Yep, that's it. The cover of my book.

The cover of the book I've been writing for three years. The cover of the book that was the "thesis" of my MFA. But, most importantly, the cover of the book that I had to write in order to survive. Sounds dramatic, I know, and it is, but it's the answer that rattles around in me whenever I ask, "Why did I write THIS book?" Survival.

See that microphone? That beaten, dented microphone that I screamed into over and over to save myself. That microphone that lives in my basement jam space, at the ready whenever I need it. Urgent. Crucial. Therapeutic.

In October 2018, as I lay on the couch with a cinder-block-to-the-head psychotic hangover, I scrawled the first kernel of my book into a notebook in squiggly red ink. Back then, I imagined the cover of my book, at that time no more than a boggled, manic idea, having a picture of me screaming my head off on it. Much like the imagery I later used for my podcast.

Two months ago, as the holiday season spread like the capitalist plague it is (Grinch much?), I hunched over a folding table in the basement jam space, my thumb frantically tapping the focus button on my phone, haphazardly zooming in and out, hoping for a cool shot of that busted-up microphone that survived the years of damage inflicted upon it.

I was trying to capture the microphone's war wounds, mesh sharp and twisted, rusted from spit. But an old microphone wasn't enough to make a cover. It wouldn't speak to the complicated struggles and triumphs of a person like me—like the other people in the book who trusted me with their stories—who is living through a mental health journey that has no beginning, middle, or end.

I racked my brain for something to complete the cover. I tried including a bottle of pills to show the importance of medication as a pillar of mental health. Too dark: an image that could be misconstrued as an overdose. Depicting issues around mental health is a delicate balance of educating and triggering. The pills wouldn't work. My publisher's five words in an email two days later validated me: "I agree about the pills." I left the photo shoot alone for my ideas to bake and rushed off to my daily prescription deliveries.

I don't normally have revelations while driving. If I do have them, they're usually forgotten at the next stoplight. That day, something stuck. Maybe I could just have the mic by itself on the cover. That might be enough? It looked pretty cool on its own. I texted my publisher from behind the wheel (yes... I know...), excitement brimming, anticipating an immediate response. Hypomania began to percolate: faster, faster, need an answer, everything around me needs to be faster.

An email from the publisher later that night: "You messaged about maybe using the microphone just on its own. It could be coiled on a scuffed stage, or hanging upside down from a mic stand. Lots of possibilities. Just try stuff." I tried stuff. Stuff wasn't speaking to me.

I circled back to my idea of just the microphone laying on the table. Down in the jam space, huddled again, I turned the mic this way and that. To change the angles, I got up on chairs and stools and hunkered down on mosh-weary knees. I put the mic on different backgrounds and pointed lamps in all directions—the silliness faux photographers put themselves through to get the perfect shot.

I'd had enough photographer-ing for the day. I went upstairs, downloaded the photos, and scrolled through them, just in case. Wait. I lingered on IMG_0512. It was the best of the bunch; lighting was good, microphone was at the right angle. Its mesh was in focus—rusty, dangerous. The red tape wrapped around its base popped. The shiny black cord was coiled in a funky way.

Then, I saw it. Right there. See? No, not a pretzel like one person suggested.

A heart.

"A happy accident," my publisher said when he saw it. I thought it over for awhile—"always let it bake," a pro photographer once told me—and I went back to the photo the next day (having this much patience was so unlike former me). I asked a graphic designer friend what he thought. He said the heart "makes the cover." It was meant to be. Serendipity.

The heart of Scream Therapy is hope. The heart of my three-years-in-the-making book is strength, perseverance, connection, and community. The black, coiled heart is a companion for the one that beats so hard in my chest.

The book is out May 1 from Mansfield Press. You can PRE-ORDER it now.

Three young men spent nearly 20 years each behind bars, in part because West Memphis, Arkansas authorities inexplicably believed that the heavy metal they listened to and black clothes they wore made them prime suspects in the 1993 murders of three boys.

They became known as the West Memphis Three and, much to their horror, were convicted—one sentenced to death and two sentenced to life in prison. Metal and punk bands raised money for the legal defence fund and the men were finally released in a 2011 plea bargain based on new DNA evidence and possible juror misconduct.

