I'll keep the red: the reality of "mental health grief"

I know that everything happens for a reason. But where do I go from here?

Here’s what I know about hair dyes: Semi-permanent hair dyes (i.e. the bottles sold in Hot Topic) stain the surface of your hair, with your cuticles, or the outer layer of the hair, soaking the pigment up like a sponge. Permanent dyes (i.e. most box dyes at CVS) penetrate the cortex, or the inner layer of the hair, and alter it at a molecular level.

My hair is naturally jet black, so if I want a vivid color as advertised, I’d first have to bleach my hair. Bleach opens up the cuticles and strips the cortex of its original pigment. Then, I could go over with a semi-permanent hair dye (I stopped using permanent hair dyes because, in my experience, they don’t last any longer than semi-permanent dyes and only dries out my hair).

After watching numerous TikTok videos of hairstylists saying that Splat dyes were a “nightmare” to take out, I was SOLD. I got the shade Luscious Raspberries, a bright, almost neon red, rubbed it on my hair (which was partially bleached to a earthy medium brown) and slept in it, hoping for a pop of burgundy with minimal damage.

Sure enough, my hair rinsed out to a glossy burgundy. It was darker than expected, but I hoped that washing it again would reveal the vibrant red undertones, because that has happened before. But over the next several weeks, the color faded in a rather linear way, gradually returning to dull, mousy brown.

After I finally finished my memoir last week, I figured I’d touch up my hair. I decided to bleach my hair blonde for once and for all, and just use the burgundy hair dye I already had at home. If I started with light hair, I could achieve the advertised results, without having to mentally calculate the outcome of mixing dark brown with hot pink.

I figured that the bleach would wipe out the last traces of the Splat Luscious Raspberries, leaving me with a dirty blonde. Instead, my hair turned red. I thought that maybe the dye was coming out and sitting on the surface.

But when I stepped out of the shower, it was unmistakable: my hair was red. A bright, strawberry red. Orange in the janky dorm lighting, and slightly pink under the sun.

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The past week, I’ve been crying almost every day. I wish I could tell you these were tears of joy.

But it’s unmistakable: they’re tears of sadness.

When I announced the release of my digital memoir last Friday, I thought that I’d feel relief. And I did. The fantastical part of me also thought I’d get more engagement from locals, more people asking questions about the memoir the next day I walked into campus, that I’d finally start creating a new narrative about myself. That didn’t happen.

Everyone I know is busy. Genuinely, so. One of my friends is going to law school. Another just got married. Another told me she couldn’t hang out because she’s so overwhelmed.

So am I. I’m graduating in December, which means I need to focus on career development. But I’m also desperate to recreate the active social life I missed in my younger years—trying to get the most spark from the last bit of college, the tail end of my youth. The good ol’ youth.

I have two months left before I pack my bags and forever leave this place, and the truth is, I’m not okay. I know that I will be okay, but right now, I’m not okay. Every day feels like a constant mental calculation of how much I should utilize the structured environment of college to build my resume, and how much I should just let loose and be silly because I won’t have this opportunity again.

Before I moved in, I packed more clothes than I need because counting the days would just make me cry. So far, I’ve spent half of it wearing the same black T-shirt and jeggings. I chose to go Goblin Mode during the final stretches of editing my memoir, and now, I feel like I have to look impeccable every single day before I have to tone myself down for a corporate job, but this morning, I didn’t even shower.

I told myself two weeks ago that I need a new mascara because I’m pretty sure I’m allergic to the one I have right now (my eyes are bloodshot, and I don’t think people would want to talk to me if they think I’m coming to class high as a kite). Last night, I browsed Amazon looking for a replacement, but I was hit with existential dread: should I save my money or splurge now before life gets any harder?

Oh, but it’s not even my money; it’s my parents’, and maybe this mental breakdown is the universe’s punishment for being a spoiled brat. At least, that’s what I told myself today, after I told my mom I was overwhelmed.

