Self-Reflection

A couple of days ago, Facebook reminded me of the below picture. It was taken outside the front of Yale College on the last day of my second year. During those two years at college, I was lucky enough to find myself as part of a group of about 30-40 tight-knit friends. I remember the day the picture was taken; I was so proud to be there. I was even more proud to be in the center; it added to the feeling that I mattered. At that very moment, I was surrounded by the best friends I had ever had.

This picture made me think about how I've changed over the years. Within many of the photos taken during that period of time, I can be seen pulling stupid faces and trying to overcompensate for my lack of identity and self-confidence. I often talked too much about very little. I was unsure of myself and so I mimicked the behaviour and mannerisms of friends as a means of fitting in and having people like me. There are few things more powerful than the urge to belong; to be a part of something bigger than yourself, that in turn makes you a bigger, better person. These people shaped who I was for years to come, and I am forever grateful to them for doing so. For as unsure of myself as I was, God knows I was happy. It was that happiness that dictated my behaviour around others going forward for a very long time. I just wanted to fit in; I was desperate for people to like me and so being included in anything was an absolute gift. 

This next photo is another example of that. Atop a pyramid of my friends, I felt like a king. I was literally and figuratively lifted by these people. They made me feel worth something at a time when I was still trying to figure out who the hell I actually was. The reason these pictures stood out to me this week (aside from simply being wonderful memories) is because I recognise just how different the "Ethan" in these photos is when compared to the "Ethan" many of you now know, but I'll come to that later. For now, I'd like to continue delving into the unseen depths held within these snapshots of my life, because it wasn't until I went back and actually looked at these photos that I realised that the person smiling back at the camera wasn't necessarily the person he thought he was. 

For the next photo, we go back even further. High School. It's worth noting that during my last two years of high school I did have a group of friends whom I loved dearly. The few that I still talk to continue to hold a special place and I consider them good friends regardless of the distance or time between our last meetings - particularly Phil, Jack and Naomi who have each in their own way remained pillars of support and friendship in times of need, just as Charlotte W has since college. What's worth noting in this picture (besides my incredible haircut) is the smile on my face. By no means false, but when I look at it now I see a kid who was very unsure of himself. Somebody who was simply happy to have found a group of people willing to call him their friend. The only one in the picture not focused on the camera itself, but the moment it was capturing. Proof that I belonged. In that moment, and many others to follow, that was all I cared about. 

This mindset and sentiment is echoed in another picture taken at the end of college. This picture, taken as a joke between four gingers, shows me looking about as shy as I've ever looked. My smile is coy, my shoulders hunched, hands clasped and my body language in general is very submissive. Unsure that I belong, but happy to be there nonetheless. 

As we move toward the future, beyond the uncertainties of college and the follies of youth, I find myself forever grateful to have had, and continue to have, these people in my life. They have given me gifts that I couldn't possibly repay, and my admiration and respect for each of them is boundless. 

That brings me to University. The 18 months I spent there were complicated, to say the least. I found myself another group of wonderful friends almost by accident. Unfortunately, my behaviour during that time eventually led to the alienation of these people. In the unlikely event that any of you ever find yourself reading this - thank you for the time you gave me, and I'm sorry for the person I ended up being in the end. That person is found within this picture.  Skinny and badly dressed, I began to allow the mask of confidence I had worn up until that point become a permanent fixture; one that slowly developed into a face of arrogance and hubris, instead of the self-assuredness I should have been aiming for. I began University still very keen to impress, but without realising it, I soon hit a 180 and became somebody absolutely convinced he was right all the time. Suffice it to say I was anything but.

My life between school and university had been one spent re-inventing myself; following the examples of others as a means of attaining acceptance. It wasn't until I left university to come home that I began to change for the better. No longer were the camera-captured smiles shy, forced or even "grateful". There's just a simple comfort in my smile; an ease with who I was, and who I was with. When I look at this picture, I'm reminded of the last time my life was unmarred by depression, anxiety or any other worries. It is one of the only pictures in existence that was taken at a time where my mind wasn't filled with noise. Just a normal 22-year old in a normal relationship. Of all the pictures you'll see here today, this is unquestionably the most authentic smile. 

As time went by, I began to lose people. Dad passed away, my relationship with Charlotte ended, and my mental health began to decline. The smiles became forced in a way they never had been before. The mask had once again shifted. What once was a mask of false confidence became a mask of false happiness. That isn't to say there weren't moments of genuine peace and happiness, but generally I'd smile simply because that is what one does in photos. I began my relationship with Hannah and we shared experiences and times together that despite everything, I continue to treasure. Even so, the smile began to fade. It was harder to muster. Heavier. During our travels together, I suffered a huge amount with anxiety. I wasn't even sure why at the time; it just hit me. We were travelling, however, and nobody wants to see or be a part of travel photos populated by somebody unable to summon a smile. So I did. I smiled, and I pretended I was well. This denial, or lack of realisation on my part, was no doubt detrimental to my health, but it was what I felt I was supposed to do at the time.

