The journey of recovery is difficult to place neatly in a box. The ideal situation is to discuss it as a cause-effect, but that’s often not the case. If you’re like me, there’s bound to be fits and starts where small things are resolved while the bigger picture remains unfinished. Part of it is something more biological; a constant need to keep it in check and make sure that the worst doesn’t happen. While I’m grateful to not have a worse condition, there’s no denying that anyone who has had a bad period will wish for anything but. It could be as simple as somebody telling you the wrong thing. You can’t explain it to others, but the wrong thing sets off the dominoes and soon there’s nothing standing.
June to August 2024 was a period that I’ll dub “Cruel Summer.” For a year that hasn’t found me in the best of spirits, those three months embodied a cavalcade of conflicts. My cat died of cancer. My neighbors played music (sometimes to 3 AM, or 10+ hours) so loud that the bass felt invasive inside my body. Independence Day was so traumatic for me that I had a panic attack whose side effects lasted for an additional two weeks. I contracted COVID-19 for a third time right before Long Beach experienced a record-setting heatwave. Because of this, I had an unbearable 20 minute headache whenever approaching orgasm for at least a week. Maybe there was covalence with the congestion-limiting breathing or a panic that some worse condition was on the way. It had been, what, three times? Something must’ve been chipping away that I never considered.
My sleeping had been lousy before you get into the more “interpretive” causes of stress. As someone who romanticizes their birthday, I was a bit too contemplative about turning 35 and realizing this decade is almost over. The presidential election reminded me of the people who love and hate. I watched The Republican National Convention as they chose a candidate who couldn’t be bothered to develop empathy after an assassination attempt. The Olympics upset me with some anti-trans stories that I did my best to avoid. Personal productivity was cratering and my self-image was getting very critical.
Intrusive thoughts were, in a sense, “winning.” A lot of the issue stemmed from how I was feeling about my neighbors. There was a point it felt hopeless because no amount of police calls were shutting them up. Sometimes I’m not sure they even came out. The unpredictability made it worse, and the lack of control caused me to fantasize perverse revenge strategies. They were vulgar, as if taken from The Old Testament’s Job pages. I wanted some minor misfortune so that they could be humbled. Thinking vindictively while trying to shove aside the “kill with kindness” ethos doesn’t grow well in the blood stream. It festers, impacting your waking moments where suddenly you loathed being home but had nowhere else you wanted to be. It makes you think… am I a bad person?
I didn’t actually do anything, but to think like this ultimately made me feel like an asshole. I still don’t believe it was unwarranted, but putting everything together like this only makes me feel so out of control that I had no reason to leave bed. There wasn’t anything to live for when your joy of evening solitude was given up so your neighbors can get high to the same repetitive trap hi-hats. It’d be one thing if they had eclectic music tastes, but it was the same 20 or so songs over and over, bass boosting through your closed window as the neighbor yells “Hello world!” every 15 minutes. Marijuana and 40 oz. bottles scattered across the front lawn be their friends.
To provide some context, a report was eventually filed and they have taken initiative to be more responsible. They haven’t stopped the parties, but they are within more respectful contexts. Unless things get out of hand, I am at peace with the situation. Wish they came to that conclusion sooner and in more self-motivated ways that didn’t involve a graveyard shift fight with one of the sleeping neighbors, but that’s life. Winston Churchill once said, “Leave it to Americans to do the right thing once they’ve exhausted all other options.” Ain’t that the truth.
There’s been other small, inconsequential things that came and went. There was concern of impending construction near my house that would’ve greatly impacted local traffic. I had to figure out how to set up a phone without assistance because I had COVID-19. I needed to contact Twitter because my log-in was having problems (despite criticisms, I want to say their staff was efficient and professional in this exchange). The idea of Joe Biden being the Democratic candidate bugged me even if I would argue he’s done a good job. Still, efforts to have a clear-eyed optimism until November 5 has been difficult because the news has been a hateful fever dream. Similarly, the rise of Fire Season in California fills me with anxiety and the mind unspools into nightmare scenarios that have, thankfully, not been their worst so far.
But here’s the thing about having a Cruel Summer. Even if I had a lot of amazing and positive experiences, everything that happens to the body has to go somewhere. Worries of mortality clash with the fears of aging and worrying about not being attractive. It infected my writing career where I contemplated whether I had anything that I wanted/needed to say. Reading Twitter only reminded me of how many hateful and shallow people were out there. It could be easy to laser in on the good people, but the algorithm was so messed up that I saw people I didn’t know talking about subjects I didn’t care about. The appeal of community wasn’t speaking to me. It was repulsive and I feared that in an effort to not think about my neighbors that I would take it out on the people who saw good in me. Could it be possible to see how far you’d push people away and still have them come back?
