Depression

All That’s Unseen

/ Damean Mathews, Author / Leave a comment

What does life look like in the coalfields of Appalachia in the 21st Century? What sort of life can a native Appalachian hope to lead? What happens when extreme views and harmful ideologies are introduced during the innocence of one’s youth?

Emilee Hackney’s book All That’s Unseen answers these questions and more.

When I first learned a Tazewell native was quickly becoming a bestselling author – let alone one who is telling a devastatingly real story of pain and displacement – I could not get my hands on the book fast enough. I tore through it quickly and carefully, seeing places and people I know throughout in startling clarity.

Hackney went to my high school, graduated just a few years after me, lived a life that was in some ways eerily similar to my own. To see the familiarity of her life on the page and know it is being spread worldwide is honestly nothing short of immensely beautiful to me. I felt exactly what it was like being in Tazewell during the time frames she discusses through her narrative.

Being a part of the church culture in Tazewell County, I also recognize the absolute potential of damaging beliefs being pushed on youths in that aspect as well. While never being a part of the churches she mentions, I had friends who were. I likewise found myself at times in older, more “traditional” churches where similar ideas were peddled.

Memories of sermons against homosexuality, secular books and music, even certain brands or companies that “donated to the Church of Satan,” according to the powers behind the pulpit, ran rampant through my mind while I was reading about Emilee’s youth. I felt a connection with this book that honestly blows me away.

Knowing the things she went through at the hands of a predator is also something I can not take lightly. One of the biggest illicit predators of Tazewell youth was actually arrested just a couple of years ago – a teacher at the very high school Emilee and I both went to. The high school I now teach at.

It is absolutely insane to think such people live alongside us every single day. They can put such a pleasant, normal mask on over their face of hideous hypocrisy and evil that people will still go out of their way to defend the monsters. I am beyond ecstatic that Emilee is being open about, not only her experience with someone who did these things, but about the way the community as a whole either just accepted it or brushed it under the collective rug. In today’s society, where predators and criminals are being made the norm and living life as publicly elected officials, it has never been more important to shed light on the truth of the pain and damage they cause.

What struck me most, however, is not just the similarities between Emilee’s youth and my own, but the power of the written word that captured another hurt Tazewell youth like myself. Where I moved more in the direction of fiction, Emilee’s calling was to immediately publish her experiences – and for that I could not more proud of her. Knowing another found comfort in the solidity of literature, that her story is her path to freedom, is just incredible.

Hackney’s writing is immensely fluid and sophisticated, with a nuance for the casual reader that definitely puts one in the mind of a mountain native. I found Hackney’s descriptive prowess and use of imagery, as well as literary elements of comparison, just amazing. Life in the mountains is not something you can survive without it making its mark on your soul, giving you an innate ability to call to mind those foggy mornings where the sun illuminates the world in a golden hue that is simply to die for, or those nights where the darkness is an impenetrable presence broken only by starlight and the warbling call of insects.

I could literally rave about this book for the rest of the day. Maybe longer. The overall point is this: You need to read it. ALL OF YOU.

Emilee will actually be in Tazewell on August 29th for a book signing at Tazewell Public Library for anyone who would like to meet her. I don’t think I’ll be able to make it myself, so I may have to have a friend get a copy signed for me.

One thing is certain, though. This book has definitely inspired me to pick back up writing a memoir of my own. It’s something I have struggled with for a long time. I’ve started and stopped writing it probably half a dozen times or more, always talking myself out of it, thinking no one would care to read it. After seeing a fellow Appalachian’s journey, however, I think that matters very little. I want to write it for myself. If for no other reason than to offer myself a true catharsis and freedom.

At the end of the day, this memoir has shown me again just how important it is to tell your story. Everyone has one. Not every one is for everyone, but every single one matters. You matter. Don’t let yourself believe otherwise.

Confusion and Grief

/ Damean Mathews, Author / 3 Comments

Last night, I found out my biological father died this week. No way to sugarcoat that information, really. I hadn’t spoken to the man in nearly 18 years, not for lack of trying. I sought him out time and time again, wanting to have a relationship with him, no matter how small it was. I put myself out there and gave it my all to try and be a son to a man who didn’t want to be my father. I’ve never gotten to share my accomplishments, my sadnesses, my truths, and myself with the man whose DNA I share. I might never have even known he was gone because of these decisions on his part.

