A Light Went Out

A generation lost one of its greatest voices on Thursday. It’s been 2 long days of processing and trying to understand, all the while hoping it was just a bad joke; I’m still waiting for the punchline, but it’s not coming, is it?

He’s really gone.

Like millions of people around the world, I grew up with the various stages of Linkin Park. They were the first heavy band I was ever exposed to, and Chester’s voice was one of the single most important inspirations that enabled me to create music and find my own voice. Though I never knew him, Chester felt like a close friend that would walk beside you, his voice guiding you through the harsh periods of life that any person is sure to encounter. He shun a light that allowed others to overcome their own demons, when they were not brave enough to fight their own. I can’t possibly imagine how many lives he’s saved, but I can honestly say he’s saved mine time and time again.

It doesn’t matter whether you were a fan of Hybrid Theory, Meteora, Minutes to Midnight, A Thousand Suns, Living Things, The Hunting Party, or One More Light. Your personal music choices are a matter of opinion, not facts. His voice, however, was always his voice, no matter what. He offered it to us lovingly in our times of need. He also stayed true to himself through the band’s transitions, rather than succumbing to the expectations of others.

That’s probably what I admired most about them.

That’s probably what breaks my heart the most about us, as fans.

We took a man who suffered a great deal of pain openly, and yet only sought to offer others hope, and in return we gave him judgment and a complete lack of gratitude. All for what? Simply for failing to meet our expectations of the type of music we wanted from them?

Did we become the very same bullies and demons he was trying to save us from? Don’t we share some responsibility over what happened?

When I first heard One More Light, I caught myself having the following reaction: “This is just completely cheesy pop music. Why would they do this shit?”. Still, there was something in Chester’s voice that seemed more vulnerable than before. I kept listening because I felt drawn to it. It was like I recognized something in what he was trying to say, even though I couldn’t quite pinpoint the exact feeling. The pain I felt repeatedly listening to that album over the last month, now, clearly was a cry for help.

He sang for hope. He was clearly filled with despair.

Depression, anxiety, and mental illnesses are a very real thing.

Just the same as you don’t get to choose your family, religion, or country when you’re born, you don’t get to choose whether you suffer from depression. You can’t just switch it off. You can’t just snap out of it. Depression becomes a stale grey world that feels so far removed from the “real” world, that nothing seems to be able to pull you out of it. There is no desire for anything, and certainly no strength to fight it. Sometimes, depression can be so subtle that you can actually live with it for months without being aware of what’s actually going on inside of you. I should know, I suffered from it for 2 years, 7 months of which I couldn’t really figure what I was going through. All I knew was that something was wrong.

Even when you do, it’s a hard battle to fight, and even harder battle to win. If there’s anything to be learned from this tragedy, it’s that it’s time to end the stigma tied to mental illness. It’s time to have open conversations about it. Set aside your reservations; This is not about trying to breach your comfort zone. This disease is very much alive, and you will never truly know the pain that others might be going through. There is no strength in suffering alone, and there is no weakness in sharing what you feel with others. In a world where we stick to ourselves, there is no hope for any of us. It might make you uncomfortable to hear these stories, but please brave through it and listen with an open heart. I can promise you, you will become a better person for it, and you might be saving someone’s life.

I couldn’t save one my hero, but he surely did save me. The best I can do is pay it forward and try to save someone else. Every life is a life worth saving. Love makes the world a better place. So please, think before you speak, and be kind to each other. In the end, it really does matter.

So if you ask me: “Who cares if one more light goes out?”.

Well. I do.

Rest in Peace, Chester Bennington. This is my tribute to you.

Expressing Creative Block Through Creativity

Open the gates. Let the floods overflow.
Submerge the forbidden city.
Let it surround the dead with crystal light,
Until the only thing that remains is freedom.

Freedom of fear.

Fear conquered me, and I gave in to its unbending will.
A prisoner, shackled and brought to my knees, I submitted.
When did I grow so afraid? I can’t seem to remember.

Self-inflicted amnesia, a steady form of repression, forcing everything into the deepest corners of my conscience.
I am conscious of my inadvertence, of course, though convinced that this was the only path to safety.

Marching to the gallows, head on, blindly hoping that the steps ahead would bring me to a Haven of my own creation.
Yet, here I sit lifelessly, actively choosing not to choose, convinced that any decision would only mean more to lose.
Simplicity should have meant finding the way with the least amount of conflict, but no life is fully devoid of its hardships.
Visions of the barren walls that surround me, as I wonder whether the wall shedding layer after layer is more empty than me.
Decay growing deep within the walls shook the bricks, and I can’t help but wonder if this plague exists in my skin, even if I can’t see.

The truth is there is no shelter.
The truth is I must have known it all along.

Erasing my existence, allowing myself to blend into the dull walls, and fade into nothingness.
Choking my voice, forgiving myself for drowning all sound within the hollow silence of this emptiness.

There is no safety here. There is no peace.

A war rages on within the words unspoken. I know because I felt them. Resounding through the air at alarming pace. Racing back and forth, gaining momentum, as though this hidden dimension hushed secrets try to pierce.

I cannot keep them here any longer. They yearn to explode like fireworks through the night sky. They yearn to break through the heavens, to be heard screaming as they burst into light.

To proclaim their existence; their desire to survive.

To denounce their truths; their stories of strife.

Stories are meant to be told, but without a medium how can they unfold? It’s time to speak and no longer withhold. By what right have I been allowed to bring an end to their soul?

So open the gates. Let the floods overflow.
Submerge the forbidden city.
Let it surround the dead with crystal light,
Until the only thing that remains is freedom.