When I first watched Paradise Lost, the 1996 documentary film about the West Memphis Three, it boiled my 24-year-old, headbanger blood. Members of the music community I loved were railroaded by the powers-that-be in a small town the same size as mine.

It was the Parents Music Resource Centre that started the war on angry music in 1985. Formed by Tipper Gore—yes, Al’s wife—under the Reagan administration, its aim was to limit access to music deemed violently or sexually explicit by using Parental Advisory stickers. I hated those damn stickers. I’d rip them off in a fury the moment I left a record store

As the PMRC gained traction, mainstream media began using the term “Satanic panic” to ostracize heavy metal fans. A decade and a half later, media coverage during the 1999 Columbine tragedy perpetuated this panic, focusing on the shooters’ obsession with heavy metal and black trench coats.

An antiquated misconception, especially among conservatives and fundamentalists, is that listening to metal and punk bands will ignite anger. Violence. Even murder.

Australian researchers have found that listening to extreme music actually helps to process and regulate emotions.

Leah Sharman, a University of Queensland researcher, said a 2015 study revealed that matching music to emotions such as anger can provide an outlet for expression and enhancement of emotional and mental health.

“Listening to ‘angry’ music is going to be more likely when you are already feeling angry,” Sharman told me. “And people are actually more likely to feel better after listening to it than feel more angry.”

The impetus for the study came when one of Sharman’s colleagues mentioned they listened to heavy metal and punk at bedtime because it relaxed them and was a way to wind down at the end of the day, a tactic I also use when I can’t sleep.

“I thought that was fascinating because that’s not how I typically would have thought about listening to heavy metal,” said Sharman. “I thought it would be interesting to see if there was an effect of relaxation from listening to these genres of music, rather than the more typical idea of this music making people more aggressive.”

In the study, listeners were subjected to anger induction, then asked to choose between 10 minutes of chosen music or 10 minutes of silence. Results showed when participants listened to music that matched their anger, in addition to emotional regulation, they felt more active and inspired when compared to choosing silence.

In 2019, researchers at Macquarie University in New South Wales found that music with violent themes doesn’t make fans more susceptible to violent imagery or desensitize them from violence. Macquarie conducted a separate study in 2018 that showed fans of death metal, one of the most extreme subgenres of heavy metal, used the music’s emotional charge for motivation and to process anger and other emotions such as sadness. 

Conflicting studies have attempted to link heavy metal and punk to suicide risk but have failed to acknowledge a listener’s personal situation, such as a troubled homelife, mental health, substance use, and environmental factors such as poverty.

Many metalheads and punks, including myself, agree that extreme music scenes provide a sense of belonging, purpose, and validation. These factors are proven to decrease depressive symptoms such as existential dread and suicidal ideation.

After touring with metal bands for several years, University College London anthropology student Lindsay Bishop discovered that the metal and punk community has established rules of etiquette that are passed on to younger members and used for communal support.

Clinical psychologist, therapist, and health coach Mike Friedman tells me he’s witnessed this etiquette first-hand at punk shows. At one show, he saw a seemingly violent slam dance session—also known as a mosh pit—come to a full stop when everyone jumped in to help a crowd member who lost his glasses. Been there.

“Everyone took out their phone and put their lights on and all of a sudden you see someone hold up a pair of glasses, everyone gives the thumbs up, and the pit starts going wild again,” said Friedman.

Friedman has 30 years’ experience helping people with mental and physical health issues. He says these acts of goodwill prove that metal and punk communities foster collective healing and provide refuge to listeners—often alienated youth—who are trying to process difficult emotions.

Metal and punk music “is embedded in a fundamental ‘we’re here to heal wounds, we’re not here to cause wounds,’” Friedman told me.

Perceptions of metal and punk fans have come a long way since the PMRC and Satanic panic in the ’80s and ’90s. The ostracized extreme music genres have become more commercially and socially accepted, as has the style of dress. Listeners like myself can wear black t-shirts with demons and monsters on them without the fear-mongers constantly lurking.