—Just focus on classes now, and look for jobs after you get home.

But I’d be too depressed to do that, when I get home.

—Why?

Because I’d be isolated.

—Well, you can go to the recreation center and find a hobby.

But is that really the same thing as being in a community with thousands of people. I’m already feeling really lonely right now, and I’m scared to find out how much worse I can possibly feel.

—Do you want to stay another semester? Because that’s all I’m hearing right now. But there’s only so much we can do.

No…

I understood easily that what I’m saying comes off as guilt-tripping. I just suck at being consoled. I wish I was better at being consoled. Of course it’s not anyone’s fault. Maybe I should’ve talked to other people but I feel like reaching out is overrated. Some of my old friendships fell apart because people kept telling me to ask for what I need. I needed them to check in on me first, so I’d know they genuinely wanted to help me, instead of just saying “Yes” because the opposite of yes is a no and no one wants to be the bad guy. But I guess that felt like I was putting even more on them. Maybe I would’ve felt the same too, if I were in their shoes. Ultimately, it meant that “playing mind games” got added alongside “trauma dumping” to their list of Why Asaka Was Never a Good Friend.

I’m grateful for the friends I have, and feel horrible when I catch myself making hyperbolical statements, like “I don’t have any friends.” I wouldn’t be who I am without them, and I shouldn’t take them for granted (Yet, I’m scared that so many of my friends are excited for the freedom that lies ahead, while I worry that I’ll feel more constrained. What if that means we’ll have even less in common once they settle into “normal” jobs and I navigate life as a “disability hire”? It’s not like I can go drive on my own to see them). I also don’t regret pulling back from past friendships that weren’t working, because I value my time and energy, thank you (But am haunted by the awful, nasty, and viscious ways I handled those situations, and the thought that none of this would’ve happened if untreated mental illness didn’t make me so damn unrelatable for the first three years of college).

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So we’re using the word grief metaphorically now. I wouldn’t say I experienced pandemic grief but this mental health grief is knocking me off my feet.

As a writer, my dream was always to write personal essays and cultural commentary mixed in with general lifestyle advice—so basically, what you’d see in Vice or Dazed—but untreated mental health problems derailed my aspirations. I became used to writing about my struggles in a very specific way.

In my memoir, #TechnicallyAutistic: Lessons from the Periphery, I wrote:

What I thought would be a one- or two-time thing became a routine: survive an academic crisis, go home over the breaks, and write articles about how I got through it. This “disability writer” act was a marriage of convenience, signed with blood, sweat, and tears from when I had two choices: leverage my disability or give up writing.

After my medication was changed and I started leaarning new habits, my prefrontal cortex transformed. I found myself eager to learn, ready to absorb information like a sponge. Over a very short time, everything I’d been exposed to began to register in my head with striking clarity; lyrics I heard for years as sounds turned into recognizable words, and my writing became warmer, moving away from a detached, Wikipedia-esque tone as I recounted memories in greater detail. For the first time, I was talking to people with astounding ease and wrote because I was inspired by these interactions, and not because I needed to write in order to talk to people.

I began to revisit the idea that my writing skills could stand on its own, without the “Hey here’s someone with a disability volunteering to share a firsthand experience, and that’s more ethical than having someone without a disability report on it,” or the sensationalism of how I’m such a good writer for someone who could barely [insert “basic” task here]. I was excited to have a communal role that much bigger than my disability status.

You might be wondering, then, why I continued to focus on disability by spending another year writing a memoir on the subject that I’m now promoting it nonstop on Instagram. But is it really about disability? I wrote of the central question of the memoir, “What is autism?”:

The question has ceased to be a mere query and has instead turned into a plot device. The words that follow are a reflection of everything I’ve turned to—the good and the bad and the ugly—in search of identity and belonging as someone with an unusual disability.

