity. Regarding my sobriety, that was completely obliterated. I became a daily user. I freely used because so was everyone else in the house. I fought with everyone in the house at one time on another. My friendship with my friend was in complete shambles due to our addiction. I knew I needed to get out of there but felt powerless to do so because by now my addiction had me by the neck, strangling my very soul. My depression got to be very bad so a lot of times, I did not allow myself to come down. Also, I had no real method of transportation and no money; plus, they only sober people I knew lived too far. I was embarrassed by what my life had become. I befriended a man from San Bernardino and told him about my experience. We soon began dating and soon after he became my boyfriend. It was through him that I got to experience sober weekends and got to see what the city was all about. After almost having my sanity tested to the point of nearly having a nervous breakdown, I was finally able to escape that drug den after 5 months and move in with another friend, this time in Long Beach, CA. I thought maybe I could start over. I had now jumped out of the frying pan deep into the fire.
My time in Long Beach, was a nightmare from the very beginning because of someone else is jealous and threatened by my presence. He made my life hell for that short time I stayed there. By now I was experiencing psychotic breaks of reality that was very scary, and by now I could not tell you what was real and what was not. They were often fueled by doing a huge number of drugs and not hydrating myself properly. What had become worse than the psychotic breaks were the combination of depression and fear that now had gripped my life. It was becoming more than I was able to bear and had no solution. I had had enough of this. My hope of succeeding here in California had become a nightmare that I could not have imagined or was prepared to deal with. I was begging to get out of CA the best way I could. When I friend offered his place in Florida, I jumped at the opportunity. I borrowed $200 and gave up my phone to travel across the country by bus to Ft. Lauderdale, where I had wished I had stayed from the beginning.
When I boarded the bus in Long Beach bound to Los Angeles, I was both physically and mentally exhausted. I had to drag my whole life in 2 suitcases and 2 backpacks. I didn’t even say goodbye. All I knew was the nightmare was over. No one experiences that much stress and anxiety and expects the body not to react, and my body was no different. By the time I got to Phoenix, all that stress made me physically ill. I couldn’t hold anything down, not even water. I remained violently ill until we got to Dallas. The only good thing about the bus ride was seeing my sister in Atlanta and spending a little time with her. The next day I arrived in Ft. Lauderdale, thinking that the nightmare was over. In fact, I was about to go through more anxiety, stress, and psychotic breaks, and would seek street drugs instead of psych drugs to deal with it.
FORT LAUDERDALE (May 2016 – July 2016)
I arrived in Ft Lauderdale in May of 2016 and was once again faced with someone who lied to me and was still doing drugs, but this one would prove to be on a different level, and my well-being was the least of his concerns.
Where in CA, I felt deceived because of not knowing that they were using, this person lied about everything. Not only was he still using, even though he was on probation, but the house also was a shithole, and there were all these secrets that would yet to be revealed. Once these secrets were revealed and the truth came out, I was livid. Once again, someone was less than honest with me about everything. These deceptions threatened my freedom as well as his and he could care less about it. There was no food in the house. Every piece of furniture came from the street because his addiction made it that way. He was always scheming about getting more drugs and would use anyone he could to get them, myself included. By this time all the stress of dealing with people who constantly lied to me had now taken a big toll on my psyche, which by now was very fragile. I had no access to psych meds, so I depended on street drugs to get through everything. As his reckless behavior continued, he eventually pushed me into another psychotic break. It was only after he was rearrested for possession of drugs and drug paraphernalia, did I decide that I no longer live with him. I needed to get out, and I needed to be out before he got out of jail. I had only been in Florida for 2 months and I was about to move again for the third time in last than 2 years.
My last two weeks in Florida was peaceful because I was alone in the house. He came to the house a few days before I moved out and moved out of Florida, again. I stayed with some friends in Rhode Island before being forced to move again, this time back home to New York City, the place I left for fear of my life 6 years earlier. I was scared of coming back to NYC but happy to be home, especially around my family. I was very sick by now and a month after leaving Rhode Island, I was admitted into the hospital so physically weak until it was a miracle I got there alone. By this time, I was living in temporary housing, and eager to live on my own. I had enough of living with people. They were the reason why I was so mentally and physically sick. Eventually, I started to get better physically, but in no way mentally was I alright. The worst was yet to come.
NEW YORK CITY (2016 –)
For almost the last year and a half, I suffered mentally in such a way, I didn’t even recognize how bad I had become. The fact that I had no therapy and no psych meds, it was a miracle I was as sane as could be expected. I had lost who I was as a person and my sense of values had now changed. Where before I relied on my photography and graphic design skills to help me find my identity, I had another way to be noticed and I used it proudly and with reckless abandon.
