How Even a Little Sense of Purpose Fights Political Depression

This blog entry is part 2 of the On Making it to Tomorrow series. As I work on new music about resilience, I’m processing my thoughts as part of my writing process. To start at the beginning, start here.

Content Warning: Passive suicidal ideation.

Some people seem to leave the womb with a sense of purpose. Others find purpose through divine revelation. Some are lucky enough to stumble upon vocational clarity. But I found my life’s purpose in the emergency room.

I’m not a medical professional. I was in the E.R. as a mental health patient — that time, in Inglewood. It didn’t make sense for me to be lying in a cold leather recliner, in a cold, dirty hospital room, resentful that my friends rallied to save my life. From the outside, it seemed I’d finally “made it.”

I’d just graduated from 1500 Sound Academy, placed two songs in that year’s Super Bowl, was preparing for my first book tour, and my birthday had just passed. I had every reason to celebrate.

But I was too heartbroken and stressed to enjoy any of my apparent successes.

My bank balance dropped into the red every pay period for months. I’d lost faith in the Black Lives Matter movement, for reasons I don’t have space to detail here, which was tethered to my life’s purpose; And I’d found out half my friend group was gossiping about me. Worst of all, one of them, a friend of ten years, blocked me on all social media without any explanation or conversation on my birthday (which I later learned was because of the gossip).

Unlike many, I can’t help but see my life as part of a much larger context. I know that I live in the world that slavery built, which adds another layer of mental suffering to financial stress. I know that we need strong organizing to change the conditions that produce our suffering, but I also know what a miracle it would be for social justice warriors to get out of their own way, which adds another layer of mental suffering. Throw in personal struggles to the mix, with whatever larger fucked up societal forces they‘re tethered to, add water, and stir. That’s a recipe for existential hopelessness.