The Transformation (Actually Coping)

Surviving that abusive relationship, and growing into this new Harvey I felt liberated yet again. I made new actual friends that weren't part of my family (blood related or extended) and they kept me pretty busy and distracted from the terror and trauma so recently endured. I was not at all complaining. I had Rosalyn, who was always happy and positive and welcoming. Shanti, who kept me connected to my craft and music in general. And, Mike, who was my very first gay male friend who was overall all of those things and even more. He was not just my friend but also my mentor. He grew up with access to a gay community so he had no problem helping me navigate through that part of my life and frankly helping me find who that person was or wanted to be. They were like the three kings, or queens rather.

I had roommates for the first time. I was brand new. I didn't think too much about dating cause I just wanted to have fun and not be hurt ever again. I owe a lot of who I am today to them because they in a way saved me. I still tell them every chance I get to this day as they have become part of my circle, my family. My support system was naturally building and working for me before I even knew it. These were such happy days for me. I had a fantastic career working in non-profit in the mental health sector (go figure).

At this point in time, I completely embraced my art. Music. Writing. I was growing so much and expelling what little experiences I had at the root through my creativity and it was beautiful. Creating music became exactly what it was always meant to be for me, cathartic. Every facet of it was like a pill. Writing was like my anti-depressant. Singing was like my anti-anxiety. Playing was like my mood stabilizer. I could go on and on. Needless to say, I finally found the remedy. Thinking back it's really been the only thing to keep me sane and that deep mysterious and indescribable feeling suppressed. Thank god for music and words. I cringe and cry just thinking about someone who has to endure depression that doesn't have a creative bone in their body. I would actually like to believe that there is no such person.

In due time, I got comfortable enough again to "date." Not many of those relationships lasted long but when significant ones passed I allowed myself to endure the pain but only allotted myself so much time. In a round about estimation, my sadness only lasted about a week. That was right about on the border of when I would start to feel that deep familiar feeling and as long as I didn't get there it was easy to snap right back. I actually had a pretty good handle on it if I say so myself, ask Mike he'll tell you. From love's embrace to heartache, I anticipated it all so that I could put it in a little capsule and put it away. That capsule was a song. My song.

Til next time,

Harvey.

The Afterbirth (Learning To Cope)

So after what I thought was an isolated incident, I rarely ever put the time or energy into my depressive feelings. I mean, being called into a room and commanded to commit suicide in front of your parents is a lot for a teenager to process and also served as a very good strength-building tactic. Looking back in retrospect I see that was my parent's goal. That said, my journey thereafter was rather interesting. I rarely submitted to the deep feeling that was trying to call to me. Usually when there were instances of heartbreak that's what would bring me down. Being a newly outed homosexual male in a big city to fend for myself and figure it out was a disaster in and of itself but I managed. I think. I'm also a Pisces, so matters of the heart are no easy feat.

I remember I met a German man, he was the first one I met. I remember our first date lasted 11 days. Andreas was his name. He introduced me to a lot of his culture. He embraced me and made me feel special. When I met him he had just broken up with his boyfriend because he caught him and another man fucking in his apartment. I was the rebound and didn't even know it, but it was a fun 6 months while it lasted. I thought I was in love, it was kind of my first free relationship with a man. Needless to say when I was told by him that he was taking his ex back, it was devastating. Enough to start to feel a familiar depth of emotion which happened to surround around my sexuality yet again.

I honestly didn't no how to cope so I chose not to cope at all. I literally sulked for only a few days before my sister told me to get over it and that he wasn't worth it. That's kind of the running advice in my family...get over it and move on. So, that's exactly what I did. In fact, that's what I always did...and then I met Brendan. Who was what I thought to be perfect until things very loosely unraveled and rather quickly. Brendan was a meth addict living with bipolar and manic depression. I had NO idea what meth was at 19 years old back in 2001. He was manipulative, unpredictable, extremely abusive (physically, mentally, and emotionally) and I stuck with it because I thought I could "help" him and I was solely capable of changing it and I also believed that he really loved me.

That very confident mentality quickly turned around into something disgustingly vulnerable. I started allowing even more of that very bad behavior and didn't even try to understand what was really happening. I allowed myself to forget who I was and what I stand for chasing the love of a man. So much so that I allowed him to beat me up...and down. I still ask myself to this day, how could I let that happen to me? I let it go on for a little over a year and a half until I realized that I had enough. I was the one supporting my sister through her physically abusive relationship the best that I could. I'm the one who told her to go crazy on his ass. It was time for me to practice what I preached and I beat the living SHIT out of him after he had a manic episode and accused me of trying to sleep with his friend.

The day after that day everything changed. He flipped the script on me like I was the crazy one and I was the abusive one. That combined with the past year in a half of being a victim bred anger. An anger like no other. An anger that practically everyone is very familiar with to this day...It was that anger that shook him so much so that he abandoned ship. He packed his shit and he left the entire house empty with nothing there but my shit with only a month left on the lease. Even though he hurt me to no extent, being alone, walking in that door to nothing brought that feeling back and this time a little deeper...more empty. I kept remembering what a great friend used to always tell me in times of heartache, "Don't be sad, get mad. You will be able to climb over the wall so much faster that way." I would cling so hard to that for my comfort. So hard I don't think I've yet let go...