When I left New York City, I was very insecure. I felt like I was not well liked or desired. I didn’t have the body everyone had and that drove me crazy. I had a hard time communicating with other guys, and that meant anyone I had slept with, it wasn’t what liked me. They slept with me to take advantage of me. Now things were different. I had lost a great deal of weight; to the point of wearing size 28 jeans, a size I had not fit into since I was a teenager. My confidence was back, and the only thing that mattered was that guys were now attracted to me, and they desired to be with me. I lied and kept up this persona that I was a new person, and everything was great; I was great. What I really was a hot mess, teetering on the edge. It was only after I used the first time, did that become apparent that I wasn’t okay and from that point on my downward spiral began.
As my addiction started to grow again, my anger and uncertainty also grew. When something did not go my way, I reacted to it and it was not in a good way. I threatened suicide as a weapon to be heard; but in fact, it was a cry for help, and I need help desperately. Eventually, I went into therapy and I halfheartedly went back on psych drugs, but it was the street drugs that I relied on more to my detriment. Whereas I no longer had those psychotic breaks, my mental status had become fragile and I was in desperate in need of a psychiatric specialist. My depression came back, and I began the ritual again of not answering phone calls and retreating to my bed for long periods of time. My fits of anger grew more intense and I was prone to getting violent. It never got to that point, but it was not far off. I directed my anger toward a kid who was also using. I made it seem like he was in worst shape than me but, I was just as bad as his. What made it worse was the fact I was trying to hide it. But a person can hide only for so long before one does something that makes it apparent that something is just not right. The first time was when I threatened to physically harm my roommate and was thrown out for threatening behavior to another resident. I moved around a few times before ending up in East New York, Brooklyn, the absolute last place I wanted to live. But in some ways, that was the best way for me to live to finally face my demons. That day came at the beginning of May 2017.
I had been back in NYC for almost a year and hated the way I was living. I was still living in transitional housing with no way of getting out of it. Half of my possessions were locked away in the last place I lived in and the caseworker there kept lying to me and refused me to get my belongings. I was using more street drugs and fewer psych drugs until I eventually stopped using them all together. My choice of “friends” was sketchy at best. My behavior was reckless as I used people for my own sexual desire. All of this came to a head in May after using for a few days and getting into an argument with one of the guys I used with and then realizing I was broke with no food or money and it was the first week of the month. I finally had another appointment with a new therapist that I needed to get to. I had no energy or desire to see him. I was tired, and it was nasty outside, but I went anyway. I had no idea that visit would change everything and open long existing wounds with no way how to deal with them, or so I thought.
When I arrived there, I was an hour late and had to now wait an additional 3 hours. By the time I got to him I was so broken until when I got there, I finally broke. Only pain and tears came out. I didn’t think I could stop. It was like a volcano erupting. Everything I felt from the time I graduated until now could no longer be bottled up. It had to come out, and it finally did.
For the next few months, everything was good. I was really into my photography. I got to see and do things I always wanted to, like going to the Macy’s Fireworks, the many cultural parades NYC has to offer during the summer. I got to see my family for the first time in 6 years. Due to distance and estrangement, I had sketchy communication, until the prior Thanksgiving, when my sister contacted me looking to help because she heard I had been very sick. I was at the Thanksgiving parade and was ecstatic to hear from her. I had gotten back into graphic design and was constructing layouts for a newsletter. I was even taking my medication. Then one day something just clicked. I couldn’t explain it but suddenly I was no longer happy. I stayed in a melancholic mood. I started to no longer answer phone calls. I stayed in bed for days at a time. I stopped communicating with family and friends. I stopped being me.
I stopped taking my psych meds and now using street drugs. My descent into depression and self-destruction went to a level I had not experienced before. I was quickly turning into someone that I was no longer recognizing who I was. For the first months, it was a gradual decline; just enough for my friends to notice something wasn’t right. I was still doing photography but now it was more of a challenge. I had to make myself do it. My last project would be going back to Florida for one of my best friend’s wedding, where I was one of the wedding photographers. The night before my return to NYC, suddenly the light in my mind went off and the fog started to settle in. No one could bring me back; not even myself. My depression had now gone to a new plane.
