A Journey to Being Fine (Part 3 of 3)

Nov. 2020-Apr. 2021

SECTION VI: IDENTITY

A recurring theme throughout every stage of this journey has been the exorbitant question “Who am I?” On the surface, it made sense. I was Thomas Willett, an English major with a small number of accomplishments to speak of. It may not be enough to overwhelm an obituary one day, but there is something there that at least speaks to effort, strong attempts to make a career that is distinctly mine. I could still have gone further, knocked on more doors, and compromised on this and that. I could’ve done so much, but at the end of the day who I am is a writer, and what I have ultimately produced is a portfolio of increasingly personal work, attempting to find a stronger connection not only to my audience, but to myself.

To some extent, having this career largely figured out by the time that I was five leaves a certain level of imposter syndrome as I’ve grown older. When most people are young, they have those generic, chock-a-block dreams: a firefighter, a policeman, or in the case of my niece an astronaut. Sure, some put in the time and effort to make that a reality, but how many ends up just altering course, maturing into different jobs that honestly better suits them? With being a writer, the best that can be said is that I have honed my craft, recognized what it takes to make fluid poetry with words. Even then, I sometimes feel like it’s a career destitute with self-esteem issues. How many commit suicide, believe that their works are failures despite eventual consensus being that they had something to say? If you’re just now realizing that great writers like Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath (though less unpredictably if you read “The Bell Jar”) have emotional distress, I hope the news doesn’t bother you greatly. 

In some sense, writing has and remains a coping mechanism, a device that allows for my deepest thoughts to take form. What I’m unable to say in clairvoyant sentences winds up as paragraphs on the page. Sometimes they’re just for me, but every now and then I feel pride in sharing. The Memory Tourist was designed as a bridge between my interests and a better sense of self. The conflict came when I chose to combat this with daily writing that suffered, being more jargon to fill space than actual, heartfelt press. What was I saying about myself that mattered? Like most of my writing, there’s a sense of self-preservation to it, and what I wanted to do was better be a writer who was recognizable.

Sure, my dream of one day having a style distinct enough to call “Willettian” is far from a reality. I don’t even think I’ve locked onto that feature just yet. What I mean is that I want to be a writer like Nathan Rabin, where you read his work and there is a communal experience to it. Sometimes you have him producing humorous reviews of B-Movies. Other times he’s talking about his own mental health and family. Together, they paint a picture of a man who is alive, experiencing the world in such a way that you are compelled and even sympathetic to his cause. I envy how successful he’s become in just the past few years from independent means. As much as I’m trying to move back into more conventional work, I wish that I had his drive to push myself further, to be willing to be vulnerable with a public to the point that my life has shorthands.

I’m aware that this contradicts with the general sensation that I don’t want to be autobiographical, defined for my exploits like Joan Didion. Even then, I recognized that up until 2020, I wasn’t being “open” in a way that necessarily alluded to this goal. To read my old Twitter is to see a mix of that confusing, rambunctious spirit of confusing non-joke jokes and article promotions that fell ab-so-lutely flat. Sure, you could tell that I liked something, but what was specific enough about my perspective that made any of this matter? If The Memory Tourist did anything right, even at its worst, it forced me to expand my comfort zone and the way that I communicated with the world.

It’s tough because as an introvert, there is that struggle to feel like you belong in a world that feels designed for exhibitionism. Discovering I was autistic in 2019 largely validated aspects of my personality, helping me to latch onto areas that I could explore and be more comfortable in. As a result, I was able to find like-minded individuals who taught me so many terms, my discourse changing month to month as I learned that being “disabled” wasn’t inherently a pejorative. As much as certain corners of the online community center around wallowing conversations of isolation, I’ve tried to find the good side. We’ve discussed films that qualify as good representation (Mitchells vs. The Machines (2021) is noteworthy) and did plenty to recognize each other’s self-worth.

But again, who am I? What is it that I do? Amid the start of my depression in November, the question became less and less clear. I think on some level I just began to hope that all of my effort to be recognized via The Memory Tourist would translate. After all, The American Dream is cited as “hard work pays off.” I produced just shy of 500 articles in eight months. That had to be enough, right? 

Even if it was, it could never actually be enough. My father once told me some harmful advice to “never be satisfied.” What he meant was to keep looking to the next project and never rest on a single accomplishment. However, it’s easy to read that also as shame for what you have done and keep trying to find the thing that will make you happy which, if you’re never satisfied and you’ve been producing middling work, just what is the point of absolutely anything here? 

