Nowhere To Go But Down: Relating to Aftersun's post-holiday depression, my own suicidal ideation and being in love
Trigger warnings: suicide, self-harm, suicidal ideation; Spoilers for Aftersun (2022)
As I write this, my partner Kiah (pictured) is laid next to me, fast asleep, blissfully unaware that she kicked me awake 20 minutes ago. I don’t tell her that she wakes me up with her nocturnal karate as much as she does. It’s 3:10am Jan 12th 2023. I’ve just spent six days on holiday in Athens and the impending stress of a mad dash finish to the airport in a few hours time is causing my anxiety to flutter but right now, I’m laid here, content and feeling reflective on how life changes so much in so little time. Lying here having spent my 29th birthday being doted on and loved immensely feels…monumental.
On February 12th 2021, I wrote a sincere suicide note.
I know the date, because I kept it. A notes app apology suicide note, with about as much gravitas. What flurry of circumstances - a break up, an unfair sacking that was based around my moral position on a topic - causing a mortgage offer to be retracted -my grandad in hospital with concussion, my father an inpatient with some heart issues, the seemingly unending tirade that is Covid placing the family closest to me under quarantine on my birthday - didn’t help the depression that I have always had screamingly silently underneath the façade of my life. My depression looms over me like a dark cloud threatening to burst, spitting down its mean, intrusive thoughts and suicidal ideation on how easy it would be to just not exist anymore. How easy it would be to turn my steering wheel ever so slightly and ram my car into a post, off a bridge - anything to achieve a form of peace. To not be the self deprecating, narcissistic, masochistic person that I am anymore. To finally rest. To sleep. To enter the abyss that would get my brain to stop shouting at me.
But I don’t. And, as I’m still here and writing this, I didn’t off myself back in Feb 2021 or the subsequent months that were a black hole in life’s calendar. I would love to say it’s because I channelled all my energy into experiencing life but I took all this pain and used it as an excuse to drop out of uni because wallowing in my own misery, unable to build the “courage” to act on it was simpler. I baked and practiced different breads - confit garlic focaccia was all the rage in my flat - but it was all just to not let myself be swallowed whole by the gulf of existence. I filled my time incessantly scrolling multiple dating apps attempting to find something, someone, a connection, anything to get me out of my hole. I am good at dating apps. I used my words to be disarmingly charming on them and when depression had its claws in me, I was being - for lack of a better term - a fuckboy. Casual sex with people I’m only half interested in was better than the loneliness that caressed me to sleep every night. I cared not for the people I either led on or made feel like I wanted more. I did, of course, want more - but it was more life, more peace and just some form of relief from the spiral I was in. I regret and take complete autonomy for this, mental health issues regardless, never alleviates blame for being a bit shit (and absolutely contributing to the horrifying landscape of online dating).
The 05:30 alarm just blared. I turned it off and I’m about to turn over for 15 more minutes of cuddling, knowing the choice of this peaceful snooze will wreck havoc on my finely tuned, completely idealised and imagined schedule.
It’s 15:40. I’m in the air, somewhere over Europe. Our already stressful mad dash to the airport was exacerbated by an iced cappuccino fredo (note: not the chocolate bar that should remain 10p) that blew the lid off my barely smothered flying nerves. Kiah doesn’t have the same time keeping I do. My anxiety is time sensitive - I would much rather hang around for hours at the area I’m intending to be at rather than do something that could potentially make me miss a flight/connection/meeting. Kiah is in control, she doesn’t let the stress of potentially missing a flight get to her like it does me. It’s nice, but I don’t let her know how comfortable she makes me in foreign situations. Our bag, 1.7kg overweight, dragged along vibrating my wrist on Greek cobbles. My laptop bag, pulling at my neck as it swings heavily onto my hip, is stuffed with souvenirs and verified tat from Athens gift shops. The ‘souvs’ will really only be looked at fondly from Kiah and I’s perspective, our friends and family not knowing how much we both panicked trying to find the perfect bit of tat that they’ll appreciate and reinforce that we think of them when they aren’t in front of us.
As an ADHD couple, this is one the sincerest ways we can be.
