Radio Silence
There’s a certain je ne sais quoi to feeling so deeply nothing at all that’s difficult to put into words.
Content Warning: This piece contains mentions of substance use and explicit descriptions of mental illness.
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In the midst of the chaos and the theatrics that predicate my daily goings-on, some of the most truly terrifying moments in my life are when I come across dead silence—simply purposeless, meaningless nothingness.
12:02 p.m. Tick. 12:03 p.m. Tick. 12:06 p.m. Tick. 12:10 p.m. Tick.
It’s a pretty bustling day on campus. Groups of people flock in and out of the Student Center as I sit at a table staring at my screen.
I’m listening to some old-school punk. I have a Green Day shirt on and a maroon-red flannel tied around my waist; camo pants, black-and-orange boots, and my newsboy cap. I’ve just come back from a meeting for a story I’ve been working on for a month and a half at this point, and this past week has been an incredibly packed and unrelenting sprint.
By all accounts, the energy should be coursing through my veins right now—the energy that would normally propel me into that enigmatic, frenzied being capable of anything. But I can’t summon it. It’s not there.
Tick.
Pulse check. It’s not quite depression; I’m not getting the pangs of self-harm nor the spiraling feeling of worthlessness I normally have. It’s not quite overwhelming fear; I’m not shaking with anxiety and dread. And it’s not quite self-loathing; I’m not scrutinizing every single thing I’ve ever done ad nauseam.
I call it the dead zone.
Tick.
This state of being truly, truly terrifies me. And a lot of things about myself scare me. But what’s so disturbing about this is how it’s not “terrifying” at all—I can’t even muster the “fear” I need to fight-flight-freeze myself out of this spell.
Tick.
Instead, I feel like an elephant tied to a fence. Siri, define “learned helplessness.” My current condition doesn’t strike me as worth fighting back against. My brain doesn’t register this as a hostile condition. My body doesn’t know how to combat this unseen combatant. How does one identify that which does not exist?
As I sit blankly, struggling to diagnose this terrible condition, I find that I can’t lock on a concrete sight of what it actually is. Its existence sits right at the edge of my periphery.
And I don’t even know how to write about it. The words escape me; the feelings, the thoughts, the liveliness all escape me. There’s a certain je ne sais quoi to feeling so deeply nothing at all that’s difficult to put into words.
And so I just go about my day, with a thousand-yard stare as I’m entirely sapped of feeling and motivation. Ask me how my day has been, and I’ll answer; it just won’t be a real answer. Talk to me about your problems, and I’ll empathize with your situation (but I won’t—can’t—really). Bring me to an event, and I’ll say I enjoyed it—all the while being unreservedly, unfathomably unfeeling.
I’d put on a false smile and pretend to care about the world around me. Walking by the people I’m supposed to care about while not being really there, sometimes I feel (as if I’m supposed to feel) guilty for the deceit. It’s disgraceful, having to lie to the people close to me, but what else am I supposed to say—“oh, sorry, I just can’t bring myself to care”?
The “tells” that people say you have when you play pretend in this way? They don’t really exist. Not when you play it well, at least. I’m talking to somebody, and they say something to me, and it doesn’t register. But somehow, I know just what to do; I know what they want me to say, where they want me to go, how they want me to react. No real feeling, but I play pretend. A fake smile or a compensatory frown or a nod of recognition. But behind the mask, nothing. It’s easier that way.
At this stage, I’m a robot that can pass the Turing test with flying colors.
The way I act is a complete and utter performance, all while my psyche is trapped in a sea of unending darkness. Trying to figure my way through the dead silence, is shining a flashlight into a black hole. Nothing. Just nothing.
And I go to bed that day uncaring. There are no memories to unpack from the day; I didn’t make any. I just go to bed, close my eyes, and find myself back in that sea of darkness. No light, no sound, no me. Just floating, drifting along.
Underneath me, endless depths of water. Maybe unfathomable creatures that have never revealed themselves inhabit this subconscious space miles and miles below, but I would never know.
Above me, the night sky. No stars, just darkness. Nothing to let me know where I came from or where I’m going.
Surrounding me is more and more of the cold and uncaring void to no end. I could scream and yell and plead for help all I want, but I will never get a response. All I will be met with is radio silence.
Fast-forward, 48 hours later. Mother Mother concert shirt, maroon-red flannel, black lined cargo pants. About a thousand different things to finish by the end of the day, including this damned article.
I still can’t summon the energy. It’s not there. Sometimes I wonder if it ever really was there. I know deep inside it’s been here before, but the silence is drowning it out from bringing me back from the dead.
How do I even begin to try pushing back against this... thing that takes hold of me with such random and indiscriminate malice?
What do I even do, sleep it off? How does submitting to the cold, dark void and drowning in it breathe any semblance of life back into me? I could do a little dance and sing a little jig, if that helps ease the hold it has on me. Something tells me it won’t.
But let’s try something: I introduce to the reader my foolproof three-step process to un-f**king my (and your!) brain.
