Be a beacon. Offer light.

By David T. Lewis

I was maybe 11 or 12. My bedroom door was closed and I was having a profound moment. Facing my mirror, mouthing out the words, "Show a little faith there's magic in the night. You ain't a beauty, but, hey you're alright." I am sure my parents were smirking a floor away. Their son prematurely shouting along to Bruce Springsteen's blue-collar ode to aging underdog lovers in Thunder Road. It didn't fit, it was pre-teen relationship pantomime.  

Profoundly sensitive and raw, I was always touched by art. Music was it's most unadulterated form. I had a cassette single of Eternal Flame by the Bangles. I'd listen intently to this totally saccharine song and cry for all the following 3 minutes and 58 seconds. Then once the song ended, I'd collect myself, rewind and start again.  

As I got older this catharsis trigger started to morph into hormonal shame. Epic ups and downs. This nagging dread. As I spent many of my youthful days crippled by this sense of free floating existential anxiety: what if I'm not good enough? what if I fail? what if I'm humiliated?  

By what? It didn't matter: small talk with girls, speaking in class, ordering donuts. Anything could trigger it. I remember clearly being paralyzed at the prospect of getting off the school bus. Somehow unable to do something so simple was insurmountable. I sat in the back of the bus, trembling, sweaty with my stomach grinding. The bus driver yelling at me. Phil Collins on the radio, "Well if you told me you were drowning, I would not lend a hand." It felt like an emotional seizure.  

Now that I am over 40 I can look back and see these stories as cute - endearing, even - but truth was they were deeply painful at the time. The other - more difficult - fact is that I still suffer with both anxiety and depression. Only now I have perspective, outlets, and methods to move forward. I am more forgiving and I have a sense of community that I didn't when I was younger.  

During those panicked bus rides throughout middle school, I didn't talk to anyone about my symptoms or fears. It felt stupid or dorky. I was also deeply ashamed. It wasn't until my freshman year that I found something that spurred some hope: punk rock. Not the genre per se, but the DIY "scene". I started to go to concerts, I started hanging out at art galleries, I started making terrible movies. What drove me was this sense of misfit belonging, coupled with absolute and earnest expression.  

I cringe a little bit now thinking about my most pretentious self, talking at length about Fellini films, pseudo-political hardcore revolutionaries like Refused or Fugazi, the cultural critiques of Damien Hirst, Raymond Pettibone's subversive drawings. It was just a movie, just music, only a painting but really it was much more to me. It served a deeper purpose, because it helped me set a new horizon line.  

Now, I'm not writing this as some homage to Nick Hornby, but just as a backdrop to my unyielding empathy for how difficult it is to be a young person. How truly uncomfortable it can be as you sort through the emotional baggage of your life. Your place in the world in plain view of this newly digital age.  

More than all that though, I firmly believe that we leave our young creatives stranded, without an outlet or healthy notion of self-care. I'm writing this as a time machine to my younger self. I want to say loudly, that the romance of suffering and isolation is total bullshit. Being sick is not part of your gift.

I have lost 3 people in my life, in recent years, due to the grip of depression. I’ve known countless more. Sadly, the darkness of depression is too often accompanied by suicide, addiction, and self-destruction. So as I write this, I’m reminded of how important it is to discuss the challenges that so many of us face in our mental health. If for no other reason than to attempt to normalize the loneliness that comes along with the acute discomfort of depression. 

We should take care of ourselves and those around us.  Be open, offer acceptance, patience and kindness. Listen. And if you are in this dark mind or feel trapped and treading water, speak up. For yourself, but for others too. Advocate. Be that beacon and offer light. 

September is Suicide Prevention Month, if you or someone you know is thinking about suicide, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (TTY 800-799-4TTY). This number can be dialed from anywhere in the United States 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

David Lewis is a Dissonance co-founder.

Broken and Complete

by Johnny Solomon

I've spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about how I want to introduce myself on this inaugural post.  Do I lead with my accomplishments? Do I lead with my struggles? Do I just start in the middle and hope we all get to the end together?   It seems I’ve spent the better part of my adult life staring at blank pages thinking about how to start something.

I’m a musician, and I’m an addict, and I’m bipolar, and I’m broken, and I’m complete, and I’m happy.  It’s taken me years to find peace with all of those things.  It seems that my life up until about 6 years ago was a constant struggle.  I felt like I was barely keeping my head above water or maybe I was slowly starting to drown.  Right up until that fateful night when I decided there must be another way I just thought I was cursed.  I looked all around me and I saw people succeeding and growing. I had no idea how they did it.  I seriously had no idea.  It felt like everyone had one more sense than I did.  That 6th sense that allows you to step forward and grow.  I lived my life trying to trick the world out of success.  If I could hold it together for just a little bit I might find a little success, then hopefully when it falls apart there will be something left to build on.  It was an exhausting and wholly disheartening way to live.

The only thing that seemed to make sense was that people called me “creative.”  I was an artist, given to emotional explosions, both good and bad.  They say “out of great suffering comes great art,” so of course my life should be a hallmark of suffering.  There was some part of me that felt maybe I was just touched by God to put into words and music the plight of the undeserved and under achiever, the loser and the has-been.  I was the musician for those of us that fail and self destruct.  I knew that everyone struggled, so maybe my life was to struggle so that I could be a martyr for my music.  It was a noble way of saying I was ready to fail, and ultimately, I was ready to die unloved.

5 years and about 8 months ago from today I couldn't handle that anymore.  I had some sort of epiphany, or maybe I was going to fail at failing. I realized that the only conclusion to my life was death, and that I was dangerously close. I was scared.  So maybe I would give one little shot to the other direction, just to see what it was like.  I checked into rehab, I was there over Christmas and New Years, I was there for months, I watched people come and go and come back again all while I slowly came back to life.  While there, I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder and they put me on medication, and I with a lot of help, and a little grace, I came to terms with something I never thought I would be able to.  

I wasn't cursed, I was just a little broken.  And luckily, with a little help I was able to work around that and find out that life was quite a bit easier then I thought.  Life, and everything that came with it was more good than bad.  I still struggle, and I still write songs about it.  But who doesn't struggle?  Why am I any worse then someone diagnosed with diabetes, or even someone that simply has a bad back.  Just change some things about your life, adjust the way you find your place in the world and you’ll be fine.  I take medicine, I don't drink or do drugs, I exercise, I eat healthy (most of the time) and I accept that my reality is different than yours, but we both understand each other.  I’m still an artist, in fact, I’m an artist that can finally step forward and grow.  So yes, I’m a little broken, but just like a brick wall, sometimes patching up what’s broken actually makes it stronger.  

That’s the main reason I want to help.  I want to reach back into that dark place and help some people climb up.  Everything is better up here and you can still be an artist without the curse that addiction or untreated mental diseases bury you in.  Hi! My name is John, I’m an addict, I’m bipolar, I’m broken.  I’m also complete, and happy, and I’m a musician.

Johnny Solomon is a Dissonance Board Member.