by Anna Akana
I’ve also come to appreciate the fact that the Internet’s vitriol has forced me to develop a thick skin. People are a thousand times crueler when they are hiding behind the anonymity of a screen and a keyboard. I’ve read the words “you’re a talentless cunt” more times than I can count. The comments online are so bad that I’m now able to shrug off anything mildly rude in real life. I’ve heard worse.
Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t think that cruel comments are a good thing. But I’ve taken to imagining who is on the other end of the keyboard, and that helps me deal with all the negative aspects of being a female online. The person making nasty comments is probably a teenager, I tell myself. A teenager who just learned how to use cusswords. Or some sad, lonely person who wants to take out their anger on someone they don’t know from the safety of their home. Thinking about who these trolls actually are puts the objectification, the degradation, and the endless cruelty into perspective. And I’ve become a stronger person as a result.
There you have it. These are some of the things I’ve learned as a creative person over the last seven years. Though it’s not always easy to implement them, they’re a gentle reminder that you’re doing just fine. It’s all part of the process. Enjoy the journey. I am.
2
IDENTITY
It’s never easy to feel comfortable in your own skin, or happy all the time, but knowing who you are and what you believe in is the first step toward taking control of your life.
When It Comes to Self-Care, Find What Works for You
I was very depressed after my sister died. And I had good reason to be. But mental health was a topic rarely discussed (or even acknowledged) in my family. So instead of talking about my feelings with a therapist or going to see a doctor, I self-medicated. I drank lots of alcohol, smoked weed, and took mushrooms, LSD, MDMA. I consumed whatever I could to forget the questions constantly circling around in my head: Would I ever see her again? Was she out there somewhere? Or was she just gone?
These questions tormented me when I was sober. So I refused to be sober.
Being in mourning means crying until you’ve got nothing left. It means sitting with sadness until you’re so sick of it you can’t feel sad anymore. I didn’t want to do that. I wanted to alter my mind and think of other things and forget Kristina Marie Akana ever existed.
My depression became so bad that I started taking drugs by myself. I didn’t go anywhere; I was always home. I have no idea if my parents knew what I was doing. I thought my mom must have known, because I once crawled down the stairs and flopped onto her while she watched TV, but maybe she just assumed I was being cuddly. After all, my parents have never done drugs. How would they know that this burst of affection and love was the result of a pill?
I enrolled in community college, but I often skipped class to get high. I became horribly shy to the point where I couldn’t talk to strangers. In an attempt to get my life back on track, I interned at a veterinary practice to see if I wanted to go into animal science. But I spent most of the days in the corner, refusing to speak unless someone spoke directly to me. It was impossible to make new friends.
Before Kristina died I’d had a job at GameStop, but I took time off after her death. When I eventually returned to work, it was a disaster. I’d often break down and cry in the backroom. Working a dead-end job, going through the motions at community college, and drinking/smoking myself into oblivion made up the entirety of my life. Gone was the ambition to be a military officer, a veterinarian, anything at all. Though I’d always secretly dreamed of a career in acting and writing, these dreams felt as dead and unattainable to me as my sister did.
In those years, I smoked weed five times a day. I eventually quit my job at GameStop and started working at a pizza place. I’d smoke before work, clean the place like crazy until my high wore off, then get high during my lunch break and continue scrubbing the ovens. I’d get high when I got home and play videogames. Then I’d get high and go to bed. On some nights I’d take harder drugs by myself and cry. Other nights I’d take drugs with friends, but I might as well have been alone.
I also got addicted to eBay and buried myself in $10,000 worth of debt. Buying things made me feel good. It made me feel alive, at least temporarily. I would shoplift random things here and there just for the thrill of it. My heart would race as I snuck a pair of clip-on earrings I’d never wear into my bag—it felt so good.
I have no idea what the rest of my family was doing during this period of my life. Once in a while I’d hear Mom crying in her room at night. I’d turn up my music, not wanting to join her in the endless crying that seemed to dominate our life. I’d see my brother, Will, around the house, but we didn’t talk much. He seemed just as numb as me, but without the reliance on substances. My father was lost in World of Warcraft, gaming away his pain in fantasyland.
When I found comedy and stand-up, I found my motivation. I finally realized that my purposelessness was only fueling my depression and drug use. So I dove into performing and acting and never looked back. I replaced MDMA with the high of walking onstage. I didn’t need acid; Hollywood was enough of a trip.
Although I finally stopped taking drugs and abusing alcohol, my depression never went away completely. It was different from what I’d suffered when my sister died, though. It wasn’t as sharp or raw. It was dull. A sort of bland blanket of pain that covered everything. I’d think, Even if my career is everything I want it to be, does it matter? We all die. Nothing matters. I isolated myself in my office and at home with my cats. I became a workaholic, rarely engaging with anything I didn’t deem productive or professionally beneficial.
