Hayley Williams on Mental Health: 'I Didn't Laugh For a Long Time'
Original Essay on papermag.com
I've put this essay off till the very last possible day. Anytime someone asks me to write something for them my first question is always, "When do you absolutely have to have it by?" It's not that I don't enjoy writing, but these assignments give me such a strange and creeping anxiety. It's happening right this very second, as the words are coming out of my fingers. Sure, I think I'm a pretty good writer, but it's not like I'm Sylvia fucking Plath! What am I freaking out about? People will see it, they might even read it, and if I'm lucky they'll get something from it.
No. If I'm honest, in my head, it's more like this: People will see it, they might even read it, and if they don't get anything from it then maybe it's a reflection of my worth.
Let's talk about something else. Let's talk about AL.
In the summer of 2015, I was an engaged, yellow-haired 26-year-old. There was a Grammy sitting on my kitchen counter and boxes everywhere from the move I'd made back home to Nashville after a few weird years in LA. I was going to get married that September, slow down some, plant a garden, have a kid, make another Paramore record. Everything was finally going to be perfect and I was going to live happily ever afte— Oh.
Wow...
Just threw up a little bit.
Imagine a little girl, dancing and twirling on a sidewalk in a loud, colorful dress. Eyes closed, laughing. 100 feet above her, someone's pushing a piano (just go with me, here) out of their apartment window and it's got nowhere to go but straight down. Well, I was the little girl.
Taylor York and I were supposed to start writing for what would be our fifth album and I remember for the first time in a long time, I actually had an idea I wanted to send him. I almost cried when I found the lyrics in my phone the other day:
"Sanity, why must you make a fool of me/ You been a friend to me, now I think we're enemies/ When I fall on my knees I hear you laughing/ When I call on your name, you don't come."
We never finished it, but that little verse was the first hint my subconscious gave me that I wasn't okay. I wouldn't get any others until after the piano fell, right on top of me.
I woke up from that crash with one less bandmate... another fight about money and who wrote what songs. And I had a wedding ring on, despite breaking off the engagement only months before. A lot happened within a short time. But then I didn't eat, I didn't sleep, I didn't laugh... for a long time. I'm still hesitant to call it depression. Mostly out of fear people will put it in a headline, as if depression is unique and interesting and deserves a click. Psychology is interesting. Depression is torment.
Original Essay on papermag.com
I've put this essay off till the very last possible day. Anytime someone asks me to write something for them my first question is always, "When do you absolutely have to have it by?" It's not that I don't enjoy writing, but these assignments give me such a strange and creeping anxiety. It's happening right this very second, as the words are coming out of my fingers. Sure, I think I'm a pretty good writer, but it's not like I'm Sylvia fucking Plath! What am I freaking out about? People will see it, they might even read it, and if I'm lucky they'll get something from it.
No. If I'm honest, in my head, it's more like this: People will see it, they might even read it, and if they don't get anything from it then maybe it's a reflection of my worth.
Let's talk about something else. Let's talk about AL.
In the summer of 2015, I was an engaged, yellow-haired 26-year-old. There was a Grammy sitting on my kitchen counter and boxes everywhere from the move I'd made back home to Nashville after a few weird years in LA. I was going to get married that September, slow down some, plant a garden, have a kid, make another Paramore record. Everything was finally going to be perfect and I was going to live happily ever afte— Oh.
Wow...
Just threw up a little bit.
Imagine a little girl, dancing and twirling on a sidewalk in a loud, colorful dress. Eyes closed, laughing. 100 feet above her, someone's pushing a piano (just go with me, here) out of their apartment window and it's got nowhere to go but straight down. Well, I was the little girl.
Taylor York and I were supposed to start writing for what would be our fifth album and I remember for the first time in a long time, I actually had an idea I wanted to send him. I almost cried when I found the lyrics in my phone the other day:
"Sanity, why must you make a fool of me/ You been a friend to me, now I think we're enemies/ When I fall on my knees I hear you laughing/ When I call on your name, you don't come."
We never finished it, but that little verse was the first hint my subconscious gave me that I wasn't okay. I wouldn't get any others until after the piano fell, right on top of me.
I woke up from that crash with one less bandmate... another fight about money and who wrote what songs. And I had a wedding ring on, despite breaking off the engagement only months before. A lot happened within a short time. But then I didn't eat, I didn't sleep, I didn't laugh... for a long time. I'm still hesitant to call it depression. Mostly out of fear people will put it in a headline, as if depression is unique and interesting and deserves a click. Psychology is interesting. Depression is torment.
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