Yes, I did have a significant change in my social media appearance. I had the highest single year growth in my account’s history. While it didn’t necessarily translate to page views or interactions, I found people that provided reliable conversations. Even then, going into a state where validation is heroin will mess with you. At my worst, I would post the equivalent message of “I’m sad” and barely gain traction. Staying on the internet long enough, I would find one or two people who I’ve never known existed say something equal in intent and have more attention. What was I doing wrong? 

I suppose the easier question is why was I comparing my pain to others? On some level, I suffered from the idea that my struggles were lesser because of this hierarchical binary code. There was a sense that I ignored the obvious signs that, at least in the casual sense of the word, somebody cared about me. When I had a major panic attack in January where, among other things, I wrote that I was leaving Twitter for a few days because “You have to break dirt to dig a hole,” there was somebody who checked in with me several times to make sure I was fine. This happened a few times and, by being open about my stress, I was finding people more willing to keep me off of that ledge. I think on some level it was because I returned some compassion, believing that it was only right as a human being. I believe it even more now, having been bruised and slowly hobbling back to the basic feature of “fine.”

I maybe grew too attached to certain people that I’d never meet. There was something tragic in this. I even looked at it in relation to my autism and got hung up on the “special interest” concept. Basically, you would become overwhelmingly attached to something or someone for a period of time and then grow disinterested and move on. Given that I already had a fear of abandonment and was feeling more alone than usual, the thought of losing Twitter friends hurt so much. Outside of very casual acquaintances, I don’t have a friend that goes back more than a decade, which even then isn’t the personal kind that you fantasize about. I genuinely envy those with “childhood friends,” who tie you to some past. Outside of family, I have very little that exactly makes it easy to look back with a secondary source.

Because of everything, I spent part of the depression doing everything to reconstruct my past. As a writer, I had notebooks and Word files that were filled with information that could clarify parts of myself. While I haven’t found anything prior to 2005 – when I was 16 – I do find that even that provides some context for where I was. There was a lot of anger and confusion in those pages, so desperately trying to make an identity while quoting punk songs and satirizing pop culture. I think the part that continues to make me curious is the occasional dive into what I’m sure was written as humorous but comes across as sad now. So many poems written about mental distress and self-harm. A few found me going beyond queer themes and trying to become empathetic from a female protagonist. Some of it has that trashy lack of self-awareness made funnier that two of these notebooks were for a creative writing class, thinking it was fine to be so confrontational. 

I look at old poems I wrote about “Cross-Dressing,” of trying to overcome sadness. Some of it was a response to the subheading emo phase of the time, notably with My Chemical Romance and The Used. On a broad scale, there was something striking about this “tragicomic” take on creativity because I still remember how sharing emotions was its own taboo. Emo kids were seen as weak. I didn’t reject them as friends, but much like the Goth crowd, I just never fully understood their circles. The only real advantage they had over my androgynous interests was fashion sense.

I read yearbook messages. I looked at old mementos and pictures, finding memories flooding back. For as much as I had repressed, there was something almost freeing about digging into every thought around the past. I had to ask myself what they meant, and it was only then that I felt like my trauma was “healing.” For the first time, I was having more vivid memories of childhood, looking beyond the awful 2000-2001 school year that added to my now decades of issues. I saw happiness, an ability to be proud of those days when I wasn’t feeling completely isolated. I was allowing myself to listen to music that I had been shamed out of, wearing purple after being told it was a “gay” color at eight years old. This wouldn’t change anything, but it would make it easier to accept.

An important thing to note around trauma is that healing is its own struggle. Given that I’ve long had the mindset that my problems were lesser than others, assessing them as more significant started with a selfish feeling, like these moments weren’t consequential enough to assess. It’s partially what inspired me to read so many psychology essays, doing everything I could to understand root causes. While it also lead to tangents about asking myself if I had some worse-off condition, I choose to not self-diagnose myself with anything severe and leave that to a doctor if that day ever comes.

But it hurts because dealing with every last moment that conflicts with your stability will be jarring. Forcing yourself to look at moments that hold terror isn’t pleasant. Considering that most of mine were psychological, it was difficult to separate the fact that they were past tense. So many hateful comments came rushing back, where I tried to look through them and find deeper roots of what they meant to me. Did I grow into a stronger person? I honestly think that I’m a bit more vulnerable emotionally now. I became depressed in part because of these ideas clashing with intrusive thoughts. There were present tense reminders that, in private, just assaulted my senses. Learning to accept yourself is hard, and this part of the journey is both essential and really goddamn awful.