Freedom of fear.

 

A Journey To Self-Rediscovery

The train suddenly came to a screeching halt. I wasn’t ready for it. I missed the fraction of a second I was given to brace for impact. How could I have prepared for something I didn’t see coming? Rather, how could I have prepared for something I refused to see coming? The engine that once ran with so much passion and certainty suddenly died out. A journey bursting with endless promise and destiny once, now only felt like an empty carriage filled with baggage that nobody wanted to claim. What of the rest of my fellow travelers? They’d all fled, each attempting to save their own soul. That same future that so lovingly invited my hopes now rejected my very essence. My perspective shifted as I became an intruder in that vision. As I peered out the cracked window, a sullen desert void of life was all that was left. I was abandoned here, alone, to find my way out.

As I simultaneously experienced the loss of a dream, and the loss of a job to support me in the pursuit of that dream, the only thing left to do was face the person I had become in the aftermath of it all. When the ground that stood solidly beneath my feet turned to quicksand, there I was, right in the middle of it, slowly sinking as the facets of my personality slowly fell away. The more I struggled against it, the faster I sunk. I watched as all the layers of my being came undone, viciously stripped away, allowing no room for escape. At the end of it all, I felt empty, I felt lost, and I felt afraid. Truthfully, I still do.

The shattered mirror in front of me reflects someone though I can no longer recognize who that person is. The convictions I once held, the ideas and aspirations I once believed in so blindly no longer felt real. Nothing felt tangible. I could no longer relate to the person that stood before me. Sure, he resembled me in form, but the abyss that existed within revealed more than I was able to deny. My forms of therapy finally caved in, proving too heavy for a weakened spirit to carry any longer. The love I felt for music now represented my greatest source of pain and fear. I had cast it aside like a leper, afraid to let it come close to me again. My desire to write had succumbed to a belief that I no longer had anything of worth to say, successfully trading in my pen for anxiety. The only thing I could do was try and pick up the pieces of glass at my feet.

The world continued to move forward, as it always would, with or without me. Like a painting in a museum, I stared at it. I waited, hoped, begged it enviously to make me feel something again, and yet it did not answer. Frustration grew steadily in my mind when I no longer felt part of the world. Like a bystander, I idly watched life happen, hoping it would bring me an answer. My self-confidence had descended into purgatory, taking with it my self-worth. I was a failure. How could I possibly help anyone else, as I had done so countless times in the past, when I was completely unable to help myself now? In my dormant anger, I isolated myself from those around me, driven purely by the desire to spare them the burden of carrying my grief. My anger was purely directed at myself for being so helpless, but I wasn’t worth enough to let others help me in my dilemma. Somewhere, in the deepest corners of my being, I knew none of this was true. I just couldn’t bring myself to accept it.

Despite my hardships, my loved ones still extended their hands towards me. Their words reassured me that I wasn’t useless. They sang praises for the things I had done, and the obstacles I had overcome. Again, a part of me knew they were right, but to this newer version of myself these words felt like drops falling onto a window. Though they may have struck the surface, they couldn’t break through to reach the inner walls. Instead, the droplets slowly slithered down until they eventually evaporated into nothingness. The shell I created for protection imprisoned me, refusing me the right to leave.

Am I trapped here forever?

I guess I’m really the only person that can answer that question.

I forget that I’m allowed not to have all the answers. I’m not actually supposed to have everything figured out. Learning not to be so hard on myself, and be accepting of my own mistakes is hard. Understanding what I need and how to receive it. When your life has completely been turned upside down, I imagine it’s similar to learning to walk for the first time. All you can do is take small steps while holding on for support. Sooner or later, there will come a day when I am strong enough to walk on my own again.

The truth is, while I may feel like I am alone, I am very far from it. Those around me may not completely understand the way I feel (hell, even I struggle to explain it to myself) but they are certainly there when I need them to be. That’s more than anyone should ever be able to ask for. My life may not be perfect, but I am lucky. Lucky to have made it this far. Lucky to have survived and still be on my feet. Lucky to still be loved and appreciated, even when I’m not at my best. Lucky not having to live with expectation to be perfect. Lucky.

Just lucky, really.

For all my attempts at convincing myself that I am empty, I know now that’s not true. A fire still burns inside, somewhere. I still feel frustration at not being able to fully overcome this part of my life, yet. I still feel confused at not being able to give myself a direction to follow. I still feel. It doesn’t matter what I feel. Only that I am capable of feeling in the first place. That desire to feel anything at all is a clear sign that there’s still something here worth saving. Something worth fighting for. I’m not done. Not yet. I’m alive. Very alive.

When one chapter in life comes to an end, another automatically begins. Sometimes, we’re fortunate enough to be the ones to make that choice. Sometimes, we’re not. Either way, my decisions had a part to play in where I am and where I end up. I have a decision to make right now in where I want to go. Right now.

Deep breaths.

I don’t know where I’m going. But I’ve been through enough to know that I will get to where I need to be. I’ve just got to keep moving forward, no matter what.

As I open my eyes, I wake to a warm, blinding light gently soothing me in its comforting touch. Head pushed towards the sheet of glass between us, I admire the scorching sun as it reveals a world filled with life beneath it. The wheels of the train chugged effortlessly over the rails, as though a cloud drifting through the skies. I must have fallen asleep. It must have all just been a bad dream.

I don’t know where I’m going, but I definitely can’t wait for the day this all just feels like a forgotten dream. And it will, someday. I really believe that. For now, at least I’m writing again, so I can’t be completely lost. I’ve just got to find out where I left the other parts that made me, “Me”.

And I will, someday. I really believe that.