Til next time...

Harvey.

The Inception (Coming Out)

I want to reflect a little and talk about something that I realize I haven't really talked about a lot as an adult. I guess it was maybe easy to distract myself from that moment being a new and budding young adult. Or, maybe it wasn't that big of an instance over time to give it that much attention. Whatever it was, I feel like I should now revisit that moment because it may be the only way to truly understand what I'm living with now.

My very first experience with depression was in my middle teenage years. I was a young southern Blasian boy from a rather diverse family. My mom was from Vietnam, my biological father, who I knew but didn't really grow up with, was a total piece of shit asshole and my dad (step-dad) I grew up with was a die-hard Marine. Those being only a few elements of the diversity we all grew up with. I struggled hard with my sexuality, I didn't understand it. I started exploring it as a younger teenager, but I honestly didn't know my ass from my elbow. I was literally just doing stuff and seeing how it felt. A lot of stuff. Anyways, I liked feeling good. I knew that much. However, one of those better experiences which happened to be with a boy wasn't "supposed" to feel good, or so it was ingrained in me to believe.

Because of that experience, I was inspired to do some soul searching which led me out of the southern baptist religion and eventually into Buddhism. Even then, I didn't fully submit to the enlightenment of my new found religion and frankly I really didn't have the capacity to. I was still very wet behind the ears just looking for acceptance for being who I am and liking what I like. Being who I was in the environment I was in was very hard. Where I grew up there were only really two gay men who were out of the closet. They both wore daisy dukes, carried purses and had press on fingernails. I was not that person, I just wanted to feel accepted for this very natural connection I had to men but I was so afraid people would think that's what I wanted or was going to become.

The older I got, the more comfortable I became, so the more I explored and it was great. The only thing that was missing is being able to freely talk about it with my family which I felt to oppressed about doing. Which, right or wrong, is a very valid feeling. I really didn't even care so much about the social pressures of being a teenager because I was always socially my own very unique person which has always allowed the vast majority of my childhood to be happy memories. I just didn't want my family to dislike me. I didn't grow up consistently with much more than my parents and five brothers and sisters. Not to mention having a foreign mother with different cultural ideals and a die hard marine for a father. I was scared. Hell, everyone was scared of my parents...

The more I suppressed it the more "depressed" I became. I began to feel something so empty and unfamiliar. It got in the way of me being able to capably plan what my next phase would be after graduating high school. It consumed me. I wanted so bad just to say it, and not being able to was burning a hole inside of me and sucking up every joy I had otherwise. I tried to give hints here and there but the more I felt they weren't picked up on the worst I felt and the only thing I had to turn to at the time was music and my friends. That is until eventually I took an attempt on my life, which was an overdose on god knows what. It apparently wasn't anything bad because I literally woke up on my bedroom floor hours later. Yes, my parents left me on the bedroom floor until I woke my ass up even after reading my suicide letter. I'm telling y'all my parents were hardcore.

Once I woke up, I was called to the kitchen and both my parents were there, angry. My mom and dad handed me and knife and said,"I don't know what your problem is, but if you really want to go, do it here in front of me and your mom and cut upwards not across..." I broke down and cried and cried and then my mom hugged me and told me to be strong and that I didn't have a worry in the world. Little did she know. That would have been the perfect time to come out to my parents I guess, but I was so afraid of further disappointing them after this what i feel may have been an attention-seeking moment. Thereafter, given the circumstances, I became very angry. Destructive exactly.

I ended up rebelling and grasping my young adulthood risk after risk. Meaning smoking and drinking. I made no plans after that to do anything because I didn't care and honestly thought I'd end up running away somewhere where I can be far away from my family and be who I am without all the hassle and heartache. I moved out of my moms house before I graduated high school and moved in with my best friend Annie. I was so lost in that time and broken. During those times I had come out to her and she was my greatest ally because she really didn't care and loved me so much that she wanted to understand. We laughed about it, cried about it, and lifted each other up.

I got through it, mainly because of her and Janet Jackson's "The Velvet Rope." It was a very small moment that felt so significant at the time. I ended up chalking it up to just a moment. Shortly after that I ended up "running away" to Boston. Not so far from family, in fact, living with my older sister. I eventually came out to my family. My dad and siblings always knew and never cared. My mom didn't talk to me for a year or so because she didn't understand. It didn't take her long to accept that she may not understand but that she still loves me regardless which she tells me all the time now.

I know this story was a wee bit long but while I'm backtracking, some of these stories just may.

Until next time,

Harvey.

This is what my depression looks like...

I spent most of summer 2016 working on this selfie-project not knowing what would become of it. I'm glad that I have found a good use to display it collectively. The message I'm trying to convey here is that depression has so many faces. None of which can be pinpointed or predicted and it doesn't look the same for everyone. The feeling, however, that's an entirely different beast that I will certainly tackle in a post to follow...Welcome to my journey.