I’d lost the ability to connect with people. I’d sit and stare at them when there was a lull in conversation, like I’d completely forgotten how to be a human being. People would ask me, “How are you?” and I wouldn’t know how to respond. At least when my sister died, I’d felt so much rage and sadness that it was impossible to ignore. Now things felt so bland. How am I? I don’t know. My career is fine. My friends are fine. My love life is fine. I feel like I’m on this hamster wheel of never-ending work, chasing this idea of “making it” that intellectually I know doesn’t exist. I know that we all die, so why am I wasting so much time working? Why am I chasing a feeling that I know I’ll never have? I didn’t have the answers to these questions—and I still don’t.
And it makes me unhappy. It makes me sad. It makes me lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling and think of nothing.
For several years, my therapist suggested I try antidepressants. I always politely declined, insisting that I’d rather try holistic methods like exercise, vitamins, vegan diets, etc. For a while, this seemed to work. As long as I was immersed in my work and adhering to a strict routine, I didn’t notice my depression too much. It stayed in the background, muted and unimportant. As long as I ignored my anxiety or drowned it in alcohol during social events, I was fine. If I was struggling to get my work done, I’d lie down and imagine the moment of my death to try to urge myself to get back to the things I had to do.
When I finally decided to try antidepressants, I was motivated by a variety of things: my therapist’s continued urging, my worsening depression and anxiety, the fact that I was becoming an impossible person to live with. But the main reason I decided to try them was because I knew I was being a hypocrite.
I’d been a fierce advocate for destigmatizing mental illness and I’d been vocal on YouTube and on social media about suicide prevention. There I was, preaching to the masses every day, but I couldn’t even take my own therapist’s advice.
Looking back now, I think my reluctance to take antidepressants had to do with the fact that to do so would mean I’d have to acknowledge my depression was real. And that scared me. It somehow felt like defeat. But I realized that I was perpetuating the very stereotypes I was arguing against. So I did what I always do when I’m going to make a decision and want to hold myself accountable: I made a video. That way I couldn’t back d
own. I told my audience that I’d been a hypocrite and that I’d be starting medication.
Then I went to see my doctor.
I explained to him my reluctance to go on too high a dose and my fears of potential addiction. He nodded along, exasperated in the non-condescending but tired way that is unique to doctors. He asked about my family history. I told him about my sister’s suicide and the history of addiction that ran in my family—gambling, alcohol, and online gaming.
He nodded, made a note in his folder, and asked me about my habits. Did I exercise regularly? Yes. Eat healthy? Yes. Get enough sleep? Yes. Did I handle stress well? Not really, but I was working on it.
Finally he asked about my symptoms. I told him about how often I’d lie on the floor, the feeling of hopelessness, the anxiety that kept me home, my fatigue and irritability.
My doctor decided to do blood work before prescribing any medication. He wanted to rule out any thyroid issues, potential anemia, or whatever else there might be. He drew some blood and said he would call when he got the results.
A week later he called. Everything looked fine. There was nothing wrong with me physically. So I went back in to talk about antidepressants. Again I explained to him my fears of going on medication. How I’d heard horror stories of foggy heads and weight gain. How people said their entire world turned dull and without color. I said I wanted to go on the lowest possible dose. He sighed and put my medical folder down.
“I have high blood pressure,” he said. “That runs in my family. It’s genetic. If I don’t take my blood pressure medication, I suffer. So I take it. Will I die without it? No. But it makes my life a lot easier. You have depression. Based on what you’ve told me about your family history, it most likely runs in your family.”
I nodded. It made sense. It was just an illness like any other.
“Will medication cure your depression? No. But it’ll make your life a little easier.”
In that moment, it clicked for me. Though I’d spent years talking about the stigma against mental illness, I’d never fully internalized it on an emotional level. Intellectually, it made sense. But it was so ingrained in me that I hadn’t even realized I was perpetuating it against myself.
The biggest difference between mental and physical illness is the differing attitudes people have toward them. If you have the flu, cancer, or a broken bone, family and friends are right there with you, caring for you and eager to help. But when we talk about schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, or clinical depression, it’s a different story.
I went on 10 mg of Lexapro. Though the four-week transition period was rough (fatigue, sleepiness, walking through a fog), I quickly felt a change. Gone was the dull blanket covering my brain. My step felt lighter. My mind felt lighter. I didn’t react to life’s events with such intense anger or sadness.
Oh, I thought. This is what mental and emotional clarity feels like.
It was as if my whole life up until this moment had been lived on a roller coaster—consisting of extreme ups and downs, loops at top speed, and abrupt, unforeseen stops. Going on Lexapro made me feel like I was riding first class on a luxurious train. Everything was smooth. I was able to enjoy the sights. I was able to breathe easily and think in peace and quiet.
Lexapro did not “fix” or “cure” my depression. It was just the final boost I needed. All my other lifestyle choices—exercising regularly, eating healthy, building a support system—were hugely important when it came to managing my depression. But the effects of going on medication changed my life. I became enthusiastic about bringing it up in conversation. Whenever someone asked, “How are you?” I’d immediately dive into my experience with antidepressants, hoping that someone else had experienced the same thing. I was surprised at how many of my friends and colleagues were on ADs. I had conversations with Uber drivers and waiters about their own struggles with depression. It was so much more common than I’d ever realized.