Damien Echols, one of the West Memphis Three who was released after nearly two decades in prison, spent most of his time in solitary confinement. Echols will likely never stop listening to angry music because he’ll likely never stop being angry. Echols told metalsucks.net, a prominent music website covering heavy metal and punk rock, he’s still a fan of heavy metal and hopes others will never be persecuted like he and his two friends were.

“People stop seeing you as a human being. They start seeing you as less than they are. That makes it easy for them to hurt you,” Echols was quoted as saying after his release. “Hold on to the music and things that make your life magical. Hang on to them no matter what people do to you.”

He barely remembers "Uncle" Willie leaving, just a blur of the man’s back. He is just shy of two years old and that man who walks out the door for the last time is never truly his father. He’s a distant “uncle” his mom protects him from for the rest of his childhood.

She is doing what’s best for him, what she thinks is best for him. She’s putting his safety before a child’s need to have a father. She’s putting her fear of losing him ahead of the paternal wonder in his eyes.

Is his father really someone who should be in his life? His mother decides.
 
At 10 years old his only company on his walks home from school are the heavy metal singers on his Walkman. His mom isn’t home yet from her shift at the local bar, so he grabs a letter from the mailbox. The letter is addressed to him. The last name on the return address matches his. The letter is from a stranger, talking about stranger things. It mentions a sister, in a life someplace he’s never heard of.

The letter doesn’t register with him. He shrugs, throws it in the garbage. Not for me, he thinks. When his mom gets home he mentions the letter. Her face goes white. He thinks maybe she ate a bad pickled egg at work.
 
He’s 19. Going to college in the big city is taxing, exhausting, especially while he’s working two jobs and spending hours a day on transit. One night he drags his tired body into his apartment and finds his answering machine flashing red.

The message is from a Willie.

“It’s your dad,” Willie says.

“Now that you are on your own, I thought I would call to say hi, now that you aren’t living with your mom anymore.”

He doesn't rewind to listen to the message again, because once is enough. Like throwing that letter in the garbage when he was 10, he pushes the erase button on the answering machine.
 
He's 25. Reality always catches up, and some news comes that he can’t hide from. He has gotten to know more about Willie, his dad, for better or worse. Willie is an alcoholic. He moves around a lot. A transient, his mom says.

He wants more, but it doesn’t really matter now, because in another town Willie is punched off a bar stool by someone who didn’t quite like Willie’s tone, and now Willie is in the hospital. Willie’s brain is bleeding.

His aunt asks him if he would like to go see Willie. He can’t decide if he wants to sit by the deathbed of a father he never knew. It would be like seeing a dying ghost, he thinks.

A few days later, one of his uncles, Willie’s youngest brother, pops into where he works. His uncle drags two fingers across the neck, a universal sign of death. A crude way of saying “Willie’s gone.” Then, as if dropping off a parcel, his uncle pops back out.

The only thing he can do is carry on, just like he always does. Unfeeling, uncertain.

A stranger’s funeral takes place a couple of weeks later. He attends, but he doesn’t belong. He doesn’t know most of these people. This is the tragic end to a relationship that never was. It’s the beginning of a life without the father he was always without.
 
He’s 46, recently diagnosed with bipolar disorder, an affliction he realizes has hindered his ability to be the best father he could be to his own kids—four of them.

After separating from the mother of his children, not having his kids under his roof has brought him the toughest years of his life. As the kids become teens, and adults, he has to find a way to let go, salvaging what’s left of his relationships with them.

He imagines how Willie must have felt. Walking through that door and leaving him, never coming back. The way that Willie tried so sporadically to reconnect.

He swore he would always be there for his kids and stay healthy, two things Willie was never able to do for him. He has been sober most of his adult life, avoiding his alcoholic bloodline, and tries his best to be a constant in his children’s lives. He hopes he was able to raise them without his mental health condition leaving scars.
 
Sitting in front of the blinking cursor of his computer, he thinks about his deepest regrets. One has burrowed itself into his mind—not going to see Willie on his deathbed. He would have told Willie he understood and forgave him, like he was supposed to, whether Willie understood him or not.
 
