For Life

I have often worried that I talk about mental health "too much." After this week, I am committed to destroying that fear.

Colin Young (L) and Bo Lueders of Hardlore. Photo by Chris "Sherburt" Smith.

Content Warning: This essay discusses suicide and self-harm. Please prioritize your safety, if necessary.

---

I.

I did not know Bo Lueders. For a little over a week last year, the two of us were on a Coheed & Cambria cruise ship together—me on board with Thursday, he with his Hardlore cohost Colin Young and the band Twitching Tongues—but aside from a couple of friendly head-nods in the cabin hallways, we didn’t actually say a word to each other. This happens in hardcore sometimes. We so often know of many people, but we never get to really know them.

Anyone who really knows me, for example, would tell you that I am not as outgoing as I appear to be on stage or online. I don’t just regularly walk up and introduce myself to strangers in real life, and even when I do, I do so with an unbearable sense of internal mortification. Which is to say I only do such things when I feel like there is simply no other choice. That week in October, while sailing in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico, I chose to keep to myself. I regret that now.

The reality is, I was a fan. I was a fan of Harms Way, whose music I featured on AM Radio, and of course, I was a fan of Hardlore—perhaps the single most ubiquitous platform of hardcore media that we have. Back when Anti-Matter was in full swing, people would sometimes speak with me about Bo and Colin as if they were “competitors.” I never viewed them in that way.

In my mind, Anti-Matter is a project that centers understanding the larger hardcore community through the telling of individual stories. It’s also about clearing the assumptions we make about each other and killing a few sacred cows wherever we can. Hardlore, to me, is wildly different. Hardlore is more of a joyful demonstration of hardcore pride. It’s about celebrating our traditions of hardcore mythology—“lore” is, after all, in the name—and expressing a sincere reverence to hardcore’s legends and contemporary figures alike. Hardlore’s best episodes could make me feel like I did when I was a thirteen-year-old kid seeing Agnostic Front for the first time, when my relationship with hardcore was still fresh and blissfully uncomplicated. Whereas I may have occasionally used Anti-Matter as a platform to critique hardcore—a sort of tough love, in some cases—Bo and Colin created a platform where hardcore is almost impervious to critique. It’s all love, literally. They might squabble over whether or not Merauder made a better record than Killing Time, but this kind of “fight” is more akin to something like fighting over which facial feature you love the most about the love of your life. Eyes, nose, cheeks, whatever. You fucking love that person with your whole heart.

I did not know Bo Lueders. But I know for certain that he fucking loved hardcore with his whole heart.

Bo Lueders, live with Harms Way. Photo by Oscar Rodriguez.

II.

When I made the decision to press pause on Anti-Matter a little over a year ago, most of my reasons were practical; I outlined many of these concerns in one of the last essays I published before the hiatus. But there were other factors.

For most of my life I’ve only ever considered myself a writer. Before the internet, I looked at the act of writing as an opportunity for my mind—and for the world, on some level—to be given the grace to move at my own speed, on my own terms. I also believed in its potential to heal. Some people see writing as a practice of solitude, but I have always been more enthusiastic about the idea that once the writing becomes the written, I have engaged in a social act. It’s the reader who gives life to the written, and that point of exchange still feels like the reason why I do it. Writing has always made me feel less alone. It’s the way I choose to feel connection with the world.

The online version of Anti-Matter that I introduced in 2023 did not afford me the same kind of grace, but by the time I realized it, it was too late. To be clear, it wasn’t the workload itself that created a problem, nor was it a problem created by my audience. I was the author of my own publishing schedule and I knew the level of dedication required for this going into it. No, this emerging crisis was more subtle and unlike anything I could have predicted: As a “creator” whose “content” had become entangled with my own personal identity—and then set to a schedule of harsh deadlines—I had unwittingly created an environment of psychological and emotional repression. Because, for one thing, who would subscribe to a newsletter that bums you out? Who actually cares whether or not I questioned my self-worth that week? Who would donate five dollars a month to find out if I was up all night re-litigating my childhood trauma instead of writing about Turnstile? I knew that I wanted to make authentic and personal work, but by my own design, that expression could not be complete. This was not the place for that. And so I’d push those feelings down to get the work done, only to leave them there. Week after week, without ever having the opportunity to process them. Knowing that, one day soon, they would inevitably find their way out.

It used to be that only a few of us could choose to live our lives in public; the demand for making “content” out of your life was confined by the mediums that could dish it out, and there weren’t many. That is no longer the case. Today, seemingly almost everyone chooses to create an “online self”—on Instagram, on TikTok, on Substack, or perhaps most unfortunately, on Facebook. Just think about how twisted it is that literally millions of otherwise private people, some of whom are reading this newsletter right now, currently have a slate of personal online performance metrics that they silently monitor. Now imagine what it’s like for those of us in public and creative fields, where there is an even stronger demand for us to be chronically online, devoting days and weeks and months to watering that insatiable thirsty garden of subscription numbers, streaming milestones, social media followers, and fan engagement. All of which makes it increasingly difficult to find the appropriate amount of time to attend to our offline selves—our actual human lives with our very real psychological needs—until that severe lack of nourishment begins to show.

