mirth and melancholy in the springtime
the one where i'm carocarocrybaby (tw: depression), and thirty days of being 30
Although I was born in the spring, I grew up a summer child, a desert lizard relishing the finest sunbeams the Los Angeles clime had to offer. The whitewashed walls of the garden glowed incandescent from the harsh rays high above. Enough freckles accumulated on my sunburnt cheeks to earn me a scolding from my mother.
The magic of a SoCal summer cannot be replicated in San Francisco, but recalibrating my internal temperature to suit the city has conjured its own charms. While I still abhor the chilling fog that rolls over the neighborhoods in the west, the brisk spring air drags my eyelids up an extra inch as I take my morning stroll.
Daffodils and magnolias bloom in abundance, chips of color on an otherwise grey day. But on those rare, cherished mornings filled with sunshine, the leaves shine ever verdant, the rain beckoning forth a crop of dandelions and clover that make you want to lay your head down on the grass and sink into the froth of life. The once barren tree has burst into a profuse celebration of pink and white cherry blossoms, and the hydrangea bushes begin to fluff up in preparation for the summer.
Beauty is in abundance – even excess. So why does everything look so grey?
What I like to do when I’ve lost all hope
Note: I wrote this particular segment back in March. Roughly a month-and-a-half later, I’m feeling better. But for a while, things looked scary. Very rarely had I gone to such a dark place before. Thanks to my loved ones and my wonderful therapist, I was finally able to get out of the pits. If things begin to feel overwhelming, I urge you to reach out to someone you trust or a mental health professional – even if you only have enough energy to stay afloat.
One morning, I woke up feeling particularly hopeless. Sometimes all you can do is just wait it out, waiting for the wave tugging you under to bring you back up. While I was floundering in my emotions, I decided to write up a list and see what I would do to make the ascent more bearable.
On a whim, I decided to:
Cry in a pile of socks
Contemplate what would happen if I ceased to exist
Wonder how expensive it would be to run away, buy a new identity, and start all over again
Run in Golden Gate Park to Porter Robinson’s Nurture
Air out my sweaty armpits
Let the sun and wind wash over my bared skin
Reddit advice on how to deal with one’s ugliest emotions
Look for a 4 leaf clover
Almost sprain my ankle
Ask your loved ones for affirmations that they love you no matter what (which out of all the things on this list was VERY EMBARRASSING but VERY CRITICAL to do)
The day before, my therapist and I discussed all manner of things, mostly revolving around my inability to accept unconditional love. A worrying epiphany struck me recently: that I could only accept love if I felt I deserved it, if I fulfilled a set list of conditions, if I displayed qualities desirable as a friend, a lover, an artist, a productive member of society. Through the compassion and attention I could offer, whether I was beautiful or compelling enough to fuck, the trauma I could mine endlessly for the laughter and entertainment of the masses. I was ready to split my ribcage open, strip away the bones like an orange peel, and offer my heart raw and tender in my trembling palms, ready to devour.
“What we’re talking about is self-worth. You talk about being worthy enough for others, but what about yourself? What does worth mean to you?”
Too overwhelmed to walk, cry, and answer my therapist all at once, I sat on a bench. Enough tears and snot leaked down my cheeks and dripped down my chin for a man to kindly pause and ask me if I was okay. I nodded and waved him off.
When I was younger, I hardly cried. In fact, I smiled so much that a classmate bestowed upon me the moniker “Smiley.” Then I stopped smiling so much, and people started noticing. “You used to laugh all the time when you were younger. You were such a happy kid!” Even my former colleagues were shocked to hear me speak so candidly about my struggles with my mental health and depression, stating they would have never suspected it beneath my workplace demeanor.
Even I grow alarmed, comparing myself to when I was a kid. These days, it takes very little – a sweet sentiment, the sudden stab of melancholy, flaring resentments, sorrow freshly unearthed – or for my eyes to prickle and my throat to clench. All my emotions swim closer to the surface now. It doesn’t take much to fish them out. When did finding pure, unfettered joy amongst all this flotsam become so damn hard?