Two weeks before his 47th birthday, he receives a text message from his youngest son.

“I don’t want to hang out today,” it reads.

He asks if everything is okay, he hasn’t seen his son lately for their regular visits.

“Everything is okay. I just don’t have enough time for my own stuff anymore.”

A couple months later he’s on a walk with his oldest son, an occasional custom when both of them are in stable moods. As they are nearing the end of the beach trail, the ocean breeze brushing by their faces, his son’s voice trails off and breaks down.

“I don’t even know why we do these walks anymore. What’s the point? It’s all so useless.”

He knows it’s not about him; it’s his son’s depression talking. But there it is, a lump in his throat, tears forming. He takes a deep breath and swallows.
 
All he can do is tell his kids he loves them, that he will always be there. The sadness of not having a father is even harder when he can’t completely be one himself.

His empty nest is speckled with balled-up bits of lint and tattered string. It has always been precarious, from father, to son, to father, to son.

World Bipolar Day is a blip on the calendar for a mental health condition I live with 24/7, 365 days a year.

Every March 30, World Bipolar Day aims to bring awareness and reduce stigma around what’s commonly referred to as a disorder, illness, and disease. I’ve learned to avoid disordered language, but, hey….

March 30 of 2019 and 2020 passed by without me knowing that World Bipolar Day existed. Strangely, it’s celebrated on the day Vincent van Gogh, an infamous bipolar-er, was born. I’d like to rally for Kurt Cobain or Jimi Hendrix’s birthdays instead, although neither of them was formally diagnosed.

So, yeah, World Bipolar Day.

For the past two of them, I was just trying to get through the day.

In March 2019, according to my mood chart, I had 10 days of deep depression, five days of relative stability, and 15 days of pronounced hypomania.

For 10 days I wanted to run away and/or die, for five days I tried my best to cope, and for 15 days I was overly hyper, frighteningly euphoric, and definitely delusional. Something about becoming a tour manager for punk bands, even though I had zero experience? Just one of many grandiose ideas.

In March 2020, according to my mood chart, I had four days of deep depression, eight days of relative stability, and 18 days of pronounced hypomania.

For four days it was like being pounded into the ground by a sledgehammer, for eight days I was anxious about the future (but wait, was some hope poking through?), and for 18 days I was buzzing with energy—too much energy—not sleeping and trying to keep my brewing hypomanic symptoms from boiling.

Two months later, my psychiatrist dropped the word “acceptance” into my lap and told me to run with it. I hadn’t considered acceptance; it was foreign concept. I didn’t want to accept bipolar because it was an “illness” I thought was ruining my life.

When I was panicking about starting the Master of Fine Arts in Creative Nonfiction Program at the University King’s College and wanted to drop out, my psychiatrist made the decision for me. She locked eyes with me and cemented what I already knew.

“Do it, Jason! You have to do it.”

March 30, 2021—today. Another World Bipolar Day. This one didn’t pass me by.

According to my mood chart, I had 30 days of relative stability this month. Let me type that again so it sinks into me. March 2021, 30 days relatively stable.

On March 14 and 15, my depression poked its head into the room and said hello. I acknowledged it and said, "See you next month." On March 7 to 11 and 26 to 28, I was giddy, overexcited, and wanted to do, do, do. I harboured that energy and hit the keyboard, working on the Scream Therapy book, the podcast, and my other writing.

Bipolar affects about two percent of the world’s population. More than 45 million people want so desperately to manage their symptoms and find stability.

World Bipolar Day—just a blip on the calendar, right? This year, for me, it means much more. It represents my journey alongside millions of people at different stages of theirs.

I wish the best for folks living with bipolar, today and every day.

We inspire each other, we support each other, and we'll always welcome you into our corner.
 

Support Groups
Bipolar support groups have been a huge part of my stability. I’ve been honoured to co-facilitate the Mood Disorders Association of BC’s bipolar group. The members who attend each week are an amazing crew and always keep me on the up and up. We have more than 100 people on our list and between 20-30 people attend each week. If you know of anyone who would benefit from a bipolar support group, please point them my way.
 
