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How My Hero’s Death Saved My Life

   I arose on June 8, 2018 like any other day.  I rolled over and removed my phone from its charger and flipped right from the home screen to get Google’s curated news for me.  The first thing I saw was something along the lines of, “Anthony Bourdain, chef and TV personality, presumed dead while filming in France.”  I was shocked. I clicked on the article, read it, and laid in bed searching through different variations of the news in Google. About an hour later, I read an article, “Anthony Bourdain confirmed dead by ‘Parts Unknown’ crew.”

   I spent all day on my phone reading every article that I could.  I cried a lot that day. Sneaking into the mill room or boiler room to hide my complete shock and misery from my coworkers.  I texted my father, brother, mother, and my best friends and avid Tony followers, Josh and Matt. My father put it best when he said, “I’ve cried today too.  He was the man we aspired to be.”

   More amazingly, I had many friends texting me saying they were sorry to hear the news.  I knew that my love for Tony was grand but I didn’t realize how much I’d put it out there.  I’d been following his adventures since ‘No Reservations,’ read a good bit of his books, but more importantly I had joined a kitchen right after college.  I could actually make a great argument for him inspiring me to study Anthropology in college. I’d seen him both times he came on his talking tours to Nashville. The first time I’d even gotten a VIP ticket and was able to get a picture with him and have him sign a few books.  At the time I was disappointed because I didn’t get to truly speak with him and I awkwardly shouted, “You’re an inspiration,” as I was being escorted away to make way for the next book wielding fan to make their brief assault.

   Then came the internet.  The outpouring of sorrow from all over the world, mostly by people who hadn’t even met him in person.  It was apparent he had touched the world in an incredibly special way. This made it more difficult than anything to understand why he had spontaneously committed suicide. He had so much love for him and he had clearly made the world his oyster.  He traveled to exotic places, was an accomplished author, had several successful TV programs, and clearly had a tremendous amount of people who called him friend. But, alas, depression and suicide are never black and white.

   At the time I was taking an antidepressant.  The week of Christmas 2017 my Father and Mother had sat my brother and me down to inform us that our Father had moved out over a month ago and they were getting divorced.  I saw the therapist that had counseled my parents through their unsuccessful couple’s therapy for a few short sessions. After the second, she suggested I see a psychiatrist because I would benefit from an SSRI.  Instead, I went to a general practitioner, talked to him and soon had a prescription and refills for Zoloft. My baseline of sadness did raise while I was on the drug. I felt happier so I moved on.

    The Thursday after Valentine’s Day in 2018 I was removing my boots at work.  I had just clocked out and was ready to hit the road to head home to my girlfriend.  We had been together for 3 years and lived together for two of those years in a two bedroom apartment off West End Avenue that she owned.  My phone rang and I noticed that it was her. “Hey, I’m about to head home.” I said as I answered the call. With a shake in her voice, she told me, “I don’t want you to come home. You should go stay at your mother’s.” That Saturday I found myself a 29 year old bachelor that lived with his mother.  But, hey, I was already on Zoloft so the depression I felt was situational . . . right?

   A few incidents happened that should have given me the hint that maybe Zoloft wasn’t the exact and only help I needed.  My extreme anxiety heading into work, where I typically bitched about anything to anyone who would listen. The fact that I would wake up almost every 2 hours while I was sleeping, my heart thumping in my chest, a cold sweat washed over me.  Or, the exact same symptoms as I headed home to my mother’s. I was a wreck, but I just assumed that this is how everyone felt and maturity was just how well you hid it.

   My brother was in medical school and was doing rounds around the state in different hospitals learning new things.  My mother and I decided to visit him while he was in Chattanooga. We spent the day exploring the city. We ate a lot, but we drank even more at a bunch of different breweries.  By the time we made it to dinner, I was plastered. I don’t know what was brought up and I don’t remember really what I said but I do know that I was asked by my mom and brother to quit screaming because we were in a restaurant. As well, they continually asked me, “Why are you so angry?”  I went to bed without a word when we arrived at the Airbnb and spoke nothing of it until now.

   On my 30th birthday in September, I was ready to spend my actual birthday seeing Dave Matthews and Tim Reynolds play an acoustic show at Pilgrimage Music Festival.  My mother had bought my brother and me tickets to the festival. My father had decided that he would go out of town for that time. I took it very personally. It was my 30th birthday and he wasn’t going to be around?  A completely irrational thought considering I was going to be at a festival that he would not be attending for the duration of the weekend.

  My father didn’t take off until early in the morning on Saturday so he wanted to take me and my brother out to dinner Friday night.  So, I was doing what I had come to complain about to many parties, as well as, what caused deep-seeded angst inside me, balancing my schedule to appease my separated parents.  