Back then, I was hiding my illness. Very few people were aware of the noise within my head and only those who looked closely enough could see it. Looking back now, it's rather obvious. When you look at this picture, you'll initially see me smiling with an idiot behind me. I might look happy, but look at my eyes. They're sunken, with a heavy purple tinge. They're tired, worn eyes. I didn't notice it myself until Hannah pointed it out to me. I was ill, and I wasn't being open about it. The lie continued. I wasn't to know it at the time, but things progressively deteriorated. Over the next few years, this relationship fell apart, my depression worsened, my anxiety increased and my self-worth plummeted. Germany happened, along with all the things I've written about to no end here. 

But what's worth noticing, and what is perhaps the point of this entire (rather self-indulgent) piece, is that for better or worse now, the way I feel is reflected in my photos. Those of you who follow me on Instagram will likely notice that I rarely smile. I often look rather blank, maybe angry or stressed, or tired. But it's honest. It's real. The kid who withdrew in photos with his shoulders hunched now stands with them squared and confident. The child who spent years trying to figure out who he was finally knows. It may be far from perfect, but it's me. The countless hours of portraying somebody else has given me the ability to know who I truly am better than ever. So I'll smile when I'm happy, and I'll no doubt continue to look tired and frustrated when I'm not. 

Either way, you can be damn sure that the person you're looking at is me. Ethan Ross. I've come through far too fucking much to waste my time pretending to be something I'm not. 

So I'll leave you with both. One sincere smile, and one weary-eyed, restless soul getting up to face another day of noise. 

Of all the things I worry about, the man I am today is not one of them. 

For better or worse, I've come a long way.

"I Took a Pill in Ibiza"

There’s a great song by Mike Posner that I just discovered – “I Took a Pill in Ibiza”. As music often does, it got me thinking. It may come as a surprise to some of you that I, on a number of occasions over the past 12 years, have experimented with drugs. Not many, and not frequently, but I have.

The first was fairly tame - marijuana. In my college days I suffered a lot with migraines, and so an acquaintance named “Sketchy” gave me a spliff in the hope that it would fend off the migraine I was having at the time. I don’t recall whether or not it worked, I just remember being drowsy and telling Mum about it when I got home.

Before I continue - as soon as I’d finished writing the above passage about weed I began to smell the stuff so clearly that I called my flatmate into my bedroom to confirm that the smell was indeed real; sure enough, it was. Weird. The first time I decide to write about my drug use, somebody lights up a fucking blunt outside my house. Funny that all the years I’ve spent writing about mental health hasn’t produced any therapists. Also, yes. His name really was “Sketchy”. He was giving out free drugs; of course that was his name.

Anyway, back to the point.

I told Mum, and she was fine about it. I knew that she had done drugs in her younger years and so I had no concerns about confiding in her. This level of trust is why we’re best friends today. She simply asked that I was careful and responsible with it, and trusted that I would be. For what it’s worth, I was. I never really took to the stuff anyway, and subsequently tried it a handful of times to very little fanfare or consequence.

Years later in 2013, my old man passed away. This happened during my first major bout of depression, and I made a point of carrying the whole thing on my back. I organised the funeral down to exactly what the speakers would each say and ensured that my family never saw me cry. At the time, I felt that this was the right thing to do. “Show no weakness, be strong for them.” As should hopefully now be apparent, I was a very different person then. I now understand the importance of speaking up and sharing pain, and I believe that vulnerability and openness are each demonstrations of a greater strength within. That said, I wasn’t handling it well.

Around 10 months later, another acquaintance of mine informed me that they had come into possession of a stash of magic mushrooms and offered me the chance to experience them free of charge. Intrigued by the prospect, I gave it thought. I consulted my Mum, and this time she was more concerned. She had known people to have life-altering “bad trips” and was worried that my head wasn’t in the right place. I told her that I was going to try it anyway but assured her that I would set the conditions of my “experiment” in such a way that would be as safe as one could be whilst trying magic mushrooms. Once again, she trusted me, albeit nervously.

I waited for a night when I was happy and relaxed. I surrounded myself with trusted friends who talked me through what I should expect and advised that the necessary help would be called in the event that something bad should happen. I went into the whole thing with nothing more than an open mind and intrigue.

This is me, very high. Note the plate-sized pupils.