I am forever grateful to the cousin who made sure I knew, also. A lifetime of potential memories gone. A lifetime spent wondering why I wasn’t good enough, if there was something wrong with me, if I would ever even know why he wanted nothing to do with me. Now I guess I will never know the answers.

I think that is the strangest part of the whole thing for me. I have thought about going to the last place I knew he lived and seeking him out, or pushing harder to find the relatives on that side of the family that are still alive (which, according to his obituary – in which my name is not even correct, I might add – is nearly everyone except his father), but ultimately have chosen against it. For the last few years, I honestly didn’t even know if he was still alive, with Covid running rampant as it did. Until his brother found me on Facebook last year and at least confirmed that much for me, that is.

Even until I got the obituary and saw the face of the man I barely remember looking back at me, some part of me said my cousin must be mistaken. But there it was. The first line in the obituary read that he died with his daughter by his side. A daughter I’ve never met. Not a biological sibling, I know now, but nonetheless, someone who mattered enough to him for him to raise. To stick by. To live for. Someone I never even knew existed. Did she know about me?

Did he ever mention me? Could she hold the answers to why she got a father figure out of him and I never did? Do I even want to ask?

Those questions and more have been flooding my mind for the last 16 or so hours, and I am no closer to deciding if they are even worth asking. I have a whole side of my family whom I know nothing about. My father’s obituary said he loved God, loved to cook, was a great dad. Two out three ain’t bad… we have those in common at least. Is there anything else we share?

There is a service for Scotty Wayne Osbourne on Monday. A time for those who knew him to grieve him, to say goodbye to him, to pay their respects for a man they now have to build a life without. Do I fit that mold? I know next to nothing about him. I only know life without him in it. But I’ve never gotten to say goodbye. I never knew I would have to. Until it was too late. Just like this time.

It Isn’t Just a Word.

/ Damean Mathews, Author / 3 Comments

Each year millions of Americans are plagued by symptoms and feelings related to depression. From feeling alone, angry, sad, hurt, and like you don’t belong, feelings of depression can come in many forms. Some people find themselves feeling lethargic and separated, others feel so affected by it that they have thoughts of suicide. Some, sadly, even attempt to commit suicide. Others, still, succeed. Some statistics say that as much as 15 percent of those affected by depression will attempt or commit suicide.

I have no shame in admitting that I am one of those who faces depressive thoughts and feelings. I have no shame in admitting it, but I can’t pretend I haven’t had some hesitation about writing this post. I’ve told you all before that I had bouts with depression in my past that were none too pleasant. In the time following my grandfather’s death, I was a very changed young man. Depression attacked me from quite a few angles, leading me down a path of upset and confusion. It was only when I put pen to paper and began to allow my creative abilities to flow that I found how to combat those feelings of depressive displacement. In short, as I’ve said before, writing saved my life. Never would I imagine something could hit me so hard that even writing would have trouble combating it.

That was before I lost my grandmother.

In August, after a long battle with a myriad of health issues, my grandmother went home to be with God. My grandmother was a woman of untold love, amusement and happiness. Throughout my life she was someone who was always there for me, working to make sure I was safe and happy no matter where I was. Losing her was nothing short of devastating for me. In the two months since her passing I have fought myself tooth and nail to avoid what I knew was sitting just below the surface. With each passing day I became more and more depressed. Anger, sadness, displacement, loneliness, uselessness were among the things boiling in my very soul.

I tried as hard as I could to fight it, but just ignoring the issues do not work. I found myself feeling that nothing was right. I wasn’t right. Work, home, reading, writing, driving, sitting, sleeping, waking. It was all wrong, and I was wrong for doing it. I couldn’t think about her, and I couldn’t not think about her. If I remembered her, I was certain it wasn’t good enough. If I tried not to think about her, I was disrespecting her memory. How could I work knowing she passed while I was at work one night? How could I not work, knowing her work ethic was so strong she worked well beyond the age she should have retired? The thoughts affected every part of my life.