The 30€ sandals that we got tourist trapped into getting for my niece Felicity will outgrow her. Will she know how we went a few miles back to a shop just to get them for her. Pink, winged leather sandals that are two sizes too big. She’ll grow into them over the coming months and years before eventually outgrowing them. I hope she keeps them safe, but she’s too young to truly realise their value isn’t just as sandals, to be inevitably scuffed, broken and accidentally discarded at a park somewhere, walking back home on a hot summers day hand in hand with my sister, her small -probably not socked- feet warm on the concrete of her Fenstanton street. No, their value is their journey from desired object to the small bitter resentment felt when the vendor presented the card machine, my face having already verified my identity, my phone presented in a flash and sandals purchased, to carry on their journey to bring a modicum of pleasure to Felicity. In this idealistic view of the sandals that she will hopefully adore when she receives them in three hours time, she’s smiling. Which is all I want, really. I’d take them being absolutely ruined by being worn, played with, loved and appreciated, if even just for the briefest moment, I contributed to her joy.
Because while my suicide note read that I was “exhausted from coping”, and that the “unrelenting black hole of my existence is now just overwhelming”, one of the biggest things that kept me going - apart from that annoying human instinct that doesn’t want to let you sink into the dark relief I have always imagined death would be - was my family. I know they know their value in my life. Having wrote my suicide note a few days after self-harming (as many may know, physical pain distracts from emotional pain temporarily) and after sitting on the edge of my then 17-year-old sister bed, blubbering through a stream of snot to her about not wanting to be here anymore and telling her how I’m feeling guilty for wanting to be gone when it would affect them so much.
The captain just told us we’re flying over Paris. I’d love to say I can see French flags flying, the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower a pinprick on a map below but it’s all just clouds. Clouds and sweaty feet smell. No French pastries. No culture. On our way back to bigot island, the sorry state of 2023 British politics having been blissfully distant as I sipped cocktails that were seemingly measured on a 2:1 scale. I have a weak palette for a glass that consists of 90% straight liquor.
We just pierced through the clouds, their infinite mouth swallowing the plane whole for the briefest of seconds. There’s a bright blue sky on one side of the plane, and a brewing grey storm on the other. Academics may read into the foreshadowing, pathetic fallacy of that. Unfortunately, unlike Aftersun, this “ends” happily so re-entering bigot island through a storm feels very Gerry and The Pacemakers.
It’s 06:00 GMT on the 13th Jan and the blues have really set in now. We picked up my car from Luton long stay and drove to my sisters, where we finally had Christmas – Covid derailed it occurring on its normal date. Seeing a 3-year-old and a 1-year-old ripping open gifts Kiah and I carefully curated to make them briefly happy is the ultimate joy. Bucket list item achieved, however: Gave a present so good that the kid has a meltdown because they don’t want to let go of it.
Felicity’s meltdown caused my already strained sister more stress, and I instantly feel responsible, as much as she repeats herself on our generosity. It’s funny to have gifted something that’s as double edged as a Paw Patrol costume. A mistake, it seems, to have started with it because Felicity lost interest in anything but pretending to emulate her favourite character Skye (or, as she can’t enunciate yet, “die” – never not amusing being told to “go die”). But the overtired Felicity and baby Oscar go to bed, leaving Kiah and I alone to make amends by tidying up. I don’t really tell Kiah just how exhausted I am, that my tiredness isn’t just from being up 18 hours at this point. I’m craving sweet nothing. I want nothing more that to sit on my phone, play chess poorly, message my friends and let my robot brain shut down, reset and recharge. Words are tremendously hard when fighting a cloud of post-holiday deflation.
We perk up again for food, and discuss our travels to two exhausted parents who would kill for the chance to experience Athens – or anywhere for six days that don’t involve nappies, tantrums and 6:30am wake ups. It’s been our holiday, we deserved to brag slightly about it: we got to look at Jupiter through a 120-year-old telescope, went to a Modern Love museum that had a wall of memes called “niche content for frustrated queers”, drank cocktails at midnight, ate several gyros and had a meal on a rooftop bar overlooking an illuminated Acropolis Hill. Still, seeing my sister subconsciously purse her lips at our stories, knowing she’s desperate for a break just makes me feel guilty. I don’t know how to help her. I have dropped everything in my life three times to travel down the 240 miles from my northern home to her Cambridge abode to support them, and will do again in the future. So while I’ve got everything seemingly going right – I’m mostly on top of uni assignments (wrote a 1600 word short script about grief that I keep crying over when I re-read), an upcoming feature commission for a reputable magazine, press accreditation for Glasgow Film Festival and Berlin Film Festival - why am I fighting the anxiety of “how will I fuck it up?” and “what will go wrong?” “The fuck they letting me do this??”… Everything’s coming up Milhouse for me right now. I want to embrace it and thrive and feel good about it. Why can’t I? And why did telling my sister all these promising things that are happening to me make me feel so utterly shite? She was supportive and congratulatory - after years of medial chef work, she was proud I was finally passionate and succeeding at something (even mildly) – but I have no evidence to support the intrusive nature of “who the fuck cares?”.
