Rap, Anxiety, & Kids On Drugs
2018, J Cole, one of my favorite rappers, dropped “KOD,” a platinum-selling album, a work that I consider to be one of his best. When interviewed, Cole elaborated on the three-fold nature of the acronym KOD. The first meaning was the titular, Kids on Drugs, the second, King OverDose, and finally, the third: Killing Our Demons. Each meaning was a separate look in his study of addiction.
On the KOD album, is a track called Friends. In Friends, Cole addresses the topic of chronic anxiety and drug addiction, and how it manifests in the black community. A topic that’s been weighing heavily on my mind for some time. I’ve been listening to Friends on repeat as I debate my current predicament.
That being, to medicate or not to medicate my way out of my writing rut. It’s quite a dilemma; I doubt I’m alone in having it.
On one hand, there are my own, personal demons, a gnawing, steadily growing fear that I’m not the artist — or rather, the writer — that I think I am. Not without the anxiety, or the ability to dull the edge. Without the crutch I’ve convinced myself I need, to feel unhindered by conflict. I swing back and forth, dabbling in this slow art of self-destruction, and all for what, I ask myself? To keep the streak going? To stay relevant? To keep pumping out articles that are relentlessly raw and interesting, that contain a measure of vulnerability and insight?
Is that worth it? I don’t know.
Then there’s the flip side of that coin. The fact that conflict is constant and unavoidable and that an individual’s life can feel short. Or the fact that I have a limited amount of time, relatively speaking, in this life to make a positive and lasting impression on the world. Or the fact that all of that is heavily dependent on what I’m willing to sacrifice to leave that impression.
Though I lack the constitution for suicide and can lose myself in mindless pleasure as easily as the next guy, I’m not as attached to this shambling, mortal coil as many others seem to be. I don’t really care about maximizing every aspect of my brief span on this little blue rock. Hitting all those sweet sweet milestones.
I’d rather go out functionally old after having done one thing really well. And be remembered for that one thing, for better or worse. Now, is that worth it? Both sides are, I fear, all too easy to rationalize. And the truth of it is, I’m aware- I know this internal conflict is just this episode’s villain-of-the-week; a handy scapegoat I’ll use to spark up and forget.
To kill my demons.
All the while, wondering if there isn’t something a bit religious, a bit church-like to this ritual of the afflicted… This mass congregating inside of large, glass, and stone buildings, where we all gladly pay for a little salvation.
I’m a music guy. It’s how I decompress. Rap was always my go-to whenever I would find myself in moments of suspended animation. Rap gave me the jolt I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself and the inspiration to do something about whatever predicament I found myself in. There’s always been something in Rap music that I found incredibly soothing.
Now that I’m older, I realize what that something was. Vulnerability.
It’s easy to spot, once you get over the method of delivery. And even though I’ve never related much to rap lyrics, given my background, I’ve always resonated with the artistry on display. More so when I was young, but not so much these days.
In my heart of hearts, a part of me knows the conflict that blocks me hits a little too close to home, and is a little too personal to write about. It’s the kind of shit you don’t share with strangers on the internet unless you’re among the chronically online, a bit too oblivious to social cues, diving off the deep end, or intentionally going out of your way to be that guy.
I like to share, but not unnecessarily dump, or vomit. It’s a fine line, I know many writers struggle to walk it. Still, I find it hard, sometimes damn near impossible to do. I try to be as authentic as I can, all whilst protecting my fragile sense of self; honest without becoming that guy.
I try to find that place in my mind, the emptiness where I feel sane, safe, and secure enough to clearly and coherently articulate my truths without underwhelming or overwhelming. I try to be vulnerable, and I do my best to allow my experiences to speak through me. I try to deliver that in my writing, and I know that’s not something you can brute-force your way to.
I’ve always believed that the label of writer’s block is somewhat reductive. It’s so much more than that, I think. It’s a portent signal. A lighthouse, a guide, in and out of the empty. Our mind’s way of not-so-subtly clueing us into some deep-seated shit that needs addressing and working out before we can write that epic fantasy, or that jaunty space opera, or The Top 10 Ways To Lose Weight This Summer, or some other shit.
I don’t know. I’m figuring this out in real-time. Maybe everything doesn’t have to be so either-or, so black and white. Maybe I’ll meditate on it.
I’ve been on a roll lately, writing consistently, my creative juices are flowing, and with each essay I publish, my confidence gets a boost, triggering another one of those deliciously sought-after hits of dopamine that, I hope, will beget yet another spurt of creative genius — using this term rather loosely. In the last few days, however, it seems like my well of creative inspiration and good luck has run dry.
I can’t write anything new, nor can I, with any clarity or coherence, continue or finish any work currently in progress. And in moments like these, when I feel blocked, I get quite frustrated, and I tend to be too hard on myself. I’ll kick myself, thinking, “Why are you slowing down now? You need to keep going. You’ve worked hard to build this momentum. Don’t fall off again.”
Consistency is everything in the online writing game. I get desperate not to miss an upload. I fumble for sources of creative inspiration, all the while telling myself that’s not what I’m doing. I’m just chillin’, I say. Letting the universe speak to me, that’s all, I’m relaxin’. Cool as a cucumber. Yup, I’m in this haze to purposefully waste time while I wait for my muse.
But who am I fooling, really?
I’m aware. I recognize my writer brain’s nasty habit of rushing ahead, past the internal conflict to manifest, a sort of idealized resolution to the plot without first having checked in with my characters, or established and dealt with the inciting incident.
That, combined with the fact that I’ve been more and more reluctant to lubricate those cognitive wheels by way of self-medication, leaves me suspended in a state of mental limbo.
This limbo state in which I catch myself constantly scrolling my phone, checking notifications, scanning previous articles, re-reading old comments, and trying to drum up any form of engagement to trick myself into thinking I’m doing something worthwhile and productive. Anything that isn’t writing, that is.
I really should know better by now. I am one anxiety-ridden son of a bitch and writing is one of the few things that helps.
Admitting that is what got me this far.
