This excerpt is from an article published on Pacific Standard Magazine. To read the piece in full, please click here.
I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety on the day that Anthony Bourdain died. The timing was mostly coincidental. After over six months of wrestling with my mental health, I had reluctantly made an appointment with a doctor, where I expected to do what I always did: talk about short-term issues but repress the long-term concerns. I’ve had many episodes like this, episodes I either drowned in alcohol or addressed through brief periods of therapy.
But when the news about Bourdain broke, the suicide of this writer whom I venerated shook me hard. I spoke honestly with a medical professional for the first time in my life. I talked about the decades of feeling empty. I revealed the fantasies of self-harm that I had dismissed as morbid little daydreams. I wept. The bright, young general practitioner suddenly realized he had better locate the Kleenex.
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