Then came the next part. Having formed a Tik Tok addiction, my sleep schedule was already ruined. I watched so many videos that hours disappeared. It began to be where they didn’t just occur in the middle of the night, but whenever I felt stressed. I would leave (more directly, “sign out of”) class and de-stress by watching videos. While there were some comic videos, I found myself growing more interested in the personalities that I found who were talking about niche subjects. There was, of course, an abundance of autistic folks sharing their stories. I also became entrenched in mental health as well as LGBTQIA+ circles that ultimately lead me to discover so much of the world that excited me. For the first time, I was engaging with the concept of non-binary, forming deeper empathy for transgender individuals, and learning all of these terms. It helped that everyone felt so alive and animated, so willing to share secrets with the world. 

Sure, there was still the conflict of me recognizing it as not real while finding genuine pleasure in it. I had to constantly ask myself if these people were being genuine. At a certain point, it didn’t matter, but there was something to the market of people whose sole purpose was to say “you are valid” and that “it gets better.” Whole accounts were dedicated to creators who would “exist with me” just by looking into the camera and smiling. There was a comfort there, sure, but how much of this was an echo chamber? Much like trying to assess how personal and intimate I wanted to be with Twitter friends, watching videos on Tik Tok was more difficult since they were fleeting and I never once interacted with them. I actually didn’t have an account until April 6, 2021. 

I do credit YouTube creator Yo Samdy Sam with starting my journey into asexuality with her video on demisexuality. On some level, it changed my life or at least helped me to perceive aspects of myself in a greater context. The more that I studied on it, the more that the term felt right. I felt eager to be part of this community. The only conflict came with the fact that most people claiming to be “late in life” queers were people who had things worked out by 22. Given that I was 31, it was one of the few ways that I felt like a fraud. So much of the world felt like it had passed me by, and all because it took me some time to actually understand how complicated and confusing asexuality as a spectrum is from an outside perspective.

Without going much further, I will say that for as proud as I became of asexuality, even desiring to buy an ace flag to hang on my wall, it never felt right in my personal life. This was because I remained closeted, not really sharing with family and hoping that some online contingent would somehow make up for it. The truth is that I found this group in time and am thankful for whatever connection we have. However, without anyone in my life to validate it, I only felt alone. Nobody would confirm or deny my existence in a way that mattered, so I was left with this grey area that maybe I was just kidding myself. Given that being “asexual” brings with it this negative sense that you’ll die alone and unhappy, it only added to my sense of initial isolation. It is why I take comfort whenever I see someone anywhere mention being asexual or any subset (even the aromantic community applies here) because it means we exist and yes, we are valid.

It was only when I shared this detail about myself with my sister that I experienced a validation that lifted a lot of weight. Suddenly I at least had the relief of knowing that somebody knew. Thankfully, it was an accepting person, someone who was willing to encourage me into my identity and recognize that for as much as I didn’t feel like I fit into the social standards even as far as asexuality, that I was welcomed. Finding media like Princess Cyd (2017) and Everything’s Gonna Be Okay definitely helped make the transition easier. Listening to Sounds Fake But Okay has been a comforting reminder that a community out there exists. Even donating to Dear Luke Love Me has brought some solace to my life.

I wouldn’t say all of this necessarily cured me of depression. As I dissociated, constantly asking myself “Who am I?” the entire time, I found trying to accept myself to be the only way. It was difficult and there were days where I physically punished myself for it. However, I’ve found that the more that I’m open with others that it has become easier, that the more I just follow my own path that I’ll be fine. Things could be better, but after five months of absolute distress, there was this silver lining. 

The road to recovery from there was comparatively easy. I had some relapses, but what I found was my mind getting clearer, more optimistic. I found a desire to start new projects and start living in this new identity. While I have been annoying about it sometimes in that “shiny new toy” kind of way, I want to believe that it’s in part because of how long I’ve been struggling to accept it, to believe that it is real and that it is inherently good. To have people both in my life and on Twitter give me compliments, to guide me with small advice, has been amazing. I still haven’t drawn enough numbers from a single post to necessarily believe I’ve elevated to a higher power, but for now, I’m doing fine.

Fine. Isn’t that what we should all be trying to work towards? I know that good or even great are desirable, but with fine you at least have balance. To me, it’s better to strive for that so that you recognize the good and bad in your life and recognize that it’s all necessary to define yourself. There have even been days where I’ve lacked a negative thought that felt damaging. On those days, I am most grateful. I’ve had more days where I end positively than negatively over the past six months, meaning I’ve officially crossed the halfway mark. I’ve been happier in the past calendar year more than sad. 