   It was fine.  I had been playing the game for a while now even though it made me cringe to do so.  I figured that I could go out Friday night with Brian and my dad, eat a good meal, have a few drinks, and be back in bed early to wake up chipper and ready to roast in the sun while watching an incredible line-up of artists.  

   When I arrived, my dad informed me that his flight wasn’t until later and he was ready to party.  This was not in my plan. We went out to dinner and had cocktails, followed by beer and wine. I’m sure I spoke a lot and was involved in the conversation during dinner but I remember thinking, “It’s my birthday. Pay attention to me!” My father and brother swapped war stories of being in medical school and I started to think, “I get it. I’m blue collar. I make beer for a living. I’ll never relate to you guys.”  Eventually, we made our way to Printer’s Alley. But after the restaurant, I really had no desire to go anywhere but home. Of course, I never voiced my opinion. I just stewed over what was happening, allowing the toxic thought to poison my night. We headed toward Skull’s Rainbow Room. I was already sour.

   When I heard the doorman ask for a $25 cover per person, I said, “No Way,” and began to walk away.  I didn’t make it more than a few steps before I had to turn around to see my dad whipping out his credit card and throwing down the $75 to get us all in.  The Rainbow Room was packed. We stood on each other’s toes by the bar, my dad frantically waving down the bartender to get us cocktails. The couple next to me kept resting their backs against mine in some weird coup for the space.  It was so loud we couldn’t even talk. We just stood and watched the stage as the dancers came out for their show, shimmying and vibrating to make the tassels covering their nipples do arching circles. I couldn’t help but think of my good friend, Matt’s rule, “It isn’t a strip club unless I see butthole.” It made me laugh, but I was growing uncomfortable and more irritated as the time ticked on.  

  After what felt like an eternity, we stumbled back out onto the street.  I made a crude joke in the drunken stupor I was in. My brother immediately corrected me on how politically uncouth I had just been.  “Oh hell no,” I thought, “I’ve already been reminded all night (or so my feelings had convinced myself was happening) that I am the lesser than son and I sure as fuck am not going to let my little brother also assert himself as the moral compass.” I began to scream and curse and generally make a complete ass out of myself in the middle of the busy Nashville street.  My dad came up and said, “I was looking for another bar, but I don’t want to go to another bar with you now.” I fumed again. Acid burning in my mouth. “I don’t even want to go to another fucking bar!” I screamed.

   I didn’t speak a word in the Uber back to my dad’s.  I just kept thinking about how neither of them had asked what I wanted to do.  It was my birthday, wasn’t it? I felt pulled in every direction. My mother had bought me and my brother Pilgrimage Music Festival tickets and I viewed my dad’s attempt to take us out and throw dollars around as an attempt to assert himself as superior over my mother.  When we arrived at my dad’s, I grabbed my bag, walked down the stairs, told my brother not to be late for Pilgrimage the next day, slammed the door, and drove back to my mother’s drunk.

    Dear reader, I have deep shame about that night. Some may read that and think that my father is a real bastard.  This is not the lesson to take away from this story. The lesson is that I allowed myself to repeat the same irrational, negative thoughts over and over in my own head.  I over-personalized and catastrophized all aspects of my life, past, present, and future. In fact, I love my father. Over the past two years we have actually grown closer and created a better relationship than we had previously.  I know his only wish is, and was, to ensure that I am happy and living well. Unfortunately, my state of mind at the time didn’t let me focus on that fact. It should have been a major wake up call that I needed help.

   The next day, we only got to spend a few hours at Pilgrimage before they called the festival due to storms and sent everyone home. I woke up on my actual birthday, Sunday the 23rd, to a depressing message saying that the entire festival had been cancelled.  I convinced myself that my bad behavior Friday night was the reason that the festival was cancelled. That my negative energy is what sapped the entire weekend.

   I survived the holidays as best I could. The holidays being when I was told of my parents impending divorce a few years before,  I chalked my further depression, suicidal thoughts, and general anxiety to being amplified by this notion. It was also around this time that I felt I could finally watch an episode of ‘Parts Unknown.’ I hadn’t attempted to read, watch, or listen to anything with Anthony Bourdain because even seeing a picture of him made tears well up in my eyes.  However, I had gotten a tattoo of Tony’s chef coat skull a week after his passing, as well as, purchased a large digital painting of Anthony done by the prolific Riskie Forever (the artist best known for depicting Tupac Shakur nailed to a cross on his ‘Makavelli’ album cover.)