21:06, GMT, Jan 13. I’m back home, but today has been tough. The news that Jumpcut, an outlet I have written for over the years, is ceasing publication a hard pill to swallow but I mangled through the day, the suffocating sadness I have had since departing Athens maintaining its grip. Six hours driven back, all the while Kiah keeping her own drooping eyelids alert to entertain me. We play our daily games: Heardle, Framed, Actorle all complete; moving on to 20 Questions – an embarrassing affair that showed I had no idea a meerkat was of African geographical location (and not the same as a Lemur – Meerkats don’t like to move it move it) and collaborating on TikTok Ten but all the time, really, my attention wanders to this.
This, what has transformed into a pseudo diary, is helping me. I had intended to publish this (at the time like 600 words?) to my Substack (of which I hardly know how to navigate) (greetings from Connor on 07/02/23 who has sort of found out how to use substack) but as the brain fog that my depression and ADHD had boycotted for six days descends once again, it’s difficult to imagine allowing this to be seen. At 5am on Thursday morning, I was in a state of euphoria having experienced what truly was one of the best birthdays of my life. I was ready to discuss my mental health, more so than I would have. I lay there in silence, reflecting on the corporeal idea of suicide that had existed two years prior. But now? I’m not sure.
I wanted to frame this in a way to talk about Calum’s post-holiday depression in Aftersun, how that contributing to his suicide had made me feel quite worried about these few days – how my ADHD has a mirror reflex I cant fight. How when I empathise and adore something it becomes part of my persona. It’s a sign of respect, I like to believe. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. I don’t actively want to mimic Calum, it’s a reflex after all. But it’s not about movies, this is a deeper, complex conversation on mental health that I’m not equipped to talk about. So what is this? My friend has asked me the same question… “why do I want to publish this?”. Their calm, unwaveringly enthusiasm for my writing only superseded by their annoyingly perfect logic, the kind of straight talking that you need to hear sometimes. They say - my ego swelling - that it’s beautiful and vulnerable and bittersweet. I agree. I often don’t have much enthusiasm for my own writing – my own worst critic – but this has been an interesting experience and is that worth sharing? Am I only publishing for potential validation, to fuel my narcissism? Is my imposter syndrome feeding off the fear of sharing something like this, opening up a little too much. And what if this goes out there and nobody cares or reads, is that a risk to be taken? I’m stuck within the chasm that this piece has been a result of both wild inspiration, soulful cathartic release and this nagging, immovable desire to not let these words fade away within the confines of a OneDrive. That words like these that have came from such pain and love and joy should be available for everyone to read, to move and not slip away, their power muted like a dam holding back a current.
Fuck it.
*
22:27
Just had a shower cry. A gentle weep, the tears’ liquid carcasses mingling with that of the water scorching down my face. A solid 20 minute shower that has ultimately failed to rinse off the bulk of the lingering sadness. Tired. Llewyn Davis could never.
The group chat are sending memes as they play on discord together. I miss it and them but right now it’s just too much.
*
Jan 14, 06:06
I know what I want to write about, how to surmise whatever this is, but it’s gone. I’m struggling to form the right sounding words, everything I type like electronic cotton wool stuffed into my jaw.
08:10 It’s funny, that the phrase “nowhere to go but up” exists. I’ve always found more ways to go further down. Life enjoys playing its games on that front – oh you think you’re fucked now, wait till you see what’s behind door #2 and #3 and #4…. The whole idiom is supposed to make you feel better, bring you up, inspire you to keep pushing on. Its bullshit. If it’s “nowhere to go but up” - where’s the contrary phrase? If there’s nowhere to go but up, then after a perfect day, there’s nowhere to go but down.
These are getting whinier. Back to the purgatory of if I ever want to share this or ever finish writing it.
14:00 I quite like the line above, that sprung from seeing the silly idiom while in a hole of doom scrolling Twitter. If I hadn’t already titled this thing, “NOWHERE TO GO BUT DOWN” would be quite apt.