Why didn’t anyone talk about this stuff?
Although I was thrilled that the medication was working, some of my friends and family were not supportive. Some warned me against the “fake happiness” that ADs gave you. I was urged to find happiness inside myself instead of over the counter. Several friends of mine told me that they’d tried antidepressants but the side effects had been too much for them. I heard stories of how some medications randomly stopped being effective. My parents gave me a giant bag of vitamins and assured me that depression would go away with old age.
I listened to everyone and registered their concerns, but in the end, I knew what was best for me and I stayed on the Lexapro. When it comes to any kind of self-care, you have to find what works for you. We all have different bodies, minds, and attitudes. What works for one person won’t necessarily work for another. And the regimen you find for yourself might someday change.
It took me too long to face up to my own prejudices and fears surrounding mental health. When I was finally able to acknowledge that I was a walking contradiction and take full ownership of my depression, I found the missing piece of the puzzle I’d been searching for. I’m certainly not happy all the time, and I will always struggle with depression and anxiety, but deciding to take medication changed my life for the better—and I hope my story empowers people to take charge of their own well-being.
Succeed Because of Your Race, Not Despite It
I didn’t realize I was Asian until I was eight.
I can’t remember who pointed it out to me. But once I knew, it became hard to ignore. I started noticing just how little Asian representation there was onscreen. Who were my Asian role models growing up? Jackie Chan? Lucy Liu? That’s it?
Growing up, my family spent a lot of time overseas or in small towns in the United States, mostly on military bases. My dad was a naval flight officer, my mother a homemaker with three kids. We moved every two to three years to a new state or country. By the time I was six, I’d already been to thirteen states. My parents loved sightseeing, experiencing different cultures, and trying new food. I was always surrounded by Caucasian kids and I never really considered myself any different from them. No one ever treated me differently, at least.
I didn’t encounter racism until our move to Temecula, California (which, for a city in an area known for its wine and hot-air balloons, has a lot of racial tension).
My first day as a junior at Chaparral High School, I was told: “Go back to China, chink!” I stared at the weird white guy with platinum-blond buzzed hair and said, “I’m Japanese.” He spit in my direction and walked away.
After that, racism continued to play a role in my life, but I didn’t let it affect me. People can call you names, they can assume stereotypes are true, they can be assholes. None of that mattered. Until I started acting. What mattered then was the very real but invisible wall that came down between me and my career because of my race.
My theater program in high school was the usual group of misfits: mostly horny white kids who liked classic movies and musicals and plays. They were all pretty accepting of me, and I never really clashed with any of them.
My drama teacher, on the other hand, was a different story. He had tried to make it in Hollywood as a Latino actor. But he was only able to book stereotypical Latino roles (Gangster #3, for instance) and found it too discouraging, so he left LA and became a teacher in Temecula. Now, I have nothing against him or the path he chose. I think everyone has to do what they feel is right in their life. I don’t think toughing it out in a career your heart isn’t in is the right way to live. But he was clearly angry at the way the industry had treated him and he took it out on his students, telling me that I’d never make it in Hollywood because I was Asian.
I’ve always been kind of stupid when it comes to color. When a friend of mine and I co-directed a Christmas play for our drama class, we cast a white mom and black dad with two kids—one Asian and one Mexican. We didn’t realize how absurd it was until someone pointed it out after the production.
One time I showe
d up at the auditions for our school’s production of The Diary of Anne Frank. Our drama teacher stared at me and said, “Why are you here?” I told him I was there to try out for the part of Anne Frank. It took me nearly six months to realize that what he was really asking was why I, an Asian person, was trying out for the role of a Jewish girl.
Maybe it was naive of me to show up for the audition. But if I could cast color-blind, why couldn’t he? After all, it was high school drama! It was make-believe. If I could pretend to be Victoria from the Spice Girls, couldn’t I pretend to be Anne Frank?
In my eyes, acting meant pretending, and if you were pretending, you could be anything you wanted to be! Why couldn’t I play a black person? Or a white person? Why couldn’t they play me? We could all be aliens, for goodness’ sake! Why couldn’t we just pick whoever was best for the role, regardless of what they looked like? I didn’t get it.
Years later, when I’d surpassed a million subscribers on YouTube and had a few TV/film credits on my resume, I was up for the lead in a movie that I will call Repeat. I’d auditioned, gone through callbacks, met with the head of the production company, and lo and behold, I booked it. My first starring role. This was a huge step for me! I’d had supporting roles before, playing the best friend or colleague, but I’d never been the star in anything I wasn’t creating myself. I told everyone: my friends, my family, people I worked with. I had booked it! I was a lead! I cried in my car on the way home from the meeting, singing pop songs at the top of my lungs.
A week later, when I was on a set for a short film I was directing, I got a call from my manager. The paperwork had come in, and they were now offering me the best friend role. Would I take it?
Wait, what?