I was first introduced to Linkin Park when I was in kindergarten. I didnāt understand any of the words, really, but my older brother played their songs constantly, and the tunes sunk in by osmosis. For my sixth birthday I asked him to burn me a CD (whew, showing my age now) with a mix of what I insisted were my two favourite bands, Linkin Park and The Arrogant Worms. Yeah, I was a bit of a strange child.
Linkin Park slipped off my musical radar for over half a decade while I bopped along to Spice Girls, NSYNC, and whatever my friends were listening to at slumber parties. Then, out of nowhere, Linkin Park came rocketing back into my life. They hadnāt released a new album in a few years, but I was in the midst of my first bout of depression ā although I didnāt know that at the time ā and the upbeat tunes on my ancient blue MP3 player didnāt enchant me like they used to. I had a need, a craving, to hear my pain reflected back to me. Linkin Park met that need. Iād never been one to pay attention to bands, mostly absorbing my music news through my friend Jadaās incessant Green Day updates, but I remember anxiously anticipating the release of Minutes To Midnight, pestering my parents about when our next trip to Edmonton was so I could pick it up at HMV.
I replayed that CD until it became scratched beyond recognition by my cheap Walmart stereo. For my birthday that year, my brother gave me a knockoff iPod with a black-and-white checkered case, already loaded with my favourites: Green Day, blink-182, Atreyu, Avenged Sevenfold, Coheed and Cambria, and, of course, Linkin Park. By that point, my depression had morphed into an eating disorder and self-harm. It was my biggest secret, my biggest shame, my biggest source of pain, and I felt horribly, horribly alone. The music didnāt cure anything, but it helped. It helped to know that I wasnāt the only one whose agony felt so intense that sometimes you just needed to blow your eardrums out and scream.
Itās been ten years since that album came out. Iām recovering from depression (now diagnosed as bipolar disorder, lucky me), my eating disorder and self-harm are under control, and most days Iām doing okay. Linkin Park had once again slipped off my radar ā until yesterday, when I saw the news about Chester Bennington.
Itās a tragedy when any life is lost to suicide. But thereās something extra terrifying about it, to me, when itās someone older than me. Someone who I feel has their life figured out. I know that suicidal thoughts can impact anyone, at any age, and it doesnāt matter how their life looks from the outside. I know that. I teach that, when I go into schools and speak about my own experience.
But when I saw the news yesterday, I got the same plummeting feeling in my gut that I got when Robin Williams died three years ago.
So much of my mental health recovery has been based on faith in the fact that things are going to get better. Maybe not tomorrow or the next day, but someday Iāll feel better. Someday Iāll be able to cope with my emotions. Someday I wonāt be shuffled from doctor to doctor. Someday Iāll be able to go a full day without those voices that whisper that everyone is better off without me. Someday, someday, someday. The basis of my entire mental health framework is the idea that if I work hard enough, take all the right medications, do all the right therapies, that someday will arrive for me.
So when I see people older than me, people I admire, people I think of as living the someday Iām striving for ā when I see them die by suicide, it shakes my faith. What if that someday never comes for me? What if Iām still feeling this way at 30, at 41, at 63? Will I still be able to have confidence in my someday?
I donāt have an answer for that.
But maybe I donāt need one. Because for now, Iām doing okay. For now, Iām breathing. For now, Iām coping. For now, Iām keeping the monsters at bay.
And at the end of the day, someday is just a bunch of for nows stuck together, right?
For now, I have to believe that.
