Walking Along the Edge of the Event Horizon

I’ve watched a lot of movies over the past 49.833 years. Any chance I could, really. But as I started to wake up again five years ago, I began to choose very carefully the content I consumed. A lot of movies have stayed in my list because good films quite often contain a scene or thread that is helpful in finding a way to explain a part of my journey or to understand others’ better. When I’m lost, sometimes these scenes can help me find my way back to my path again.

There is a scene in Interstellar that provides a great foundation on which to begin a discussion on what it’s like to communicate from within a mental health crisis, so please be aware of potential triggers and spoilers. And if you haven’t seen it, definitely do.

It’s traditionally an incredibly difficult thing for someone dealing with mental health issues — ADHD, depression, psychosis, etc — to explain what it’s like on the inside of the struggle to be here-in-the-world while actually not being here-in-the-world because of those issues, especially in the middle of a crisis. And the corollary is also true: it is incredibly difficult for someone outside of those issues to understand any explanation in the midst of crisis, to offer solace, or to know how to help at all.

This inability to communicate and connect leads to incredible confusion and frustration and hinders or even twists attempts at asking for and offering help. Imagine not knowing if the way you’ve found out how to ask for help is even being understood by those in a position to provide assistance. Or the language you speak in your mind is not what is heard when you utter your words. Or the help you offer instead triggers a torrent of tears, self-harm, and rage.

Movie spoiler ahead!

The scene in Interstellar where Cooper and TARS cross beyond the event horizon into the black hole and become trapped in the tesseract is a lot like what it’s like consciously living with a mental illness. The understanding as they slip into the pull of the blackhole and the attempt to hold on to consciousness and reason at the rush of confusion around them. Then, in the multi-dimensional room where Cooper floats in an echo of his past and future existences, where time and space merge, he tried to reach out — he shouted and wailed and banged on the walls in an attempt for his daughter to hear him.

He was conscious of the moment, of what his daughter needed to hear, what he needed for help from her, and how he ended up where he was. All that awareness, but no ability to actually communicate and he raged and raged and raged at the horrible irony and tragedy of it all. Of being trapped in the depths of that black hole.

As he rages, however, he begins to see himself and is able to find inner peace enough in the midst of his histrionic confusion to observe what he was experiencing and find a way to slowly and methodically communicate to the outside world (this is the big secret: observation is what led to his recognition that while the usual methods were not available to him, he could communicate). Setting aside the time travel aspect of the movie, that moment where he is able to stop raging and begin observing. That’s his ticket home. In my experience, it’s the same for trying to communicate through a crisis.

If one can find the center of calm and peace in the midst of an internal hurricane, then one can maybe find the key to communication that gets them free. Free as far as just this side of the event horizon, where the game then changes to one of grace, balance, and delicate navigation while resisting the pull of the black hole and simultaneously seeking ways to break free of its influence altogether. And it really does begin with observation, a simple recognition of a momentary physical manifestation of fear/trauma in the body, or the breeze rustling a leaf, or the snow falling, or the feel of a sweater against skin. Anything to begin the recognition process and find a moment — however tiny — of calm.

This starts that cycle of the steady ebb and flow, back and forth, push and pull, crossing from this side to that side of the event horizon. Sometimes I catch it and can linger here longer than I would have otherwise, and sometimes it catches me and I fall into the black confusion and become trapped in a maze of time and language and perception.

The challenge I live with, then, is finding how to maintain grace, balance, and that delicate navigation as I walk along the rim of the event horizon, and to see maybe if I can nudge myself towards this side more often. Because I know that the more often I can remain here, conscious of the pull of the gravity well to the other side, the more likely I can maintain objectivity and perspective and — in a very real way — achieve the necessary escape velocity to leave the black hole behind me. But I’m not there, yet.

So if you see me in the world, trying my best to be present, understand that I know how far away I seem, how far away I am from home, and how much time I’ve been away, and that’s the tragedy and the driving force for me to hold on and stay.

Being awake is partially about making the best use of the moments we have, and the best of use of those moments that I can see is to make music and love. To decorate time itself with the highest frequency art and energy possible is ultimately my goal, because time is the most precious resource we have and it needs to feel worth it while we’re here. With it we can do anything. So that’s what I do. I don’t know who said it originally, but that idea of music being decoration for time resonates so powerfully with me.

And if this resonates with you, and you find yourself dancing on the edge of a black hole, reach out. Let someone you trust know. And if someone reaches out to you, try to be present with compassion and hear the sound of the story behind the words and confusion if possible.

Love you all.