Chapter 7: Creativity and Depression
I always knew I was a creative person from a child. I played in the school band as a child. I learned calligraphy when I was 16 and started doing it freehand shortly afterward. In my 20s, I did step aerobics to the point of dancing on the step to club music. When I turned 40, I joined a dance company with no dance experience and performed in a show. When I went to school to learn photography and graphic design, I wrote most of my papers with considerable ease. Now I am learning how to combine creative writing, photography, and graphic design as my own original work. Two things would always have stood in my way and times stopped my creativity completely: addiction & depression.
Part of the reason for that is my own need for perfection. Once I learned my craft extensively, the one thing I would not present was sloppy work. After testing that theory while high, I know not to pick up my equipment until I was done. But with depression, it was different. I didn’t have to be told not to pick it. It was the one time when I needed to pick it up. The incentive just wasn’t there.
When I lived in Ft. Lauderdale, I carried my camera everywhere unless there was a reason I should have it with me; mostly for safety reasons. I would take a 3-hour bus ride to Miami and spend the whole day walking around South Beach taking photos. It wasn’t just beach photos. A lot of the photos was about the lifestyle in South Beach; the partying, the lights, the architecture of the hotels, with Art Deco designs, and the drag queen performances that would happen during the evening on Ocean Blvd. They would stop traffic during their performances. In Ft. Lauderdale, I took part in city events that until I moved down there, did not know existed. I went to volleyball games, auto racing, and the WinterFest Parade; the highlight of the holiday season down there. I participated in a good number of fashion shows. It didn’t matter if it was at school or off-site. I was there. When I took the Amtrak from Ft. Lauderdale to Los Angeles, I documented the entire ride through my photography. When I arrived in New York City, I got the chance to finally appreciate where I lived through my photos. I went to most of the cultural parades. I went to the Macy’s Fourth of July Fireworks and had a front-row view. I got take photos of Central Park during all four seasons. I did a lot of night photography. I was very proud of my work and always showcased it. When my depression would begin in earnest, I stopped taking photos. The joy was gone. I didn’t even think about it most of the time. As time went on, those periods began to last longer, usually for weeks at a time. I knew if I can just muster up enough interest, it would be okay. Photography took me out of that dark space and returned me back to my old self. Then the time came when even that didn’t help, and it would happen at the worst possible time for me.
November 2017, Ft. Lauderdale. My first time back in a year and a half, and this time it was for a joyful occasion. I was attending one of my college friend’s wedding. I was especially proud of making it because of a promise I made to him about making to his wedding. It also gave me the chance to do something I never expected or wanted to do: wedding photography. I had all my gear with me. The result was very good. I enjoyed doing it more than I anticipated. I received a lot of praise for my photos. Another milestone for me. Another boost for my craft. Something to be very proud of.
The day before I was to return to New York City, I let my emotional state get the best of me, which triggered my depression in a way I had not experienced in almost ten years. The last time was in 2008 when I took up dance. That was the first time this had happened. Within a week, I gave up a year’s worth of hard work and gave in to my 
depression and addiction. I knew that I was experiencing déjà vu. All the signs were there, and I automatically recognized them. It should have been able to counteract it and seek help, but I didn’t. Due to my inability to provide this from happening, my depression hit me hard and my creativity came to a halt. The only other creative thing I did was participate in a Christmas dance number and took a few photos during the first major snowstorm of the new year to alleviate my depression. It would be two months before I would do anything creative again.
It is not that I didn’t want to be creative. I just lacked the initiative to motivate myself. I laid there in bed day after day, unable to put any creative ideas together. I quit doing the newsletter that I took such pride in it. I no longer had an interest in photography. The thought of picking up my camera became foreign to me. The only time I picked up my camera bag was to move it from one side of the room to the other. I could no longer express myself through writing because my mind was in a fog due to my depression. Friends insisted that I go out and take photos, and my response was always that I did not feel like it. I knew eventually those desires would return. I just had no idea when it would happen.
When I think what the causes of my lack of creativeness were, I go back to the writing workshop that I enjoyed so much. I thought I had one more week after my trip to Ft. Lauderdale to go to this class, but due to unforeseen circumstances, the last class was canceled. This left a void in my schedule and a lot of free time on my hands. Yes, I could have gone to the Thanksgiving parade, and maybe that would have helped, but it was already too late. My depression was settling in and my creativity was slowly disappearing. By the time the new year came around, it was all but nil.
Fortunately, it has returned. It started with writing, then photography, and finally graphic design. It has been a slow journey back. The first time I took out my camera many of my photos were unfocused. I knew it would take some time and practice. Shortly after the first time, my focus returned and soon I was like I was before the depression set in. What I have learned from it is not to take my creativity for granted. It was frustrating not figuring out what to do, or not seeing the beauty outside as I walked which was behind a lot of my photos. It could have easily gone the other way, so I must take care of my mental health if I am going to continue to be successful in my craft. With determination, self-esteem, and motivation, I will be back in no time.