I hope to keep that up. 

 

SECTION VII: EPILOGUE

Finally, as the dust settles on the past I suppose one last question remains. Why did I choose to write this? To be completely honest, there is a part of me that finds closure in these acts. I don’t design this as a cautionary tale or to argue that my plight was somehow this momentous, authentic experience. No, what I am doing here – if just for myself – is to present a eulogy. Every life, every moment has a beginning, middle, and end; and as a writer, I’m more than aware of this design. Most of my life exists in this type of artifact, preserved for future generations to look back on and understand who I am, what made my life feel significant to this moment. Given that I still feel like while I’ve thankfully avoided contracting Covid-19, I still have been slammed with a sledgehammer that riddled me with so many mental problems. It’s the trope that a prisoner locked in a padded cell goes crazier than they were going in. 2020 was, for most of us, a padded cell and some took it less swimmingly than others.

A personal belief is that everyone is deserving of a eulogy. It’s the final communication between the living and the deceased. For me, it’s the final moment to summarize my thoughts in a way that conveys my personal and emotional attachment, conveying years in a matter of paragraphs that hopefully translate to outside readers. I think of my Grandmother and Nana passing away in 2019, the five cats that I’ve lost in the past 16 months, of my friend who died of a drug overdose in April. Until their death, these narratives were open ended, an ellipses that had the chance to be malleable, changed for the better and hopefully improved upon. Sure there are moments filled with regret and sorrow, but the question is… what is your biggest takeaway from knowing that they existed in your life?

Everyone creates a story. Even if it’s just to you as you pass an afternoon on a couch watching films, their lives have this vibrance that is often overlooked. Not everyone gets to be extraordinary. Some never land their dream job or complete a satisfying arc. Still, there is something to be said for their effort, the way that they provide company and meaning to what little time they are intertwined in bigger narratives. For the most part, I can find compassion in every one of those lives I must eulogize. They’re often a small token of gratitude for being there, for making me feel less alone on this mortal coil.

I have acquired a lot of these people over the years, existing as fond memories. There are times that I wish that our stories would overlap again, presenting some greater substance. On a personal level, I wish their lives were more celebrated, that others could complement their fondness with a literary affection that conveys the heart. As someone who has great difficulty speaking publicly, writing everything down is the only way I can achieve my goals. It’s also the most permanent sense like a message etched into metaphorical stone. When I look back on their lives, it’s the document that I wish to pull out, remembering when my emotions were at their most direct how I truly, truly felt.

Obviously, certain principles differ between a conventional eulogy and “A Journey to Being Fine.” This is, in some ways, a more selfish intent. The desire to chronicle a five month period where I was at my low, donned now in the remnants of that time, doesn’t make sense. Who would possibly want to remember when they substituted one form of pain for another, to acknowledge that they often felt alone, and were essentially returning their identity to the drawing board in hope of a much more satisfying answer?

As Jay-Z once claimed, “If you don’t like my lyrics, you can push fast forward.”

I assume that if you have read this far, you are well aware of the struggles I have faced. To those who have, I am most grateful for you for listening, to make me believe that I am not just in some void, desperately yelling again to something that will never reciprocate. To the others, there are over 500 articles on this website you can read instead. Go have some fun, why don’t you?

If you’ve read all of this, you’ll know how much catharsis I’ve felt in the simple act of opening up. For so long, I was cornered and unable to really find satisfaction in who I was. The question alluded me, not providing any clear answers. I was a writer who had burned himself out on craft, who fell into the delusions that clout equaled quality, and that I ultimately had nothing important to say. The feeling of desperation is real, and my sympathies go out to every person suffering from some affliction. I don’t know the endgame of this pandemic. If you asked me last year, I was sure it would be five years before we got any vaccination. After all, The AIDS Epidemic was such a slow walking nightmare. Having something more viral on a global scale was a horror story that makes you recognize your fragility.

And as anyone from the LGBTQIA+ community will speak to, AIDS took with it a generation of people who were unable to grow old and share their stories. I think of those we have lost in the past (nearly) two years, what perspectives have vanished. The sense of being unable to share a story, even your own, scares me. It was a driving force behind this website’s induction, but also a key component of why I share this story now. While the future has become more certain around Coronavirus, there is no certainty of survival, of a society coming back with more compassion and care for itself. What does everything look like?

