Living in The Gray
T/W: Discussion of Suicide
I used to think something was wrong with me when I was depressed. Everyone was playing these upbeat songs and here I was, deflated and lifeless playing “Heavenly Father” by Isaiah Rashad on repeat. I didn’t quite understand what I was feeling, what it meant, or if other people knew how I felt. I was often teased about it; people in my own circle jokingly described it as “Caleb is on his time of the month again.” All I knew was that Cilvia Demo matched a Southern teenager who often looked through gray smog more than the colorful outlook everyone seemed to have. I tried for so long to follow the happier crowd, to reject the natural emotions I had and gravitate towards the light. I noticed that the further I stepped into the light, the more agitated I became. Dismissing what was true and trying to believe in a facade left me more despondent than before. I couldn’t bullshit myself into happiness. I also couldn’t submerge myself into darkness forever. The overcast clouds casting a shadow over me was easier to manage than the scolding sun trying to convince me everything was okay. I never knew it’d get even grayer.
At some point in 2017, the light flickered more than I could ever remember. It’s a little ridiculous in hindsight to say everything felt like it was ending. I was only 17, turning 18 later that year. I hadn’t really lived anything to claim the end of days. Still, everything felt dim. I’d never felt more alone. I think about all of the amazing music that dropped then and what stuck with me the most. I think most about Kendrick Lamar’s DAMN. The singles were notably hype but the album was at its most potent when it was devastating. “FEEL.” felt like my deepest thoughts surfacing the top. It’s an exasperated and despondent song and that’s exactly how I felt most days. All I saw were the problems around me and how they swarmed my own inner turmoil. When I first heard “FEEL.,” all I could think about was “Ain’t nobody prayin’ for me.” As the last moments of the song dissipated, I paused the album. I just stared into the dark abyss of my room. I couldn’t cry and I couldn’t be angry. I drowned in melancholia but I wasn’t quite concerned about swimming back to the surface. I felt like I was in a losing battle and trying to fight back against the anchor chained to me was pointless. I’d never felt more pointless in life. Nobody could save me either. At some point, I snapped back to my senses. My existential anxiety would only allow so much contemplation about death before I panicked. Today, that experience sticks out to me as a time where all I knew was this feeling of dread. I was okay with it, even for just a few moments. It was only a matter of time before death confronted me more directly.
When you grow with someone, it’s so easy to get used to the fact that they’re going to be there. You internally feel safe, almost shrugging off a possibility without them anymore. We passively dismisses death’s sudden, consuming nature until it takes who we love. I still remember Mac Miller’s death like it was yesterday. I was sitting in a recliner on one of my days off, unwinding my brain after a hectic week. I set down my PlayStation controller to pick the next song when I see the notification: “Mac Miller has passed away at age 26.” I dropped my phone. My hand was trembling, my chest sunk and it felt like I stopped breathing for an hour. I instinctively played “2009.” I sobbed uncontrollably, cursing the ground beneath me. I expected years and years of having Mac around. He was so genuine in ways I’ve tried my best to imitate. When Nipsey Hussle passed, I was rattled. I rooted for Nip because he was right where he was supposed to be. He was where he always worked to be. Then he was gone. Kobe and Gigi Bryant had so much more life to lead and they were gone. DMX may have existed in darkness but his perseverance was a beacon of strength and light. There’s countless examples of those you followed and loved until their lives turned into tragedy. At some point, you see so much sudden death and all you expect is darkness. I tried to resist being jaded for so long.
It’s been almost a year since I moved out to San Pedro, California. In the middle of the pandemic, I left Houston, Texas, a place I quickly adopted as home. I led with optimism that I’d find my bearings quickly, that I’d grow to love California the way I’ve adored home down South. For those first couple days or so, I was fine. I was too busy to really sink into where I was, unboxing, cleaning, organizing, etc. It wasn’t until I really sat down that I started to notice how upset I was. I fruitlessly applied for jobs, fought back against depression, and tried to manage inner turmoil all while the blindingly bright sun raged on. That’s where I slowly started to get upset. Even at my worst moments, the sun was almost paradisiacal, throwing the idea of sadness back in my face. The sun I found so warm and inviting in Texas became a source of mental burnout in SoCal.
In this time of having no job during COVID, I’d often walk outside to get a break from the daily frustration of sitting in the house with no progress. On those days, I’d often be plugged up, searching for a sense of home in my environment. But on my worst days, my mind would flash these disturbing images. On a speed bump, I’d stand with a gun pointed at my head. I’d look up at the houses and see myself jump. The massive trees would see me hung. Very rarely would I feel those things. Even when I did, my mind wouldn’t let me dwell on it for long. Existential fear would usually kick in. But lately, it just hasn’t. I’d stare in deep imagination and shrug it off. I’d think about how I couldn’t resist the tide of death everyday. Seeing people you care about die does something to your brain chemistry that alters your willpower. All I could think about since settling down in San Pedro were some of the final lines on Navy Blue’s “Self Harm,” “Sometimes, I feel like there’s nowhere to call home. My own home got ghosts that I brought in here, get ’em out.” The lack of home and progress made me question my own purpose in ways I never had before. What am I even here for if all I see is sadness and misery?
Jamie Lombardi, a professor of philosophy at Bergen Community College wrote an extraordinary piece on love and how it exists within life’s absurdity through philosopher Albert Camus’ work. It asked a vital question, “what is love if not an act of rebellion?” Furthermore, it states Camus’ entire purpose to never give into the idea that none of it matters. Existence may feel futile and death is inescapable but it is not without some sort of blessing in persevering through absurdity. Lombardi continued stating, “Love is not just a confrontation with the absurdity of the world; it is a refusal to be broken by it.”
For the past few months, I’ve lashed out against people I care about very frequently. I’ve been stressed about my next moves, what I need to do next, how to maintain my creativity in writing. April was the month almost everything shut down for me. I felt like I was sitting in the middle of a burning house with no desire to escape. I thought about Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On. He sung about the problems of the world with a blend of profound grief and immense beauty. I think about how the title track was used in the Menace II Society trailer. In all of the violence and devastation, there were brief glimpses of unity and love. Marvin howled, “You know you’ve got to find a way, to bring some lovin’ here today.” To portray life in its totality, we can’t shroud it in complete tragedy. We’d only be broken by a battle with life we weren’t designed to win. Life rarely accounts for absolution. Everything around us is gray and that’s okay. I’ve found a lot of comfort in the gray. It’s better to live life in its truest sense than to aspire for an artificial brightness that could never exist. On “Mercy Mercy Me (The Ecology),” Marvin repeated “Things ain’t what they used to be.” I found more comfort in that than I ever had in trying to fight against the murkiness of life. All we could do is trek through the never-ending gray smog together.