In the case of Anti-Matter, I only realized that something was off when I realized that writing this newsletter ten times a month meant that I was, by necessity, always on. I thought breaking down in private and crying once a week was just the cost of doing business when you cross the rubicon from “writer” to “content creator.” I thought I was getting paid to protect you, the reader, from my stubborn history with depression. That’s the thing about most internet media projects: For my work to “succeed,” I needed you to like me. And nobody likes a buzzkill.

Bo Lueders, singing along with Youth of Today. Photo by Chris “Sherburt” Smith.

III.

In the days since Bo’s death was announced, I’ve read countless tributes online from his friends and loved ones who were absolutely blindsided by the news. People who had just talked to him that very evening had no idea what he was about to do next. I want everyone to know: That is in no way a referendum on their relationships or on how well they knew Bo. At this point in my life, I’ve lost at least at least four friends to suicide—including Bill Kiernan, the singer for my first-ever band, Fountainhead—and each and every one of them came as a complete shock. As much as our brains demand that we make sense of the world around us, some things are and will always remain unsusceptible to “making sense.” This is one of them.

So if what I’m saying is that it’s impossible to explain this moment in some sort of meaningful way, then why, after fifteen months off the grid, am I even reviving this newsletter at all?

A little over three months ago, I posted a reel to Instagram about the Texas is the Reason song “A Jack With One Eye,” and specifically how the music to that song emerged from a mental health crisis. (I didn’t use the word in that reel, but I will tell you now that I was experiencing persistent suicidal ideation at the time.) I struggled with how I should tell that story, but more than that, I struggled with if I should tell that story. It’s not like I’ve never talked about my mental health struggles in public before, so it didn’t feel like some sort of big reveal or something. That wasn’t it. It was more that I was worried I’d already talked about mental health too much. I didn’t want people to feel sorry for me, or worse, roll their eyes at the subject. Even now, at 52 years old, I still occasionally feel the shame and stigma of having an active clinical depression diagnosis. And sometimes, that shame keeps me from doing or saying more. I fucking hate that.

Because we all need to be doing and saying more, especially in the hardcore community. I need for you to understand that none of us came to this scene because we were normal or well-adjusted or even happy. We came to this scene because we felt marginalized by the outside world, ill-equipped for a conventional life, and most likely, very pissed off. We settled into this community because it was a relief to find other fucked-up people who wanted to be good to each other and do great things together. The hardcore scene is, in fact, a lifeline. But it’s not therapy. It’s not professional help when you need it. It’s just not enough.

There are things we can and should do. The simple things still hold true: Check in on your friends. Create truly inclusive spaces. Foster personal and public dialogues that allow for vulnerability without shame. Normalize conversations about mental health and therapy. Be prepared to provide resources for anyone who acknowledges that they need more help but don’t know where to go.

On a more personal level, think about your own relationship with our community and how much of it exists online. Give our content creators and musicians and public-facing people a little bit of time and grace to take care of their offline and offstage selves—even if it means you don’t get a new episode or essay or album right away. Give each other a little more grace at the shows and in the comments sections. Treat each other as if you have no idea what the other person is going through right now, because you don’t, and you also have absolutely no idea how meaningful and life-changing one simple act of kindness can be to someone who needs it at just the right moment. Finally, give yourself a little more time and grace, because we need you, too.

If I’m being honest, that nagging feeling that I’ve already “talked too much” about mental health turned up again during the process of writing this, but I can’t be bothered with that thought anymore. When Bo died, I was reminded that the only difference between life and death in the darkness of my own worst depression was nothing but a split second. Knowing this, I have grieved for Bo in a way that I’m not sure I’ve ever grieved for a stranger before. But with this broken heart, it feels necessary to remind those of us who are still here that we belong to a community that is no stranger to struggle, and that I know I speak for thousands of us when I say that we will struggle together with you until you get to the other side of whatever it is you are going through. You are not alone. I swear it. We must let each other know this.

Because the people that we love are dying. Our community is at risk. And as long as this threat remains, it is our responsibility to show up for each other, to take care of each other, to love each other. I came back to say this because now is not the time to shut up about it.

Thank you for joining me here again, even if only for this moment.

With love and respect,
Norman

If you are experiencing mental health-related distress or are worried about a loved one who may need crisis support, please call or text 988 or visit 988lifeline.org. Connect with a trained crisis counselor. It’s confidential, free, and available 24/7/365.

Anti-Matter is ad-free, anti-algorithm, and all about hardcore. For updates on its future, please consider subscribing now. ✨