Releasing the Notes

There was a band in the late 1900s named Milli Vanilli.

Late 1900s. I love saying that and knowing it will make so many people uncomfortable.

They were an 80’s/90’s R&B band from Germany. They are most widely known for a lip-syncing scandal. Turns out Rob and Fab were not the actual singers, they were just the pretty faces that helped other singers put their music out to the world. At the time this happened, there was such an outrage that the band was cancelled. At least that is what we would call it now.

They lost their Grammy, were hit with a class-action lawsuit from their disgruntled fans, and lost it all.

Years later, they would talk about how they were “constantly living in fear of being discovered” throughout their careers, knowing that eventually the whole gig would be found out.

I wonder how they would feel about TikTok. Rob and Fab were just before their time. They walked so the army of lip-syncing TikTokers could run.

But before they were caught, they put out this hit:

Or, I guess, some vocalists put out this hit and they played along.

I think about this song way more often than a person who was born just before their blowout should. There are really just two reasons that I haven’t let this song fade into the background of my life.

The first has to do with the first time I talked to a doctor about my depression.

My life was going sideways. I mentioned before about losing my mother shortly after being married, but I then lost my father two years later. We had twins that were about 6 months old, I had just gotten an internship as a teacher, and life was moving at full speed.

Shortly after my father’s funeral I returned to my hometown to work on settling all of his affairs with my siblings. It was a very emotional time. While I was on this trip, the intern coach for my school called and scolded me for spending so much time away when my classroom wasn’t near ready for the approaching school year.

I really don’t like that woman. She added a lot of unnecessary stress to an already stressful year, and not just in this situation. Not a fan.

The school year started, which put a pause on my grieving process, and the twins were struggling with sleep schedules. I was tired, depressed, and had to perform for a class full of third graders on a daily basis, and still working another job making pizza to try and pay the bills. Just before Meet-the-Teacher, my intern coach pulled me aside and delivered this bit of nonsense:

“I know you are sad right now, but no one here needs to know about any of that. Just smile through it. You can be sad later, at home.”

Now the depression part was nothing new. I had struggled with symptoms of depression for as long as I can remember. I had always just “manned up” and grit my teeth through it. I was past being able to pull that off though.

I was angry at life, and it only took the most minor inconvenience to make me explode. I was exhausted after holding it together for my students and the adults at the school, and would often break down at home.

My wife got worried, and with her signature patient persistence, convinced me to see a doctor. I fought back about taking medication, doing therapy, or addressing it at all, but she would counter my stubbornness with insights like:

“The medication doesn’t need to be permanent. Maybe you just need a boost to get through this part of your life. It is really hard. You can always stop if you don’t like it.”

“Talking can’t hurt. At the worst, you spent an hour talking to a guy about yourself.”

“I made you an appointment. I can come with you, if you need.”

Amazing. Honestly, she seemed like a pro, even though this was, in fact, her first rodeo.

So the day of my appointment came. It was a rainy day in September, and the roads leading into the clinic shone darkly as only wet asphalt can. I checked in, was taken back to a room, and was asked all the questions by the nurse that the doctor would inevitably ask again in 5 minutes. Then I waited.

It took a little longer than I had hoped, but, you know, healthcare.

This office had pretty thin walls, though, and the frequency of the doctor’s voice seemed to sail through the walls without problem. I heard him talking to the patient in the room next to me, and then heard him chatting with the nurse outside my room. It went something like this

Dr: So what’s up with this guy?

Nurse: Mental health check. Says he is depressed.

D: Another one, huh? I guess it has been a rainy week.

I remember being pretty devastated by that comment. Remember, I had spent the majority of my life pretending I wasn’t struggling, and as soon as I had worked up the courage to ask for help, he was dismissing it.

He blamed it on the rain. Milli Vanilli.

The second reason I think about Milli Vanilli more than the average guy, is because of their statement about being “constantly in fear” of being caught.

I have felt this as an artist, and a writer, and a parent, and a friend, and a husband, and in church, and in music, and in the classroom, and… and… and…

It’s called Imposter Syndrome.

And I got it bad.

I do things like creating a series of 70 pieces of art depicting celebrities in a minimalist style, post 20 of them on Instagram, tell myself that no one would ever buy them, because they aren’t good enough, give a handful of them away, and put the rest in a box in my garage.

Or starting a business making decorative wood pieces, sell about a thousand dollars worth of product, find out one of them broke, and never selling anything again.

Or the handful of novels in my Google drive that are half-finished, because when I reread them they aren’t as good as I think they should be.

And the list goes on.

But that is still something I am working on.

I no longer say I am bad at things, though. I am just learning. I am not where I want to be yet, but I can get there.

I’m still a work in progress.