Chapter 8: Where I Am Today
It has been a month (at the time of the writing), since I crashed and burned, and checked myself in the psych ward. My sponsor, who showed up or called every day that I was in the hospital, came to pick me up when I was discharged. I was happy to be back outside but lived with uncertainties. I feared everything and everybody. My head had cleared, and I had a full realization of what happened during the last 3 months. My sobriety that had seriously worked on was now gone and I was back to counting days again; something I hadn’t done since May. I gave up so much and made a mess of a lot of things:
- doing the layout for the newsletter that I was very proud of
- once again jeopardizing my physical health by not adhering to my medication
- the continued success of my business after doing wedding photography for the first time
- ignoring people who cared about me and was concerned about my well-being; including my family
- missing most of my appointments, and not reaching out to services about what I was going through
- alienated most of my friends; and sabotaging other friendships that mattered to me deeply
I was full of guilt and shame behind my behavior, even though I knew that I was unable to help myself due to me debilitating depression. The day after I got out of the hospital; I was so
overwhelmed with dealing with all of this until I started to have a panic attack. “What the hell have I done? How could I get this bad? How can face anyone once? Do my family want anything to do with me, even though I told Mommy that my depression was getting bad months before?” All these thoughts now consumed my head and I did not know which one to answer first. I was on my way to see my therapist who was instrumental in getting me help while being supportive during my descent into deep depression.
For me to work through this, I did something I had not done in months; I started blogging once again. I found out during the summer how much I missed writing when I joined a weekly writing workshop. I was amazed how based on what I was feeling after my therapy sessions, I
could now process it and write about the feeling through writing. Some of my passages were funny, some of them sad. Some of them reflected on my depression and addiction. Some of them reflected on being gay and what I was looking for in a relationship. It helped me with my confidence as well as express myself in a safe and worthwhile way. I helped me to blog about my feelings. I had withdrawn so much into myself until I stop writing. It was time to write again. It was time to express my thoughts and feelings.
I have always found it easier to write on the subway and in Starbucks. Even though I am surrounded by all my social media traps, I put that aside and focus on writing; using listening to music (Today’s selection: the 80s). As I rode the train to my therapy appointment, I was so focused and in tune with my fears and regrets until I almost missed my stop on the train. I finished my blog as I walked into my therapy. Then I handed to my therapist and asked him to read it aloud to me. Something happened after he read it to me. I was blown away as well as thrown back by what I had written. At that moment I was speechless and filled with emotion until I just started crying. Hearing it out loud made finally made my depression real; almost too real. It finally made me look at my depression seriously, and how my depression affected my addiction. It was one of the most defining moments of my life.
After hearing my own words, I knew I had to keep writing. I had to document this journey. I had a story to tell. I also needed to be reminded of how I got to this point and what happened when I
got there. Right then The Depression Chronicles was born; a series of blogs explaining
with brutal honesty how I got to this point. A lot of it was uncomfortable to recollect, but it needed to be done, otherwise, I was doomed to repeat this, and maybe this time with worse results or my death. What am I hoping to accomplish with this? Just like in school, my story of being gay and dealing with my addiction inspired others, I am hoping this does also.
Writing is not the only accomplishment, I am have achieved over the past month. I am slowly getting back to the love of my life; photography. I have had 2 outings with my camera, and on each occasion, I have captured the perfect photo of the day, and both have received considerable exposure. But the highlight of the month was appearing on the news with my camera, as I was being interviewed during Winter Storm Quinn. It has been one of the biggest exposures I have had as a photographer, which has been a long-lasting goal. I have also featuring the wedding photos from November on several websites to gain business as a wedding photographer. It was a big boost to hear how happy my friends and their parents were with the photos. I am also getting back into graphic design, and it is my goal to resume doing the layout for the newsletter. None of this would have been made possible if I had not chosen to go to the hospital when I did.
One of the biggest rewards over the past month has been how honest and open I have been when discussing my depression. I realize that this will be another thing that I will have to deal with for the rest of my life, just like my addiction and health issues. I have gotten additional outpatient treatment to deal with everything and the way I feel. I know that it is a real chance for my depression to return, and I cannot allow for it to debilitate me like this past bout did. I was watching one of my favorite TV shows, “This Is Us”, and during the season finale, they gave a small preview of what to expect for next season. One of the topics involves the main characters and his bout with deep depression. I know it will be a bit painful to watch and I expect to shed a lot of tears watching this storyline. At the same time, it will provide some more insight into my depression.