I’m frankly curious to know what those books turn into. I am jealous of those who already have a brilliant angle and are outlining it in their basement. It truly will be The Great American Novel of our times. It will reflect a moment so distinct that I hope never happens again. It’s one that has made us all weak and weary, and the only thing to do is to keep fighting along. This website is my attempt at preservation, of opening up before it’s too late. I do believe that I will live much longer than that sentiment suggests, but as I’ve mentioned… certain people don’t get to complete their arcs.

I want to believe that by writing this, I have concluded a very specific chapter of my life. It was, uncontestably, the worst depression of my life (so far). It was a period that brought so much pain, often towards myself. When you’re in a bad headspace, it’s difficult to not think selfishly, to not believe that you’re somehow lesser because somebody’s struggles are worse. It’s, unfortunately, a policy that I was taught and it really messes with your self-worth. It took so long to at least accept that my personal journey was worth addressing, that I had a place in somebody else’s narrative, and that what I said mattered. 

Even if this doesn’t make sense to the outside world, I wanted to validate, to recognize everything that happened for one sole fact. I want to recognize the idea that amid so much turmoil, that I pushed through. Falling down that dark tunnel, it seemed unending. There were days where it seemed inescapable and I was so full of doubt that I ever would get out. Then, by some hard work, I found a way to cope, to journey back to being fine. I’m not going to suggest some miracle cure, just that trying to get yourself out of depression is a personal challenge. You have to keep at it and keep trying until that wall doesn’t feel as intimidating. 

The cliché response is simply “You are not alone.” For five months, it was hard to believe that, especially when sadness felt much more comforting. And yet, here I am on the other side. Maybe it seems foolish to think that anyone reads this and feels changed, but I want to believe somewhere out there, someone recognizes a part of themselves in this and changes perspectives just a little, the way that I did reading survivor stories, of realizing that sometimes more appreciation of life comes from this. It helps to feel validated, to feel like somebody out there respects you and recognizes your gifts to the world. I hope you realize that.

It’s why I’ve tried to be more open, why I’ve tried to reach out to any friend who seems to be in a declining mood. Sometimes it’s just for one night, but others, I like to think that I’m helping them off of a cliff the way so many did earlier this year. A simple response makes so much difference, and I am grateful to those who did that for me. 

This is closure. To keep the feeling from lingering in my soul for further months, I write these words down and expel them in the hopes that documentation relieves the burden of memory. Mine is so critical, likely to fall into negativity with ease if I’m not pushing myself. I fail some days, but right now I’m doing a damn good job if I should say so. Maybe it’s because of the scar on my shoulder, reminding me of that low and what can become of another slip. Even then, I try to believe that being open and honest with myself will make that feeling disappear, or at least be more subdued. I know what personal dishonesty can do, and let’s hope that reminder continues to motivate.

Again, I am not working towards great. Great is an unachievable perfection that draws out something hollow and impersonal. Fine is a balance. Fine gets you modesty, recognition of your accomplishments without pressure to make them something they’re not. Ultimately, I want to be happiest with me as a writer, and that starts with understanding just what I want to write about and how. I’m not saying everything I’ll do will be personal odes to my past, but don’t expect me to ignore it.

Goodbye to my depression, my once longtime companion who made most days between November 13, 2020 and April 26, 2021 much more complicated than they needed to be. Because of you, I learned to grow. When faced with nothing but emptiness, I tried to fill up those gaps. My journey is far from over and, quite frankly, aspects of my identity will continue to evolve and change over time. I am hoping in that scenario that I am much more equipped to handle them, less likely to break out into insecurity and push people away – not when I’m deserving of love. I know that people have this entire time, but hopefully, I’ll continue to realize its existence.

Thank you for bearing witness, for accepting my lengthy eulogy as something more than a self-indulgent exercise. If you still believe that I’ve wasted lines on a worthless issue, I ask that you observe yourself, understand your own life. Mine may not be up to your standards, but I want to believe that your takeaway then is being able to answer the question of “Who am I?” and have an answer that fills you with confidence and pride.

Who am I? I’m Thomas M. Willett, 32, asexual and autistic. I’m an English major working towards his B.A. with another novel on the way. I write for The Memory Tourist and hope to expand whenever I find the right outlet. For now, I try to be as encouraging as possible, lifting voices that excite me and celebrating all parts of life. I’ve had some bad days, but this one has been pretty good. I hope I can say the same about tomorrow. 

Finally, I hope you’re there with me ready to have a great time, laughing over something that may not be funny, but still gives us reason to keep this conversation alive.