The tricky part of this most recent bout of depression is that it wasn’t constant. It wasn’t an insistent, unavoidable pain. It came and went. One day I would be so low that I couldn’t possibly get any lower, and the next week would be fine. Some days were just as sunny as they could be, all my memories good and my heart soaring with possibility. But recently the good days have been few and far between. The depression grew and grew until it came to a head earlier in the week, forcing me to face the truth, even if I wasn’t sure what to do about it.

I’m depressed. I’m sad. I’m in a place unlike any I’ve found myself in before. And that is OK. That is something I can handle. My writing, which has brought me through more than even I understand, has been affected by this as well. Ordinarily, it has been something that brought me to new levels of life and helped me through anything, but it hasn’t been able to do that this time. Yes, it has brought me through some of it. I have found myself able to cling to my work, produce new ideas, and work on old ones, distracting me from the worst of the pain, but I left a very crucial part of the matter out. I didn’t face the problem.

Rather than allowing myself to feel the depression and the loss, I tried to shove it aside, thinking if I didn’t admit it to myself, then it couldn’t hurt me. Obviously, that isn’t the case. The pain and depression I’ve dealt with, the pain and depression that so many of us deal with every single day can not be ignored. I think that is the real secret here. So often in society, in our own minds, and in the view of the greater world, ignoring problems is one of the biggest false solutions presented to us. If we don’t admit that we’re depressed, if we don’t admit that we’re in pain, if we don’t admit that everything is not A OK, then it will go away, right? No.

I’m writing this post just as much for myself as for anyone else. Just by writing these words, by admitting that I have been depressed, I feel the hold of the sickness lessening. If there is nothing else I can stress in this post, nothing else that you will all take from this, I hope it is the message that you have to face the issue head on. You have to look your depression in the face and tell it that you absolutely will not stand by and let it take you. Admitting that there is a problem is the first step in conquering it. We’ve all heard that for any number of issues, and I finally understand how true it is.

Having an outlet is exceedingly important in the fight against pain and depression. Without it, even admitting the issue is there will not bring an end to the pain. I don’t pretend to have all of the answers here, but after dealing with this for so long and in so many forms, I think I’m beginning to understand more than I ever wanted to be necessary. I can’t speak for everyone who is, has been, or will be depressed. Of course I can’t. But what I can say is that, for me at least, admitting you are depressed is one of the most important steps you can take to combating the depression. Once you realize the problem is serious, and is not going away, you will have more than enough freedom to find a way to combat it.

At this point in time, after realizing that I wanted to write this post and actually going through with it, I feel more like myself than I have since my grandmother died. The inspiration to write is really coming back, and I think doing so will actually begin making a difference in helping me get myself and my brain back to normal.

Being depressed is not something to be ashamed of. It’s not something that signifies weakness. And it is definitely not something that can be ignored. I understand that now. That’s the real difference between my life then and now. When my grandfather passed I was open with myself about the issue but, until now, I’ve told myself and others that I’m fine. I’m not. I see that. Depression is a very real issue, and it is something that must be accepted and honestly dealt with before it can be dispensed. I have been dealing with, or rather not dealing with, depression since August. But today, for the first time since I got the news about my grandmother, I honestly feel like things will be OK. I am depressed, but I can accept it now, and deal with it. I might be going through a rough time, but it is not the end of the world, and already the days ahead look a bit brighter.

Are any of you dealing with depression? Have you felt yourself slipping away, becoming someone else, becoming something you aren’t? I’m here to tell you that it doesn’t have to be that way. This isn’t all there is. If you’re depressed, there is more out there you can do. Reach out to someone who can help, someone who cares. Accept that you are having an issue. Find your outlet. That is the real step. Once you’ve accepted that you are depressed, you have to find what works to fight it. And then you stand strong against it. Get back to yourself. Be true to yourself. Depression is something we all face, but it does not have to be all we know. I’m always open to talk if someone needs a shoulder to lean on.

I want to thank everyone who encouraged me to write this post. It has been a real battle for me, and I have finally realized why. I didn’t want to let anyone down. I didn’t want anyone to think I was weak. I finally realize that battling depression is one of the strongest things you can do. And I will never forget it again. Thank you all for the support, and please – please – do not let depression win. Find what works for you, and stand strong against the pain of depression. You can do it, and you’ll be stronger than ever if you do.