I hadn’t given the remotest consideration to the idea that it might help me process a tragedy that I had yet to come to terms with, but that night wound up being the most profound night of my life. Chemically speaking, I was the happiest I’d ever been. I experienced various hallucinations of my parents, and had a conversation in my head that sincerely helped me come to terms with both Dad’s life and death. Aside from that, the night was genuinely fascinating. I walked four miles to get home, and it felt as though the stars themselves had aligned. A few years later, when “GreyMatterLeaks” first began, I even wrote a piece detailing the whole experience for a reasonably well-known artist. They were seeking drug-based story inspiration for an art piece and I was looking to write. Whether my experience was of any consequence to her remains a mystery, but I may release the article one day if there’s any significant interest.

I never did mushrooms again, simply because that first experience meant too much to me. I knew that what had taken place went exactly as it was meant to, and whilst I’m no believer in fate or grand design, I do feel as though somehow that night was a necessary part of my story.

Fast forward to a year or so later. I’ve just come out of a very intense and difficult relationship that ended in a weird way. The depression has returned, stronger than ever. In large part, this bout of depression was a result of the breakup, but as ever there were other inner demons at play. My self-worth was disappearing at a terrifying rate and I was spiralling. This time I was abroad, and I wound up scoring 20 euros worth of ecstasy from some random bloke selling knock-off Ray-Bans.

This was significant for me because it’s a drug I would never have considered taking were it not for the complete lack of interest I had in being alive at that time. I was pissed up, and the offer of something else to either kill me or dull the pain for an hour or six seemed inconsequential. Fortunately for me, it was. I don’t remember much of the night, but I do remember that guilt that caused me to hide it from Mum for years.

Whilst it’s true that I’d never considered taking it before, it wasn’t that that haunted me. Were I so inclined, I could no doubt have sourced it at home from somebody I trusted. Still stupid, but far less so than taking it from a stranger in a country I’d never been to before. I didn’t feel guilty because of the drug; that was what it was. I felt guilty because in my depression, I cared so little about my own wellbeing that I gave no thought to the people who did.

I realise in hindsight that this was to some degree a symptom of the illness, but I’m still not proud of it. Eventually, I told Mum. She tells me she was heartbroken, but mostly because she realised exactly what I now know – that I must have been truly broken to be so stupid. I knew it would hurt her to know, but like I said, I tell her everything. Good and bad.

We’re just shy of 1300 words in, and if you’re still here, you may be wondering what prompted this “laptop confessional”. Aside from the song I listened to, it’s my current relationship with drugs that brings this topic to the forefront of my mind.

As you may know, I was drugged a year ago, leading to PTSD and the drastic and at times near-fatal exacerbation of my depression and anxiety. 215 days ago I found out I was negative for HIV and I stopped smoking an hour later. 53 days ago I stopped drinking completely. As a result of what happened, I can’t stand the thought of losing control over my own body.

3 days ago, I was medication free for the first time in 2 years.

For the record, I transitioned to another medication today that I’m currently scrutinising in real-time in order to catalogue the effects, but I wanted to spend a few days medication-free first. I wanted to know how I would feel.

The answer surprised me. The days I spent without my medication were the clearest and most normal days I’ve had in months. A week ago, I was having daily thoughts of suicide. Mum suggested that the Mirtazapine I was on might be the reason I’d been so much worse the last few months. I think she may have been right. I truly believe that continuing with that drug would have resulted in my death within the next 18 months.

This revelation that I was perhaps better off without the medication is why I’m tracking the side-effects – come this Friday I’m seeing my doctor and strongly considering ceasing medication almost entirely. My experience this morning with the new medication was unpleasant, and whilst the second dose tonight hasn’t been bad at all, it doesn’t feel like it helped. So essentially, it fucks me up or leaves me as I am. There’s the rub.

Over the years I’ve been willing to subject myself to all manner of mind-altering experiences for the sake of having stories to tell when I’m older. I wouldn’t change that. I’m glad that I made those choices because they informed both who I am now and the opinions I have on certain drugs. With that said, my mind is twisted up enough without adding more knots. It may be time to accept that I’m just not a person that can be helped by medication; a realisation that is both a slight concern and minor relief. I’m still processing it.

As for everything else, I guess now just felt like the right time to tell the story. I realise that whilst some of you already knew, many of those who know me personally may be surprised/disappointed/amused/etc to find out that I’ve taken drugs in the past, but ask yourself if you liked me before you read this? If you did, consider that experiences such as these are why I am who I am. More to the point, I’ve made a habit of being open and honest when I write, so if you’ve ever admired that quality at all in me, this is still that.

My thoughts on the matter are much the same as they’ve always been – so long as what you’re doing is of no harm to others, do whatever the fuck you want. Just be careful, be safe, and learn from everything.

Good or bad.