When I was writing the memoir, I was 100% in control of my narrative. Honestly, I’ve wanted to do this a long time ago—to acknowledge the elephant in the room, OWN IT, and move on like a boss. But here I am. I might only have two months to be seen as more than just “that disabled girl.” I don’t know.

Now that I’m at a stable place, I’ve been poring over my resume, split between works in creative nonfiction and Accessibility capital case A, and thinking about how I can re-combine these passions in a way that would keep me stable.

Everything is getting realer by day. The tie between my writer creds—with my Thought Catalog/Collective World listicles and contributions to student media—and my “accessibility advocate” creds—with my involvement in the College’s disability advocacy initiatives and various “educational” articles on disability—feels even harder to break, with the addition of the memoir, which I’d say would be better described as a piece of art than a work of advocacy.

Some of the language I used in the memoir is rather colorful, and the whole thing is emotionally charged, which was a risk I knew I was taking. Basically, I talked about the lengths I’d gone to “own” my story, and the recurring experience of feeling alienated within disability advocacy, which left me feeling like “an outcast amongst outcasts,” and created rifts in friendships. Though so many people have told me to simply condense my personal stories about disability into a “service” article, these deeper reflections have made me question how sustainable that business model was.

If I’m going to take on the role of an “advocate,” I’d rather share practical advice that could make a tangible difference in someone’s life, than just serve as a symbolic token of inclusion. Even so, I worry that if I jump into it too soon, before I’ve written about other things, I might be jinxing it, like, if I had these [resources/tools/information] then I would've become a real writer, and I want to make sure you guys don’t end up the way I do. I know that’s a gross misrepresentation of all l the nuanced insights folks share in accessibility and the reasons why they get into that field. Selfishly, I’m struggling without the assurance that the life I’m living is a story, not just a theory.

I have gaps in my resume, and turmoil in my mind. I know that I sound melodramatic, but the mental health grief makes it hard for me to think clearly about my future.

Last spring, I persuaded my mom to allow me to live in an off-campus house in a desperate effort to remain close to the friends I’d be spending time with this semester, who would be graduating in spring (or later) instead of this December. I knew I’d have to leave someday, but I didn’t want to navigate the transition without friends, and I feared that would happen if I went home. One of the people I was dealing with wanted to negotiate a contract, but my mom, who handles the family budget, said no. Long story short, things got pretty messy, and I had a depressive episode. I was in the hospital for a week. For the first time, I saw my father cry.

The ordeal led to difficult conversations with my family, but I was able to repair my relationship with my dad—something I’d almost given up on. For the rest of the summer, I kept myself busy with finishing my memoir. It was the only thing drowning out the mean voice in my head that said I was an embarrassment and an awful person. It’s funny; the last time I went to the psych ward before that, I was in eighth grade, and I was finishing my memoir, and I decided to abandon the project because it was just too much. Sometimes, second time is the charm.

Opportunity is riveting, and my recent friendships have challenged the idea of “too late.”

Last week, when I texted my friend Alexa that I was having a hard time, she called me immediately. She drove over to pick me up, even though she was leaving for a business trip the day after. For the next two-plus hours, I was at her apartment, where she listened to me vent and I helped her pick out outfits for her upcoming trips. We had a class together last fall, we officially became friends two weeks before she graduated last spring, and I never thought we’d become this close.

My friend Noelle also called me. We went to high school together and weren’t really friends, but I always thought she had good vibes so I kept in touch with her on Instagram. We met up, and again, I never thought we’d become this close.

I’m not going to lie; as graduation nears, I feel sadness more than anything. I’ve felt this sense of finality before, and at times, it led me to resignation. But this time, my sadness fuels me to do something.

I started writing this a couple of hours ago. Usually, it takes me more than a week to write something like this. If this sounds like a stereotypical emo girl’s diary, so be it. I didn’t get to enjoy a lot of the things that come with being a teenager.

On that note, I’ll keep the red—for now. The "for now" is scary, but like most fearfully made things on this planet, it’s also beautiful.