Numbness and wanting to die feels common in 2018. In hip-hop, this feeling has become ever more present in the music from artists of the past decade. From Kendrick Lamar and Chance the Rapper to G Herbo and Lil Uzi Vert, the age of silent suffering is no more. Artists are on a journey to find balance between emptiness and overwhelming emotion - giving up and pressing forward, while offering a vulnerable window for those who can relate to the messiness and uncertainty of that journey. This has led to a generation of young Hip-Hop heads finding a relatable life saving voice in the midst of numbing depression and chaos.

10 years ago, I refused to believe I was one of those young Hip-Hop fans, constantly rejecting the idea of being mentally ill. However, within the dungeon of my room I unknowingly spent years stagnant, trying to find the perfect armor, weapons and party members to take down the epic bosses that are my depression and anxiety— to no avail.

At 15, I dropped out of high school after failing freshman year twice, had little to no friends left and was on bad terms with my mom while being emotionally and physically ignored by my oblivious dad. By 16, I was a suicidal and hyper anxious college dropout shut-in with an addiction to video games that crossed the line of dangerous years prior with health problems that were stacked up like a losing game of Tetris. I was a husk - devoid of emotion or feeling. Music was always there but it wasn’t until my first and last suicide attempt that the importance of Hip-Hop became critical to my survival. Music served as the catalyst for brief stints of emotional normalcy on the rare occasions when numbness hadn’t robbed me of feeling.

“And hanging from the playground wasn’t wrong, until you got a rope around your neck/And I been losing more than just my mind, gathering what’s left of self-respect” - Isaiah Rashad on “Heavenly Father”

Hip-Hop allowed me to cry oceans to Cudi’s “Don’t Play This Song.” I held the double edged sword of seemingly manic triumph and screamed “Just wait till I get this shit perfect” from Isaiah Rashad’s “Banana,” while harboring temporary feelings of invincibility. I’ve spent hours listening to Lupe recite “Kick, Push” while contemplating whether or not to coast my ass into traffic. But it wasn’t until a failed semester at Towson University, and a rock bottom depressive relapse at 22, that I needed more from hip-hop. I needed to know what the point of going forward was and how all this shit was supposed to continue — or end. Amidst solitude and wallowing, I needed answers.