Wasn’t entirely certain I was continuing with this, but after leaving my phone for a few hours, achieving multiple laundries that required minimal mental space, a drive to Tesco featuring a scream-sing of Lynyrd Skynrd’s Freebird and Natalie Imbruglia’s Torn, inhaling some toast and prepping lunch (shakshuka!) I feel like I can return to this and discuss, well, the reason this holiday made me so reflective and why I even brought up my suicide note in the first place.
Because it wasn’t just my perfectly imperfect birthday. It’s the entire holiday season, and not just the everything that occurred in 20/21. Christmas 2018/9, my relationship with my ex fiancé broke down. NYE 2019 I crashed, causing my car to flip six times down to the bottom of a hill, the butterfly effect resulting in a break up two weeks later. 21/22 improved, but I entered 2022 curled up at midnight crying myself to sleep, and my 28th birthday evening was spent with my sister as everyone else tested positive for Covid. Home by 8:30 and some relief to the depression of a birthday alone, provided by some Discord games - but a few beers and a good chunk of gin left me flat, sinking into depression once again as I lay there crying, the intrusive thoughts manifesting themselves, their figurative ideas about slicing into my wrists with a blunt spoon fighting to become corporeal. Anything to feel but the soul-sucking loneliness.
13:08, Jan 15
I wrote a really lovely entry this morning at 8am detailing how happy I was. Added some half-funny jokes that only I found amusing - “warned you this ended happy” - and had pondered why I was so happy after being woken up at 5:20am after a night of Kiah’s midnight karate? Was I jet lagged? Was my mood only a result of my synapses being shaken alive by the Greek frappe that Kiah will be taking to Barista of the Year next month? Was it because I’m going to play pool this evening for the first time in weeks? I don’t want this to be disingenuous and try to repeat myself because I’m no longer in that same mood. I can’t replicate words that don’t come from the same place. I’m sad it’s gone. I opened this back up with the intention of adding “so it was the caffeine”, adding some levity and showing the mood fluctuation that exists with depression and then exiting again…but losing the few hundred words I had enjoyed writing has deflated me. Going to shake it off, but many people will understand the frustration rattling my cranium.
Anyway, I’m going to continue. The Snooker Masters Final is on, deadlocked at 1-1. Scrappy frame, that second one. Ironic that my ADHD brain functions better when something I want to watch is on in the background, only instructing me to look up from my phone with an audience “ooh” and “ahh”. The sharp clip-thud of the snooker balls hitting the back of the pocket is one of my favourite sounds. Having played cue sports for over 20 years and won national titles, the sound transports and calms me like the taste of Ratatouille.
07:45 16th
Post-holiday blues have gone, themselves metastasised back into depression, their deflated feelings similar but depression contrarily feels more like being wrapped in a heavy, wet blanket, marooned in the middle of the ocean rather than the melancholic dullness of the blues. The good thing about being just straight up depressed once again? I’m used to it. The wet blanket is somewhat comforting. This is normal. The executive dysfunction is normal. It’s a bitch, but life has returned back to it’s mundanity. Off to university today.
Said I was going to continue this: not entirely sure how to. Had grand ideas about how to finish something like this that is just ongoing thoughts – will return when I need to procrastinate more.
10:15 If you’re reading this, and I’m sure my narcissism is going to win by actually sharing this overshare, I’m sorry it’s devolved into what it has. As mentioned: I don’t want this to be disingenuous, full of hyperbolic nonsense. So it has transformed into a freeform diary of heartfelt, slightly miserable ramblings that commentate on my own handling of depression. My processing speed being what it is, a conversation will often come to a stop mid sentence as the tortoise of my brain catches up with my hare of a mouth.
My overly descriptive words here sound much better than when exiting my mouth. They’ve been thought about, curated within the confines of my brain ever so slightly and are leagues above what I can muster in a conversation.
17:10 17th
The enthusiastic gusto in which I wrote the previous 3000+ words has gone, faded into yet another hyper focus venture. ADHD life. Have I spoken about half of the things I once fleetingly thought would be relevant to this? Fuck no. But we move.
To succinctly surmise my point in as little time as possible (about to see A Man Called Otto with Kiah) - I’m excited for my future, in a way I hadn’t been in a long time. Athens, the holiday euphoria and then the holiday blues have given me a little bit more spring in my step. I am so glad to have met Kiah, and even if my pessimistic, too emotional and secluded ADHD self fears the return of the suicidal ideations that sprung from loneliness if we ever break up, for the time being… not going anywhere just yet xo