I had to approach certain important people in my life and explain to them my behavior and my depression. The scariest for me was calling my mother after almost 4 months of unanswered phone calls. I apologized to her and let her into my world about how bad things got. I explained to her that it wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk to her, but it was almost impossible for me to gain incentive to pick up the phone and say, “Mommy, I am in trouble. My depression has gotten worse and I don’t know how to get past it.” To my pleasure, she said she understood and was happy that I was getting help from the resources available to me. That was a relief to hear. Since then we have spoken a few times and each time she says I am getting better.
One of biggest rewards has been the parts of me that I felt was lost to me forever is returning; mainly my sense of humor and my ability to expect my views and stand up for myself through my words. Those 3 months took away my love of laughter and the ability to advocate for myself in a proper way without using anger to do so. I am also treating myself and getting and doing the things I love. I recently treated myself to a play I have been wanted to see since opening night, something I have not done in 3 years. I also bought some speakers for my TV on my terms, and that has been such a treat. The bottom lin
e is this: I am finally giving myself a chance to love myself instead of self-destructing. Is it easy? No, and I think for anyone who suffers from depression, it will always be a challenge. For myself, it was far easier for me to sabotage and then it is to give myself a chance and let me love myself.
With rewards come some regrets. I regret ruining precious relationships I came to cherish. I regret all the self-destruction I caused in my own life; including my business. I regret not giving my myself a chance by adhering with my medication. I regret not taking my depression seriously and taking a chance with crystal meth to solve the problem. I regret not being able to love myself. One thing I don’t not regret is this experience. With every experience, a person may go through, first come the trial, then the lesson, and finally, the realization about how much stronger you are because you went through it. This last bout of depression was a trial, but if I had not gone through, I don’t know if I would ever have taken it seriously. I would have probably continued the cycle of addiction and depression and in the end, done even more damage than what has already been done.
As I continue this series of blogs, it does not mean I will stop blogging. Blogging has become a positive outlet in my life and I will continue to use this as a medium to express myself. I hope this blog will serve as a reminder if I ever plan on being the person I know I can be. The time has now come to finally start moving past it.
Chapter 9: Questions
Some time has passed since my hospitalization and I feel like I am back in November once again. I once again have that feeling of defeat, loneliness, frustration, aggravation, and fear is keeping them together. Has it returned? It feels like it. The bed once again feels good, and isolation is beginning to look attractive again. I am once again a victim of my own shortcomings, combined with the grips of insecurity; the exact thing that threatened to snuff out my very existence. Should I be afraid? The answer is not clear because it is so recent. Yes, it is good to recognize the red flags, but once I have done that, what do I do with it? The easy action says get help ASAP. My mind contradicts everything I should do because maybe this is where I am supposed to be. The light is once again flickering. That pink cloud has now burst, and all I see is dark grey. Whereas the cloud was full of happiness and affirmations, this cloud is full of negativity, telling me once again I am not worthy. I am a piece of shit. The world would better without you. Let me help you get rid of your pain forever. My mind has grown treacherous, almost like a steel trap. Will, I be stuck in it forever, or is it just a temporary phase that will pass? If it is not a phase, so I once again return to what makes me feel good; that temporary mask on my depression, which for a day or two, or three, gives me the relief I so desperately crave? Now that it has wrapped around my neck like a mighty python, how do I get it to release its grip, so that I can once again bathe in the happiness and productivity I have been experiencing for the last 6 weeks? Can I look to the past to provide the answers for my future without fear and despair? Who will win this tug-a-war, psychological solutions or the cunning street life? Which will appeal to me now? Am I ready to go through the hell I lived in for 3 months, destroying my mind and spirit, and eventually my soul? What is going to happen to me?
So many questions; not enough answers. So much worry and fear; not the confidence I wore so proudly before; like a coat of armor. When the time is right, all will finally be revealed, not just to me, but to all of those who care about me; wondering if I chose life or death. All I can do is allow this new act to play out for me, wondering how the ending plays out. All I can do is wait as the final act begins….