“Don’t try so hard to find happiness,” my therapist urged through the phone. “Find peace instead.”
What does peace look like? I wondered lacing up my running shoes – a sign I was truly desperate if I were resorting to exercise for endorphins. Walking down the stairs of my apartment building, I flicked through Spotify in search of a song.
After I had informed him of my excruciating, soul-crushing angst that morning, my friend told me to go for a run. “and listen to porter’s trying to feel alive. great song to run to.”
Admittedly, I glossed over Porter Robinson’s sophomore album when it was released back in 2021. Back then, the introspective, melancholy feel of Nurture didn’t click with me, still obsessed with salvaging a late 20s odyssey from the ruinous hands of the pandemic.
But my mind and body aren’t as resilient as back then, not so willing to be flung into the chaos and messiness that is growing up. “I needed something that was so hopeful and kind of sweet,” said Porter in an interview with Anna Lunoe, “I just wanted these sweet major key songs as it was what made my heart soar and made me feel kind of teary.”
I queued the track – a mellow but upbeat 108 BPM – before setting off. For once, I found myself dialed into the lyrics over the melody for once, muttering under my breath, timed poorly between my feeble gasps for air as I loped over the pavement and grass.
“Maybe it’s a gift I couldn’t recognize, trying to feel alive.”
Thirty days of being 30
A week after my depressive episode, I turned 30. Honestly, there isn’t any particular difference between 30 and 29 or 28 and 27 for that matter except that I’m better about taking my vitamins and flossing my teeth.
Fast forward to now, and it’s been a full month and then some of my third decade on this planet. In that time, I’ve managed to:
Celebrate with my closest friends doing what I love most: dancing to French House, thrifting, watching movies that make us scream, “Oh my GOD!”, and eating copious amounts of dessert and sushi.
Haul my a** to the east coast to watch the solar eclipse and witness both humans (me included) and birds go ballistic over totality.
Drink bottled juice outside a Japanese restaurant on a fine Brooklyn evening.
Boogie during the French invasion at Coachella! Justice, Gessafelstein, and Folamour took the top 3 for me, followed by a mega-fun set by Yoasobi.
Throw an artist’s retreat in sunny Pacifica, admire the superbloom at Mori Point, appreciate the cinematic masterpiece that is One Cut of the Dead (just watch. Do not google!!!), and take friends along for a DJ cross-genre-definitely-breaking-noise-restrictions-whoops bender.
Visit Renegade Craft Fair for the first time. Great place to buy gifts for friends (or yourself)!
Dogsit a lovely chihuahua-terrier mix whose snuggles I still miss to this day.
Weep to the masterpiece that is Ryuichi Sakamoto’s Opus. Ars longa, vita brevis.
Start watching Haikyuu! Makes me miss the days of team sports :’)
Watch a jazz quintet perform at the Black Cat Supper Club.
Beat Bioshock and prove to myself that I’m not terrible at FPS games after all. Then proceed to get absolutely bodied in Bioshock II.
Fall down the weeb OP/EDs rabbit hole – LAST ALLIANCE finally put the full version (w/ guitar riff) of Shissou on Spotify!!!
Eat Boichik Bagels three times. Order Mamahuhu’s cracked out mushroom mapo tofu twice. Polish off an entire sashimi tray from Hokkaido Sashimi. Make nabe twice. Savor Salt & Straw’s olive oil ice cream three times.
Leave my white hairs be.
FINISH MY FIRST DRAFT OF MY NOVEL, FINA-F*CKING-HALLELUJAH!!!
Recapping all this reminds me that so much of the time I spend running laps in my head, I ought to zoink myself back into the present and appreciate the moment for what it is. Like right now. I’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time hemming and hawing over what I wanted this entry to be about, but then I realized – it can be about anything because it’s mine!
So I’m just going to end it on some high vibrations and wish everyone a sunny day ✌️