Resource Books
By now, you know I love writing, and, by proxy, reading. Books about bipolar were the first support I found after diagnosis. Books accepted and encouraged me when I couldn’t believe anyone else was going through what I was going through. If someone in your life is living with bipolar, I recommend these therapies in written form:
Marbles: Mania, Depression, Michelangelo and Me
By Ellen Forney
Rock Steady: Brilliant Advice from My Bipolar Life
By Ellen Forney
An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness
By Kay Redfield Jamison
Owning Bipolar: How Patients and Families Can Take Control of Bipolar Disorder
By Michael G. Pipich
Loving Someone with Bipolar Disorder: Understanding and Helping Your Partner
By Julie A. Fast
 
Scream Therapy Podcast Guests 
I often welcome guests on the Scream Therapy podcast who have talked about living with bipolar. Check out those episodes here.
 
Bipolar Organizations
Mood Disorders Association of BC
International Society for Bipolar Disorders
Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance
International Bipolar Foundation
Bipolar Network

In July 1976, a proto-punk band called Overkill played a local pub in Washington, DC, and sprinkled seeds for pure punk rock expression in the nation’s capital.

Overkill was sick of playing cover versions of tired dinosaur rock songs and tried one of its own. The chorus—we can be weird together—caused one pissed-off patron to heckle the band, yelling at them to play some Alice Cooper.

“Why don’t you go fuck Alice Cooper?” responded Overkill’s bassist Harrison Sohmer and the band launched into another original song.

In Dance of Days: Two Decades of Punk in the Nation’s Capital, authors Mark Andersen and Mark Jenkins tell the story of misfit kids finding a way to exist in the world—and their own skin—eschewing the trappings of mainstream society. But that’s only a small part of the story.

The 435-page book, including numerous photo spreads, serves as a comprehensive history of a DC punk scene that, from its radical beginnings, addressed political and social issues. Scene members created positive change through bands, records, shows, zines, protests, and other activism. 

Focusing on the ‘70s to ‘90s, Dance of Days chronologically details the stories of more than a hundred bands and how they connected to the political climate during those times. The book features extensive interviews with key members of the DC punk scene, including Ian MacKaye (Minor Threat, Fugazi, Dischord Records), HR (Bad Brains), punk icon Henry Rollins (known then as Henry Garfield), and Anderson himself.

Anderson founded punk activist organization Positive Force in the summer of 1985. Coined Revolution Summer, it was a pivotal time when DC punks were moving away from a rapidly growing scene—riddled with substance abuse and violence—toward emotional, urgent expression. During Revolution Summer, “the personal is the political” became the heartfelt message of inspiring bands such as Rites of Spring, Gray Matter, and Embrace.

Anderson, who had recently moved to DC from small-town Montana, saw an opportunity for punk rebellion beyond the exhausted, surface-value “Fuck Reagan” sentiments of the early DC scene. Since its inception, Positive Force has organized thousands of benefit concerts and raised more than $200,000 for local groups that directly help DC residents, and continues to do so, setting an example of how punk rock can be a tool for change.

Anderson’s coauthor Jenkins, a longtime music writer for the Washington Post and part of the DC punk and hardcore scene from the beginning, tackles the scene history sections of the book while Anderson’s musings are mostly focused on Positive Force’s activism.

Dance of Days uses notable DC bands from the early era, such as S.O.A., Government Issue, and Teen Idles, to establish the tone of a punk subculture that stood against the white supremacy, misogyny, classism, and militarism that ruled the nation’s capital (not much has changed in 40 years). The book follows the trajectory of the punk scene through DC punk’s beginnings in the early 80s, Revolution Summer in the mid-’80s, and into the ‘90s where a band called Fugazi led the charge for punk’s connection to political activism, mostly through Positive Force’s efforts.

Fugazi started in 1987 and went on hiatus in 2002, recording eight albums and playing more than 100 songs with unwavering dedication to its vision and values. The band played its first show to 40 people in September 1987 at DC’s Wilson Centre. More than 1,000 shows worldwide followed as Fugazi’s crowds swelled into the thousands, the band demanding low door prices and a moratorium on show violence. A significant portion of Dance of Days has Anderson and Jenkins reflecting on Fugazi’s importance to DC punk. 

