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.
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