Chapter 10: Hopelessness vs. HOPE
To say that this week was a difficult week for me would be an understatement. I have gone through a range of multiple emotions: from being happy and content to feeling sadness, anger, and frustration. I feel like I have something other than depression. I don’t know if it because of being of Wellbrutin for so long, my living situation, or the frustration of being around people who like living the way to they do. I don’t know if it because I am lonely; and unable to make good choices with the men I am around and who I sleep with. The reason may be the after effects of my addiction. It comes to be all of them, some of them, or none of them. It’s exhausting, and I am over the uncertainty that
continues to cloud my life. I feel like I am still being punished every single day for the transgressions that I have made in my life. It makes me doubt my self-worth. Every day that I live in the building around addicts and people who enjoy that lifestyle, it drains a little bit of happiness and replaces it with the feeling of hopelessness. Every time I am walking to or from the bus stop and past the dealers, I am reminded that I am an addict who must be strong every day to have a better life than I have right now. Every time the 2 or 5 train crosses the Harlem River to the Bronx, I am reminded that the choices of my past have me in the nightmare of the present, and the possible hopelessness of my future. All that makes me want to use and I can’t even do that; for fear of completing the process of the hell I must exist in for now and be permanently banished in this misery.
I must have HOPE, that this latest attempt of securing my own apartment will be the one that gets me what I been striving for, therefore allowing me to be the photographer I know I can be, free of the present anxiety I am dealing with. I need to have FAITH that this nightmare will soon be over, and I will have paid for my transgressions, and be allowed to prove that I am better than I once was; that I have learned and taken something from the last 3 years; never to forget how I got here in the first place. I must BELIEVE that there are people pushing for me to succeed; knowing that they are not holding my past against me. I must FORGIVE myself for everything that I been through and look for the POSITIVE that came with this powerful lesson. I must use the KNOWLEDGE in my heart that I deserve to have good things happen for me, and that I 
have developed GROWTH, both mentally, emotionally, and spiritually for this experience. I had to REALIZE the lessons that I needed to learn and relay those lessons through my future actions, in order that I never forget it. I must realize that it is time for me to LOVE myself again, just like everyone did for me when I couldn’t; and most importantly, have GRATITUDE for the tribulations, lessons, and solutions that this experience has bestowed to me. If I do not exercise these ten qualities now and in the future, I am destined to repeat this process again, and possibly die due to my inability to UNDERSTAND what my life was like for the last three years, and the lessons that can out of this experience.
Will it be easy? Have anything ever in my adult life come easily? No, I must do the work and not expect the rewards to be handed to me free of charge, like others may get. It is through blood, sweat, and tears that make up the person that I see before me, and from that, I am seeing the STRENGTH and RESILIENCE that I know I have within me. I must continue to use my sense of HUMOR that I am known for and have served me well in the past. Then one day when a person asks me how I am doing, I can say that I am HAPPY and mean it. It’s what I have experienced and learned from the past week.
Chapter 11: On the Edge of Glory and Self-Destruction
I always wanted to be noticed from the time I was a teenager. I was the one that would blend into the woodwork. I was the one seeking friends desperately, the one with poor social skills; the nerd. Then something started to change that would forever change my life.
To deal with my depression, I turned to drugs. Let me be honest. There was a positive side to it. I started to find my confidence, my voice, my ego. The way I dressed changed. The way I walked changed. I commanded a presence, and to this day I am proud of that side of me. But then the dark side of using came out; coming down and dealing with my depression once again. This time I had a way to hide my depression. I did this through the way I dressed, the way I walked, the way I carried myself. If I didn’t want you to know I was doing, I hid it through my clothes, and I hid it well. The more I used, the more I kept that game up until I could no longer. I had no choice but to leave the place I called home my entire life and embark on a new journey that brings me to where I am today…on the edge of glory and self-destruction.
I felt like the only way I could stay sober was to go to school, a dream I always had. A few short weeks later I was enrolled in school as a college student on my way to being a photographer, and later, a graphic designer. For the next 5 years, I spent countless hours learning my craft, mentoring others through the dean’s office, and self-teaching myself in photography. The rewards soon came. I became the school photographer, and quickly became one of the popular kids in the school…at age 46. Kids liked me. Professors and administrators respected me. I was being recognized for the work I was doing. I just had
one problem. I could not get that monkey off my back. Crystal meth threatened to take everything I worked so hard for. I couldn’t shake it. I liked it too much; but was I willing to give up everything for that temporary feeling? How much would it cost me?