  I must have watched the Nashville episode of ‘Parts Unknown’ six times in a two week period.  Eventually, I began scrolling through the Netflix queue asking, “Where would I like to travel to with Tony this hour?”  But, I had a new lens. I saw the sadness in Tony. He almost seemed to seek out unhappiness and focus on it. I had originally thought that he was so empathetic that it was just what he brought out in the people he spoke with.  It reminded me of how depressed people tend to like melancholy music, claiming that it made them feel hopeful and uplifted. Misery loves company.

   My violent thoughts began to come back and I was having an extremely difficult time staying asleep through the night in December.  I decided that it was the Zoloft causing everything and stopped, cold turkey, the first week of January. I started to feel better.  I felt it easier to head to work. I was sleeping better. I didn’t have as heavy a brick weighing down my chest. That lasted about a month.  

   At the end of January, I walked into my brand new house that I had purchased with the help of my father in October to see a waterfall pouring from the ceiling fan in my living room.  I was back to square one. A 30-year-old living with his mother after only having had moved out for three months. The house wasn’t even a year old, having been completed in February of 2018, and the entire thing had to be completely gutted.  Everything, drywall, hardwood floors, insulation, had to be removed and replaced.

  Again I convinced myself that my negative thoughts and energy was the entire reason everything bad was happening in my life.  It was my fault. I spiraled further down a hole. My thoughts became darker and intrusive thoughts became more prevalent. I found myself driving home, careening down I-65 South and thinking, “what if I just unbuckled my seatbelt and wrapped this car around that upcoming light post?”  Or, “Mom’s not home, I could easily run a warm bath and slip slowly in warm, blissful unconscious then death before she got home. The inflictions on my wrist only hurting for a bit.”

   It was around this time that I picked up my first edition copy of ‘Kitchen Confidential’ that Anthony had signed personally to me and began to read again.  At one point he describes his feelings during one serious bout of unemployment where he couldn’t sleep without the thought of “throwing himself from his sixth story window” lulling him into R.E.M.  It struck a chord with me. I decided I needed help. It was clear that Tony had a lower baseline of happiness, just like me. I don’t know for sure but I guessed that the stigma of therapists when he was growing up was one of the reasons he never sought out help.  Well, I would be different. I would get help. I would rise from my own grave.

   It still took me until March to work up the courage to call a psychiatrist.  It’s not the easiest thing to convince yourself that your thoughts are harmful and not exactly how everyone else thinks.  But, my doctor was young, kind, and attentive. Within 30 minutes of me spewing my feelings over the past years, and the traumas I had recently experienced she had diagnosed me with Major Depressive Disorder.  As well, she informed me that not all antidepressants are the same and I must have been “activated” on Zoloft. This just meant that the drug was causing my anxiety to build up and take hard effects on me. Instead we discussed switching to Lexapro. She also gave me an extensive list of psychologists to look into in order to supplement my crawl out of the black.

   It took me another few weeks to work up the courage to call one of the numbers of the psychologists.  Eventually, I called the first number on the list. Our first phone conversation and meeting were great.  I didn’t know him at all, but he confirmed that my thoughts and feelings were normal and other people had them.  That simple bit of validation relieved me a great deal. As well, being a cognitive-behavioral psychologist, we began discussing my thoughts and how they dictated my emotions which in turn resulted in my actions.  It was like being in class. He has a white board and we went over how I could take different vantages of my thoughts in order to nudge my feelings to the more positive. I still see him and actually wrapped a session with him about an hour before sitting down to scribe this.  We’ve gone from once a week sessions to now having moved to every three weeks. It’s progress, and he always tells me how happy he is that I am taking this seriously and continually making headway. Therapy has been a tremendous help and every session is always better than the last.

   In my darkest times I thought that my glorifying of Anthony Bourdain as my hero would lead me into a Chris Farlian obsession.  Now I know that he truly is my ultimate hero and that I never should have doubted it. I constantly am in awe of his empathy. His ability to sit with people who he has zero in common with and get life details from them that they probably only spoke of in their head.  He was an incredible person who deserved every shimmer of spotlight he was given. Yes, he was flawed, but aren’t we all? He was the greatest at exposing those flaws. Getting to the core of someone’s ideals. He absorbed their emotions in order for us to observe them.  Maybe he simply absorbed too much and wasn’t observing his own emotions well enough. Either way, in my darkest of times I was able to turn to my hero, my chef, my friend (if only for short bursts on television) and look at him empathetically, compare his pain with mine, and recognize that, although he may have not sought help, I needed to seek help.  Even after having completed his earthly research, Anthony Bourdain still reached out and touched me. As a matter of fact, he helped save my life.