Gas and Dust

"Every good poem is hell and heaven fighting" Andrea Gibson

Andrea Gibson died on July 14th, 2025. Over the years, the social media algorithm has been generous, delivering videos of their poetry, wise magic. I often locked in, and would go wherever Andrea wanted to take me. I felt deeply seen and deeply connected. Yet I kept it there, little random treats delighting the dissociation of a late-night doom scroll.

Gas and dust.

A little over a month ago I decided to commit to an anti-inflammatory diet in order to address chronic pain in my joints. Arthritis at 44. My fingers, toes, knees, and elbow howling to the moon, grieving the “one that got away” — youth. I drown away their sorrows with topical NSAIDs and tuck them into bed. This was not a sustainable option for a condition that was seemingly worsening. Root causes? Why am I so inflamed, exactly?

The anti-inflammatory diet limits food choices to those foods that reduce inflammation. There is no one perfect anti-inflammatory diet for all, but the universal list of major contributors to inflammation includes: Red meat, processed meats (deli meats, salami, bacon), commercially produced baked goods, gluten, deep-fried foods, foods/drinks high in added sugars, trans fats. Many anti-inflammatory diets add soy, eggs, dairy, and coffee to the list, especially during an introductory elimination phase for 21 to 30 days. The idea is you eliminate all inflammatory foods for a period. Your body heals and then you add them back in to find YOUR problem foods. I started the restrictive phase about a month ago and within 7 days I started to feel 60% less inflamed, but I developed a growing sadness in my heart. The loss of my morning coffee ritual left me with headaches and even more painful heartaches.

I stopped the diet prematurely due to a planned backpacking trip. I knew I couldn’t pull it off without my morning elixir, granola, or Mountain House chicken and rice — all top performers in the inflammation ring of fire. I made it through the first backpacking trip in 2 years, 30 miles in the Olympic Peninsula.
I was high on life coming off the trail, but my knees blew up. Swollen, stiff. I could barely get out of the car when we arrived at our cabin. Arthritis at 44. When I got back home I decided to commit to the anti-inflammatory diet and in just a few days, depression hit me like a sneaker wave. I was underwater.

Gas and dust.

I started taking bupropion (Wellbutrin) almost 3 years ago. My professional job was going through a merger, life pulsing through the blades of a global pandemic, and wildfires hit so close to home. It was during the 12-day stretch when the smoke blocked the sun that I found myself choking on darkness and blindly walking to where the sidewalk ends, earth crumbling into space below. I fell off the edge into a swell of hopelessness. Onboarding bupropion felt like I caught a speed train, gripped only by my fingers. It almost killed me.

After three days, when I could hold on no longer, I fell, and to my surprise it was safer ground. It all was still a little ashy but I could get out of bed. I could feel the warmth of a hug.

And for a few years, I was okay with the antidepressant, so okay that at some point early this year (2025) I decided I could tackle this being-alive stuff without the hypomania-producing pharmaceutical assist. And for the last few months, before giving up my dark roast ritual, I was all good. All good.

Gas and dust.

“Hello?”
“Where am I?”
I rub my eyes
“Is that you…DEPRESSION?”

I spun around slowly, my arms rising just enough to feel the familiar weighted veil of melancholy.

RECOIL. I felt my body send an alert message.

RECOIL. I deactivated my Facebook. I deactivated my Instagram. I deleted the apps from my phone and iPad.

RECOIL. I left a political chat group on Signal.

Like a pill bug, lesser known as a “butchy boy,” I transformed from a cellar crawler to a ball. I made a home in a protective exoskeleton and started hanging up photos of the people I love.

A text message from a friend came through: “Did you leave the Signal chat?”

Oh shit, I didn’t know that anyone would see that. I reached out to two good friends on the chat, and I came clean about my “bad brains,” I scheduled walks.

At 44, and with 3 years of medicated okay-ness, I was a little rusty at recognizing the knock on the door. Most people who have survived a life of living with depression have a toolbox, delicately crafted with the help of friends, self-help books, motivational podcasts, late nights deep diving Reddit thread finds.

I told a couple of my closest people. I made a doctor’s appointment. I texted my therapist and asked if I could get back on her schedule.

My sister called me out of the blue. She sensed I needed it.

Gas and dust.

Andrea Gibson died on July 14th, and on July 16th I started talk therapy again. I talked about the depression, about the suicidal ideations. With the most sincere care, my therapist held space for me, and I felt a lightness. I felt relief. I felt safe. I told her how my suicidal ideation used to come in waves so powerful and so constant, but after watching two comedians — Gary Gulman, a king of grammar jokes, open up on stage during his Great Depresh Tour and Frank King joke about depression and chronic suicidal ideations during a recorded TED Talk — my thoughts for the first time evaporated with each big belly laugh. Tears rained down my face. I laughed so hard I watered the quieter parts of me, thirsty for attention. In the therapeutic flood of tears, weight lifted when those two jokesters gave visibility to my dirty secret. The shame washed away. Without shame, my depression and dark thoughts have little to no power. They can exist, like gas and dust, but the shackles lose their form. As I was about to log off, my therapist suggested I look into Andrea Gibson’s writing because she too gives visibility to the darkness. I remembered being delighted by her short videos and made a note to look for books at the library.

That night I received an unexpected text:
“They are telling you blend in, like you’ve never seen how a blender works, like they think you’ve never seen the mess from the blade.” — Andrea Gibson.
A message from a friend, a message from the universe. A message I felt in every fiber of my being. A gentle reminder I am seen and loved.

A week later, a newsletter landed in my inbox from a dear friend and favorite writer, and at the end was a link to a video of Andrea Gibson reading Every Time I Said I Wanted to Die. One click transported me to the most beautiful cry I may have ever had, and I watched it again and again, each wash a little deeper — a shower of the most unexpected care.

Gas and dust.

I started a weekly practice of grinding spices in a mortar and pestle as the sun rises. Cinnamon, cardamom, clove, star anise, coriander, black pepper. An alchemist. On low, I warm a pan and pour in the freshly crushed powders. A self-healer. I make circles with the wooden spoon through the spices. I take in the aroma, like a blast of medicinal love. So light, I lift off the ground for just a second. With ancestral brauchers behind me, I pour the spices into a pot and boil them. The flavored steam dances in the air and around me. I add black tea and steep. Oh, I miss coffee, but not in a hopeless way. I miss it like a favorite song I played out. I don’t need to listen to it anymore, but it’s still my first choice, on high, at a karaoke bar.

Today I stumbled onto the lyrics from a song Andrea Gibson wrote to their wife, and delivered in music by Chris Pureka, in the moments before they passed. Almost too beautiful to read, I was struck by the line: “Every good poem is like heaven and hell fighting.” We are all good poems living out our poetry, holding space for our pieces, and taking shots in the dark.

The chai tea, the therapy sessions, the long walks and talks with friends, the visits from a ghost, Andrea Gibson… I am reminded again that we are strong enough to carry this mix of joy and grief and that we are never carrying it alone. Sure it slows us down from time to time, but it's not a burden. It’s a gateway, a boarding call to connection, observation, and an expansive space adventure.