Step One: Identify to the minutest detail the source of your problems. For me, when I’m bogged down by the silence, it helps to understand the what and the why and the how. I think one of the biggest knots that keeps me trapped in the dead zone is not understanding. It may take a while, but eventually, the knot will unravel and—
Step Two: Okay, it’s been two hours and I’m still trapped in a cycle of intrusive rationalization and I—
Step Three: ...
Give it another four days and a bottle of Malibu.
And still, no dice. God, how I would kill to hear any of my worst demons made manifest right now. When I actually want them, when I actually need them, they’re nowhere to be found. (See: Voices, Voices, another column from “An Ellie For Your Thoughts.”)
My phone buzzes with notifications from friends and workmates, but I can’t be bothered to respond. I tap my foot mindlessly to the tune of my music, without feeling. I talk to my housemates, blankly, algorithmically. I have the perfect script for every occasion.
I’m scrolling back and forth up and down my word editor as this column remains unfinished, staring at unfinished sentences and random two-word phrases and meaningless word vomit.
And I’m trying, I’m really trying, but I don’t know how to write the conclusion to a story that doesn’t f**king exist—
And then it hits me.
If the story doesn’t “exist,” then why don’t I just make all of this up? I control the story, not the other way around.
Why should I give that je ne sais quoi that haunts my waking hours peace of mind by just rolling over and taking it?
I start to realize that part of my issue is not allowing myself to make mistakes in my process of recovery. Eureka or bust, I’d tell myself, and it almost always ends in bust. But there’s no script, no rules I have to adhere to. My story, not anyone else’s.
I always feel like the knight in shining armor to break me out of this spell needs to be perfect, that I need to feel “perfect” when I’m pulled out of the void, that I need to escape it entirely unharmed. But... why? What’s so wrong with inelegance?
Honestly, perfect is passé.
(One example: that metaphor, “rolling over and taking it”? I wrote it out and realized—huh, what a deeply uncomfortable metaphor that is. And yet, I laugh.)
Sure, not all is right with the world, but at least I’m reminded that the world exists in the first place. And that in itself is enough to pull me out of the dead zone.
So once more, with feeling. I introduce to the reader my bigger and better foolproof three-step process to un-f**king my (and your!) brain.
Step One: Channel that emptiness. Yes, channel it. Don’t try to “understand” it because you can’t—just accept it, let it be part of you. (A first note for the reader: what I find often pulls me into the dead zone is the intrusive need to rationalize my condition ad nauseam. Oftentimes, it helps to just shut that part of my brain off and accept when things just can’t be fully explained.)
Step Two: When an opportunity for strong emotion or social connection comes your way, pounce on it. Find a way to break the spell and fill the void, regardless of what it may represent. This may come in the form of calling a friend, going out for a run, or reminiscing on memories long past. Whether good or bad, the point is to trigger an emotion and latch onto it. (A second note for the reader: what keeps me trapped in the dead zone is the shunning of less perfect options in search of the one feeling that brings me from “zero” to “perfect.” It’s a multi-step process; the hiccups are part of the journey.)
Step Three: Let go of control and perfection. You can’t get out of the dead zone by forcing your escape; let it come naturally, and fluidly, and authentically. Sometimes—oftentimes—you may not have the most “graceful” reaction, per se. Let yourself be disgusted at something and laugh about it; let yourself cry at a romantic scene in a rom-com; let yourself be flustered and angry and disturbed and anything else that may come. Let the feelings flow freely without interruption. (A final note to the reader: what makes this step most effective is to connect, really connect, with your humanity. It’s in there somewhere.)
So, I complain to my housemates about school and work and everything in between. I ask my friends about their days and prod more into the many things they’ve been up to. (Let’s talk about those Netflix shows we’ve never gotten around to watching and recommend each other more shows we’ll never watch!) And I wonder to myself why artificial strawberry flavors taste more like “pink” than “strawberry.”
And magically, it works.
Not all at once. But slowly. The life comes back to me, and the clouds part to give way to sunlight. It’s not quick nor painless, but it works. And sometimes the radio silence is filled with throbs of heartache, or it is filled with pangs of fear, or it is filled with pricks of exasperation. But once it’s filled, then the real work can actually start. And once it’s filled, I feel even just a little bit of energy start to flow through me once again. It’s baby steps, going from dead silence to even just radio static; the fixes and the repairs I need to get myself back to normal can go from there.
And I realize that sometimes the story behind it all doesn’t matter one bit. Sometimes it doesn’t matter “why” I’m feeling cold and empty inside, especially when there is no “why” to even behold. What I should start caring about, then, is what I’m going to do about it.
Sadness, frustration, grief: all normal parts of life. They help one identify what needs to change, what needs to grow. But “hollowness,” that je ne sais quoi of directionlessness and—not even despair or depression, but—the engulfing sense of senselessness don’t make sense at all. So why should I let it be part of my story?
The silence will still, at times, fill my mind and my heart and try to bind me down with all its will. I know it.
Tick ... Tick ... Tick.
But maybe the next time I tune into the radio and get nothing, maybe I’ll be able to fill that void all by myself.