An issue that comes with thinking like this is that it approaches a dissociative quality where nothing is real. In 2021, a major reason I was falling apart was because a computer-based communication with the outside world caused me to question what was real. While I passed all of my university Zoom classes, I was still failing to be “engaged” the entire time. When I was online, I questioned the humanity of conversations because everyone was reduced to text/code. It was strange to think that most of the people I sought comfort in were voices I never heard, who weren’t ever going to drive over and provide the comfort I needed.
Like I did in 2021, the overbearing desire in this moment of crisis was to have somebody give me a hug. I had family who have been very supportive. They have made this particular period easier to deal with because I’ve been more open with them. However, I think the desire to not feel like my world is “small” bothered me. I needed a hug of a friend. Not a family friend, but one of those who I could be personal with and not risk a public recording. While I was able to talk about my deceased cat with someone, other moments of coping have been more independent. Because of this particular exchange, sleeping at night has felt lonely because there’s not even the assumption that a cat would run in and sleep next to me. I could close the door and be truly alone. At some point all I had was a pillow that I tried to not let go of.
I thought about my cat. I thought about my life and future. I thought about the election and, while Kamala Harris has brought some relief, I still worry about the unexpected happening again. The election of 2016 isn’t that far in our rearview yet. We’re not out of the woods until things are finalized, and even then… will there be another terrorist attack on the capitol? More importantly, will I get past Inauguration Day and not fall into another lengthy depression like I did in 2021? The loud music next door reminded me of similar traumatic experiences from my early 20s that caused everything to feel worse. Not only that, but there was a period after filing notification where I had heard so much loud music and bass thudding that I was hearing it instinctively. Think of how your pocket vibrates even without a phone. It was somewhere in the fleeting distance. Was it real? If I had to guess, it was only 15% of the time.
As a lot of people probably have, I was uncomfortable from a lack of control. In the few instances where I acted out, I had so much adrenaline that immediately shifted to anxiety and regret. It was clear that I couldn’t solve the problem. For a time, it felt like the legal system or some higher calling wouldn’t either. Everything was a lie. Calls for “karmic retribution” weren’t coming. I was doomed to get small vindication of calling my neighbors “cunts” on Facebook. Kill them with kindness, my ass.
Because of prior patterns, I think my lack of control at times meant that I blamed myself and took any punishment out on myself. For as much as I did my best not to strike a hand on my skin, the urge was there alongside intrusive voices calling me useless and much worse. For all the great things that were happening outside of these closed instances, it was easy to be distracted by the obvious. I would go home and have to survive the night until morning. Would they still be playing music? Could I watch my own TV without headphones ever again? I’m not someone to make a noise war because I assume it would only make their more high-tech sound system grow louder. They’d throw more trash on our lawn and think my response was designed for war.
The downfall, thankfully, came near the end of the worst. While I had been out for several hours, there was something about my return home one day that left me paralyzed. It was a Sunday and the neighbors were throwing one of those patented loud parties. The bass was booming through the front yard and into my bedroom window. After holding it back for two months, I sat in my room and punched my legs while crying, “I can’t do this anymore.” The bruises would come and go, but the pent-up frustration carried a little longer.
In light of experiencing five days of 100° heat, I had gotten into the habit of laying outside at night to look at the sky. I’d put on headphones and get a book while letting the breeze cross my legs. There was something peaceful about it and one of the first signs of recovery. By this point, it was starting to look like the neighbors were taking the complaints seriously. They were there and still frequent enough to bother me, but it wasn’t as bad. I can’t tell you what was different about it, but I felt more at peace. Around this time I was also going for walks again and trying to take better care of myself. The pent-up anxiety was still in there, but it was looking like time would take care of it.
The issue with everything is that while I could feel it all escaping my body, there were several weeks of bad thoughts waiting their turn to get out. Even as the intrusive thoughts became less weaponized, they were still there. I was starting to sleep better at night. While things like the passing of my cat still impacts me sporadically, a lot of the difficult emotions were disappearing. I was getting back into regularly writing essays and finding myself feeling accomplished again. I even started some bigger projects which will be seen in the months and years ahead.
But a week after that initial call of defeat, I found a thought lingering. It wasn’t even triggered by flamboyant distress. My night had been going well and without complaints. I was at peace and, yet, I found myself needing to cut my leg. For as much as I have succeeded in stopping the habit, there was something about the past three months where I felt the need to do it. Working through the sting, I looked down and got what I wanted out of it. Was this the final escape of dissociation or just a meaningless act?
Something about it put me at peace for good. I’ve since been able to look forward and make plans for the end of the year. Even then, it was like the other scars I had made where I pressed it like a pleasure center. It was a chance to feel something that may have stung, but it was a comforting kind. I don’t know that I can explain it. After so many weeks of feeling intense emotions, to have something evocative on my leg made things more palatable.
