Brooklyn, NY March 2026
Chicago, IL March 2026
The last three months I've been in a weird fog of depression. I've sat in therapy appointments trying to describe it and only been able to describe the symptoms: Only tolerating time in bed, watching hours of Succession. Walking to the Y to sit in the sauna. Feeling restless and anxious all at once, telling myself I "need to get my shit together" while staring at text messages of friends checking in and being unable to respond. I've gotten drunk here and there, but the best way I can describe it is that the effects have only been physiological (especially a hangover the next day) while mentally I've remained at the same frequency, waiting for whatever dopamine drinking offers to arrive.
Last month, I spoke at a conference. It felt like a significant moment in my career, and I worked myself into a panic about the entire experience. It took so much out of me in a way that felt incongruous with the task at hand. I distinctly remember sitting back in the audience afterwards and telling myself I had done a terrible job, going through a mental tick list of ways I had failed. And when I was met with sincere compliments by attendees, none of it permeated whatever looming dread I felt. I was relieved to come back to NY and crawl into my bed and have permission to put the whole experience behind me.
This week I put two and two together that maybe it has to do with my dad's Parkinsonism. Maybe this is hindsight speaking, and it's convenient to tie these two things together. On Monday, my mom texted me asking if we could talk, which landed as a gut punch. On the call she told me that over the weekend, my dad had had hallucinations, been disoriented, had a fall, and was just overall fragile, with an onset that was alarmingly quick. She took him to the doctor to get cleared and then I joined them later in the week at the neurologist to translate and to get more information on what caused this jump so suddenly. Both doctors were empathetic in their assessment: it could be a side effect of a specific medicine, a medicine interaction, or new symptoms (described as the cliff) that will stabilize. We're changing his medicine and monitoring him for the next two weeks. All in all, he's in good spirits, and in between the moments of fear there are moments of levity where we laugh about something or talk about something innocuous.
In my darkest moments this week, I chastised myself: "What were you doing at [random thing] while your father was struggling with [symptom] and your mother was dealing with it?" Like some perverse magical thinking that it's my fault my dad has Parkinsonism. Intellectually I understand it doesn't work that way. And I can't bully my nervous system into a sustained level of panic on behalf of my dad to trick myself into preparing for some unknowable future.
Outside all of this, I have my loved ones who both know what's going on and don't, all of whom have kept me afloat this week and this past winter.
Maybe two years ago, I had the capacity to hide this from everyone or to summon the energy to put on a front. And maybe it's a good thing that I no longer cope that way. I tell people about these experiences and even though it comes out as incomplete descriptions, it's something. Even writing this, there's something I'm looking for. Some resolution or a-ha moment to make me feel better. And there is something about formulating words about this experience in real time that gives me a sense of self. Like a self-portrait to prove I exist while this is happening.
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