Cut to today. Today, I am on the edge of glory. I am once again being recognized for my work as a photographer. So much until I have been invited to participate in a nationally recognized exhibition of new artists about to make their breakthrough and shoot to the stratosphere. A friend wants to do a documentary based on my work as a photographer. He also wants to start a Kickstarter campaign for me. People comment on my work all the time. Just one problem. Now I have two monkeys to deal with: addiction and depression. One or both threaten to take me out if I don’t remain vigilant about it. What is the problem? I still use one to solve the other. Where I have come to terms with the problem, I have not yet come to terms with the solution. This leaves me on the edge of self-destruction. How much do I really want this? When I die, what will my tombstone read? Will it say Keith McFadden, famed photographer or will it say Keith McFadden; his addiction and depression got the best of him? Will I join the growing list of artists who demons prevented them from attaining the glory they deserved because of they self-destructed?
I say this because depression and addiction are real. Both together is deadly. It is treatable, but I must continue to make the effort to help myself if I want to attain glory rather than self-destruction.
Chapter 12: Epilogue
As I bring this blog series to an end, I am very proud of the work I put into it. It was not easy for me to be this honest and vulnerable about both my addiction and depression. It was necessary for me to put this down with words for the following reasons:
- To serve as an example and inspiration to those who read my story
- To remind me of everything that has happened up top now
- To serve as a cautionary tale for myself and others
- So, I can finally put down the cross and move on with my life
Everything that you read; the experiences, the feelings, and the thoughts, are true. None of it was fabricated or sensationalized to make it more interesting. It happened as I wrote it. Some things I am not proud, others I am extremely proud of. Today I don’t see myself as an addict or a person with mental issues. I see myself as a photographer, graphic designer, and blogger who has personal issues I need to deal with it.
Writing these blogs have had it pain and rewards. Recently I showed my work publicly for the first time. I have gained the respect of my friends from baring my soul to help others. I have helped open the conversation about depression and some have even shared their experiences. With the increase of suicides, not only in the entertainment industry but all industries, among all walks of life, depression is no longer considered a taboo subject. It has been brought to the forefront and now has become a necessary topic to look at and how we can help one another. More and more, people are admitting that they suffer from depression and are getting help for it. Depression is a disease like any other. There is no cure for it, but with the proper medication, it can be dealt with. The one thing I had to realize is that the medication does not work automatically. It takes time, so patience is the key. Things do get better, and eventually, life becomes easier to deal with.
If anything in the last 11 chapters made you uncomfortable, then good. Maybe there is something that resonates with you, something you are trying to avoid. It could be happening to a friend, family, or yourself, but it is there. Deal with it. Face it. Stop putting it off. Get the help of someone in your support group, or with a professional. It will be the best thing you can do for yourself.
I hope that you got something out of my experiences. I hope it can help you are someone you love. I hope that you found solace in my experiences, and you no longer feel alone. I hope you find peace.
If you suffer from depression or know someone who is battling depression, please get help as soon as possible. You can call the National Hopeline Network, 1-800-SUICIDE (784-2433); the National Suicide Prevention Hotline, 1-800-273-TALK (8255); the National Youth Crisis Hotline, 1-800-448-4663.
If you are battling addiction, or know someone who is battling addiction, please call the National Addiction Hotline, 1-888-352-6072.
You don’t have to go through this alone. There are people who can help you.
with brutal honesty how I got to this point. A lot of it was uncomfortable to recollect, but it needed to be done, otherwise I was doomed to repeat this, and maybe this time with worse results or my death. What am I hoping to accomplish with this? Just like in school, my story of being gay and dealing with my addiction inspired others, I am hoping this does also.
e is this: I am finally giving myself a chance to love myself instead of self-destructing. Is it easy? No, and I think for anyone who suffers from depression, it will always be a challenge. For myself, it was far easier for me to sabotage and then it is to give myself a chance and let me love myself.
Part of the reason for that is my own need for perfection. Once I learned my craft extensively, the one thing I would not present was sloppy work. After testing that theory while high, I know not to pick up my equipment until I was done. But with depression, it was different. I didn’t have to be told not to pick it. It was the one time when I needed to pick it up. The incentive just wasn’t there.
depression and addiction. I knew that I was experiencing déjà vu. All the signs were there, and I automatically recognized them. It should have been able to counteract it and seek help, but I didn’t. Due to my inability to provide this from happening, my depression hit me hard and my creativity came to a halt. The only other creative thing I did was participate in a Christmas dance number and took a few photos during the first major snowstorm of the new year to alleviate my depression. It would be two months before I would do anything creative again.