I know that I need to find better ways to cope. I’m sure that I wasn’t treating myself with the most respect. I hated my body and living with the pains both physical and mental made Cruel Summer harder to deal with. I recognize that it’s the byproduct of unfortunate circumstances and I should be grateful that they didn’t last longer. I am. Even then, I look at everything and realize that I am much better but not at 100% just yet. I think the election fills me with enough skepticism to keep that from happening. Even knowing that the creator of Brad Taste In Music was having a very public mental breakdown makes me think about things in an odd light. We all act irrationally in times of distress. I’m grateful that I at least knew to back away and try to appreciate what I could perceive as real.
In that time I ended up rewatching a lot of movies for the first time in years. I was finding small things that made me happy. Even if I’m sure that some people wouldn’t call Paul Thomas Anderson the most upbeat filmmaker (especially between 1999-2007), I found comfort in his view of Southern California: my home. I love these characters. I love living here. As dumb as it sounds, seeing someone make art about our region felt nice. While I can’t tell you what inspired my 1917 (2019) rewatching, I’ll just say it works as pure entertainment and I love the craft.
At the same time, I became a regular viewer of Game Show Network and enjoyed my post-walk ritual of watching Beat the Bridge. Elsewhere, I found a Pluto channel dedicated to Bob Ross that made me feel more in tune with the creative process than I had in months. As dumb as it sounds, watching globs of paint turn into something beautiful felt like writing a novel. The process may not make sense, but you have to trust the artist sometimes. The fact that Ross added the meta layer of suggesting YOU were the artist turned the hokey public access into postmodernist therapy. Elsewhere, Tremé showed me the hope of a community rebuilding after disaster. Finally, I have really gotten into the Hidden Brain podcast over the past six months, which does center me when the right topic comes up.
There is a lot that I’m doing to try and get in the right head space again. While I live with the regrets of Cruel Summer, I have come to see it like the Alex Ross Perry movie Her Smell (2018). At the start, there is so much lack of focus that it’s hard to find any peace within the claustrophobic environment. Everyone is expecting you to maintain your cool and instead it has gone on so long that you can’t help but cope in unhealthy ways. It eventually eats at your sanity to the point you act out and hurt those close to you.
…then you get the middle act where everything comes together. Elisabeth Moss is playing piano and sitting peacefully at her house. She is discussing her life with friends. The contrast is jarring but necessary. I’m sure in lesser hands, the recovery scene could’ve been more corny. There could be some self-actualization that said a lot instead of showing it. Moss knew how to reflect the small joys in recovering from a stressful period. It’s not a straight line and certain tensions will take longer to disappear. Even then, she is able to recognize the joy in her life again.
By the final act, the story may look like it’s abandoned conventional plot but it does feel like the most beautiful part of the story. While it’s a public situation not dissimilar from the opener, there is now an understanding and focus within the environment. Everyone is talking in ways that are healthy and it results in everyone having a good time. Maybe the intensity of youth could never be achieved again, but small revisits to your passions will make life feel worthwhile. It will never be what it was, but at least you’ll love yourself.
I shouldn’t say that my journey is verbatim. In fact, I’m more likely to resonate with Moss’ performance in Queen of Earth (2015) and her quiet frustration as people invade her personal space. I love the film more than Her Smell, but Perry’s follow-up was more mature and I think sought for solutions to toxic emotions. It felt real and challenging in ways that I believe resonates with those prone to panic attacks and depression. The need to find control exists inside of us. Perry, smartly, ends by saying that there is hope out there. We just need to work to appreciate everything.
Cruel Summer is over. Again, the pejorative feels strange given everything that could be considered good. I had an amazing birthday with family where we saw Inside Out 2 (2024). While the movie was forgettable, I enjoyed meeting up with friends to see Deadpool & Wolverine (2024) where I got a Baby Deadpool popcorn tub as a birthday present. I saw Brandy Clarke and Ben Platt. I was at the WNBA game where St. Vincent did The National Anthem. I’ve been to a lot of live theater and sporting events that made me feel in the moment. I’ve produced work I’m proud of. I’ve seen friends I hadn’t seen in five years. I read Dante Alighieri’s “The Divine Comedy” and found it to be a sublime experience. Christine and the Queens played at the opening ceremony of The Paralympics. Allegra Krieger’s new album feels like a warm hug.
For a Cruel Summer, life was pretty good. I think I say all of this to suggest that even as I struggle to experience a conventional form of happiness, I shouldn’t act like the past three months were completely awful. There was a lot to be proud of. I think it’s the downside of how my mind works that I have to force myself to be an optimist. It’s ultimately rewarding, but it does get exhausting to do it when things aren’t going right. But it’s worth it. I don’t know that I’m the best at being appreciative of where life has taken me, but I try. I’ll continue to. Hopefully this Fall won’t be too bad. I’ll keep you posted.
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