The book also focuses on Dischord Records, owned by Fugazi guitarist/vocalist Ian MacKaye and Minor Threat drummer Jeff Nelson. The record label recently celebrated its 40th anniversary by re-releasing its first six records in a box set. The authors detail every release in the Dischord catalog up until the book was published, including the albums’ lyrical content, recording process, and packaging.

Dance of Days has reinforced my belief that without politics and social responsibility punk is nothing more than an apathetic, consumerist youth culture. Like food with no substance, punk becomes meaningless without a message. The book is essential because it dissects and champions a music scene that’s equal parts music and politics. Together, Anderson’s stories of Positive Force’s dedication to helping DC communities and Jenkins’ comprehensive look at the DC punk scene’s power result in a music history book like no other.

The only downside to the book, for those who aren’t familiar with DC punk, Positive Force, and their community-based direct action, is the vast array of details included. Names of bands and their members might blur together for those who didn’t grow up on DC punk. Anderson’s sidebars about various protests and political action over the years are more universally relatable than Jenkins’ punk minutiae. The encyclopedia-like scene details in the book could have been trimmed down while the musings on the political landscape during the two decades covered could have been expanded.    

Dance of Days was published by Akashic Books. The independent publisher is owned by DC punk scene member Johnny Temple, who played bass guitar in Soulside and Girls Against Boys. Anderson and Jenkins continue to update the book—currently in its third edition—with new information and further reflections on the early eras of DC punk. Dance of Days leaves the door open for the documentation of at least two more decades of rebellious punk in America’s capital.

Punk bands like Overkill come along every generation, not just to tell dinosaur rockers to shove it, but to remind us that we can still “be weird together.” Based on the spirit of DC punk and given what’s transpired in Washington DC in recent years, being weird could include raised fists and revolutionary screams. I’m sure Anderson, Jenkins, and the DC punks would agree.

[Trigger warning: childhood sexual abuse and suicidal ideation]

Last year, I submitted my essay, A Fractured Journey: Feeling the Throes of Bipolar Disorder Before Diagnosis to the OC87 Recovery Diaries.

Sending the essay in was a confidence injection. When they agreed to publish it, the validation was so fucking welcome.

Before my bipolar diagnosis, depression told me to never write again.

My counsellor at the time suggested I write my thoughts and feelings in a journal. I thought journals were only for poetry and sketching. At my next appointment, the office felt like an interrogation room.

“So, did you do some journaling last week?”

I averted my eyes and negative self-talk reinforced I was a failure.

“Okay, this week I want you to write just one page.”

Negative.

“Okay, this week I want you to write just one paragraph.”

Negative.

“Okay, this week I want you to write just one sentence.”

Negative.

This continued for weeks.

A fucking journal? I needed a familiar tool. My laptop—that magic machine I fused myself to when I was a working journalist. And… my depression ordered me to stay away from the keyboard.

What’s the point, why bother, you’re worthless, why don’t you just die?

I pried my laptop lid from its base, opened a TextEdit file and started to write. The first day, one sentence. The second day, one paragraph. The third day, one page. I struggled, clutching words and disowning them. Back and forth. Sadness and despair. Ambivalence. Electric, unbearable euphoria. The dreaded ups and downs—the bipolar rollercoaster.

When memories of my childhood sexual abuse began to resurface, I had a compulsion to tell my story. The words drizzled out of me. They became less painful, more inspired.

I wanted other people to know what undiagnosed bipolar disorder—manic depression—felt like.

It's been almost three years since I forced my laptop open and started a new life, by typing just one sentence.

I don’t remember much of what happened, just quick flashes and foggy details.

You can read A Fractured Journey: Feeling the Throes of Bipolar Disorder Before Diagnosis at OC87 Recovery Diaries. A Fractured Journey is also featured on the Mental Health Aloud podcast, with an audio reading by OC87 Editor in Chief Gabriel Nathan. [Trigger warning: childhood sexual abuse and suicidal ideation.]