August 24, 2010. I will never forget where I was when I got the phone call. I had just started school at the Art Institute of Ft. Lauderdale three days earlier studying photography. After two days in school, a series of events the night would have a big effect on my life and my future.
kill a diabetic. I was obsessed with chocolate for some reason. After the embarrassing trip on the train, I was once again in the safety of my room. I allowed the paranoia to subside. I allowed my body to take over and collapsed on my bed and wouldn’t wake up for 5 hours. The last time I had allowed myself to sleep, I woke up in a state of complete confusion. My friend blamed it on the GHB. This time, I felt safe when I woke up. When I saw my therapist, I knew to some degree how bad things had gotten. It still didn’t allow the fog to lift. It would not lift until I was in the hospital. After my writing class Saturday afternoon. I bought more food and quickly went home. I would not get out of bed again until time to go to the hospital. I spent all day Sunday watching Roots and eating all kinds of junk food.
I think of my mind like a light bulb. When my mind is sharp, the light shines brightly. When my depression sets in, that light dims and eventually go out. Even though I know exactly when the light switch went off, I am not sure why I could not turn it back on. At first, it wasn’t that bad. Looking back, the light was flickering for a while. There were quite a few times in which I retreated to my bed and stay there and refuse to answer my phone. It was an easy way to check out, to ignore people to figure out my next move. But the past year has been different. The amount of time in bed seemed longer and I would have times of extreme sleep or insomnia. Neither one was good. It got to the point when I would wake up in time to see “Who Wants to be a Millionaire” at 1:30 in the morning and sometimes stayed awake to see the local news at 4:30 or 5:00 in the morning. I just chalked it up to getting old. When I slept, it was like I had planned on it happening. Sometimes because I used I would look forward to those hours of sleep because it was a continuation of unconsciously checking out. I continue to live like this for most of the year until the night the light went out and I could not turn it back on. My personal hell had begun.
aware of my sexuality and confused about it. So, put together my hygiene issue, questioning my sexuality, and insecurity, and you have a very troubled kid. No one knew what I was thinking because I never told anyone. All I knew was that I was in a lot of emotional pain and did not know how to handle it. By the time I was 16 years old, I was suicidal. I went to see a counselor in school and cried about how much pain I was in. I didn’t get much help in high school, so I carried that torture until I was 21 years old, when I went to a therapist for the first time. He was not that interested in me or his job and it was evident because he kept falling asleep. It ended up not lasting long when I was forced to tell my mother and she did not handle well. She thought I was telling the therapist that all my problems were her fault. Between that and my strong religious background, who frowned against therapy, I was done in a month. I secretly saw another therapist some years later, and all we really talked about whether I was bisexual or gay. Also, I was trying to seduce him because he was so attractive. That also lasted a few months. It would be 10 years before I would seek and find professional help. Within that time, I would come as being gay, develop a serious alcohol problem, lose a great job and my first apartment, become a convicted felon, and last, of all, become greatly addicted to crystal meth.
at a good thing? Hell no! It only would make things worse. Did I care? No! For the next seven days, all that mattered was crystal, G, pipes, syringes, and dick. If you could not offer that, we really had nothing to talk about. I dragged friends into my madness without thinking about how it affected them. When they got upset with me, I responded with anger. I was desperate to keep the small circle of “friends” I created, not knowing how to make them happy because I could not even make myself happy.
education on it now. It took a 7-day run on 6 hours of sleep, 6 days of shooting up, being strung out on G, the huge amount of crystal in my system, the countless men, the taking advantage of friends also in trouble, and on the road of losing my room and maybe everything else to finally say, “I need help. My depression is strangling me. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. I can’t stop.” I entered the psych ward of the hospital nervous, but also relieved. After sleeping on an off for a little more than a day before getting back on my meds before my head started to clear; and when it did, the guilt and realization of my actions started to take over. Whereas the depression is getting under control, now I am faced with fear and anxiety. I woke this morning and nearly had a panic attack. I know I need to pace myself right now, but I cannot help feeling that nothing will be the same ever again and I am not the same person I was when I went to Florida. I feel like I have lost a piece of myself and don’t know if I can reclaim that part of me again. I am fearful of all the people in my life. I can’t help but ask myself, what the fuck have I done? Can I ever face these people again and will they forgive me? Will they understand that depression is real and can take you down the darkest roads if you let it? Will they understand I was not myself and had no control of myself? The question I guess I should be asking is can I forgive myself and understand that even though I am responsible for my actions, I was sick and unable to make the right decisions? I expect consequences and I have already seen one that hurt me, but will I let it take me back out there and eventually take me out? Can I come to terms of how serious my depression is, and I must stay medicated for this not to happen again? Can I come to terms that need to stay off drugs to be the person I want to be? Or will I let my guilt and shame kill me? `
Keith's Passages 