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jawn-steinbeck · 1 year

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The Process: From Joel Embiid to a Mentally Ill Fan

July 6th, 2022. 11:19 PM EST to be exact. I find myself lying wide awake in my bed, counting the hours of sleep I’m losing before group therapy at 9AM tomorrow. My Vraylar, which would normally have sedated me by now, has yet to kick in. I find myself looking at Fanatics CEO, Michael Rubin’s, Instagram and photos of his recent house party in the Hamptons, the type of rockstar event that most people can only dream of. I swipe through photos of the mogul with hip-hop legends like Jay-Z, Drake, Travis Scott, and Philadelphia’s own Meek Mill. But there’s one photo that sticks out to me: the first one.

Michael poses for the camera with his girlfriend and daughter. Behind them is a seven-foot-tall goofball from Cameroon: Joel. Hans. “The Process.” Embiid. Six time NBA All-Star. This past season’s scoring champion and should-be MVP #TheyHateTheProcess. The King of Sports Social Media Comedy. A man who once turned Rihanna down on national television. The twenty-eight year-old is already a legend and the story is only getting better.

If you’re reading this, chances are I don’t have to tell you that it hasn’t always been peaches and cream for The Process. It’s been just that: a process, a painful one filled with both physical and emotional trauma, media scrutiny, and tweets galore. But, he has literally and figuratively overcome it all so far, standing tall in his size whatever sneakers, ready to boldly face the next steps in his arduous process. And, in doing so, he’s inspiring millions, especially his fans in the greater Philadelphia area.

This is the story of one of those fans, a mentally ill young man going through a process of his own, a man who found hope in an unlikely source. He’s found solace in knowing that he’s not alone, even though he’ll likely never meet the man who inspires him. As a diehard Philadelphia fan, sports have always served a higher purpose to him. Athletes like Brian Dawkins and Chase Utley have given him hope before. But, no athlete has or ever will give him hope like this.

To quote another social media star and Philadelphia Flyers’ mascot, Gritty: it me.

“With the third pick in the 2014 NBA Draft, the Philadelphia 76ers select: Joel Embiid.”

The seven-footer sits at home, almost unrecognizable with this thinner frame and buzz cut, looking rather confused at the announcement of his name by NBA commissioner and store brand Judge Doom, Adam Silver. In the chapter room of the Lambda Chi Alpha house at Drexel University, twenty-year-old me sports a similar facial expression. “He’s a stick,” I say to myself, “And, he just had major surgery. What the heck is (then 76ers general manager) Sam Hinkie thinking?”

I had trouble getting out of my own head, let alone into the head of the greatest contrarian the league has ever seen. At the time, I was reeling from the worst week of my life, a week that included the sudden death of a friend, emotional abuse at work, and “breaking up” with one of my best friends, a woman with whom I was madly in love. By the week’s end, all I wanted was to die. I was less than a mile from the Schuylkill River. All I had to do was walk outside and jump. At the same time, thankfully, I realized I needed help and had just started seeing both a therapist and a psychiatrist.

Flash forward to November 2016. I just moved in with my dad and stepmom in Bensalem after blowing my money and “my shot” in LA where I moved after graduating the year prior to pursue my degree in Film and Video. I was stupidly in love with a woman I’d never see again. And, apologies if I come off as a whiny liberal by saying this, but Donald Trump’s shocking election win that left millions feeling confused and hopeless was an event symbiotic with what was happening in my own life.

I felt like an absolute failure, and as someone with clinical bipolar disorder and anxiety, those feelings came out in full force. Much like my life as a Philly sports fan, I questioned why I even keep trying when I know I’m going to get another metaphorical kick in the groin. Giving up on my career aspirations for the sake of my sanity seemed like the logical thing to do.

But, after two years of sitting on the bench, unable to play due to injury, Joel was finally on the court, set to prove his doubters wrong. Not only did he prove them wrong, he proved them wrong by a mile and immediately became one of the most dominant players in the league.

I watched most of these games in the basement because my stepmom couldn’t handle the constant noise of sneakers squeaking on the hardwood. My dad would sometimes watch with me, but he was normally passed out by halftime.

As I sat in the dark basement witnessing Joel clear his obstacles both on and off the court, it empowered me. I believed that I, too, could get out of my depressive funk. I believed that needed I to Trust The Process in my own career and that all I could do was work my rear off while waiting for opportunities to come into my life.

Naturally, it all paid off immediately for both of us. Joel won Rookie of the Year, league MVP, and led the 76ers to their first title since 1983. I, of course, moved back to LA and went on to win an Academy Award the year after. Obviously, I’m kidding. As famed novelist and poet, Chinua Achebe, titled it: Things Fall Apart.

Joel suffered a setback in his recovery and was shut down for the season in March. The 76ers did not make the playoffs let alone win the title. Joel was not the MVP nor was he the Rookie of the Year (congrats again to Malcolm Whateverhisnameis.) I ended up working for a videographer who treated me poorly and was a key component in ending a decade plus long friendship. My only move was down to Naples, Florida with my aunt and uncle. But, the geographical move south came with an emotional move north.

On February 4th, 2018, the Philadelphia Eagles defeated the New England Patriots 41-33 to win their first Super Bowl title ever. After decades of heartbreak, frustration, and mockery, it was finally Philadelphia’s turn to be on top. The entire Delaware Valley flipped the you-know-what back to the haters, the ones who kicked us while we were down and painted us with the broadest of strokes. Naturally, the electricity carried over to both Joel and me.

The 76ers, led by Embiid’s dominance on both ends of the court, went on a massive win streak and punched their first ticket to the postseason in six years. Embiid was named a starter in the All-Star Game and, as mentioned in his introduction, turned down Rihanna that same night after a huge win over the Boston Celtics in front of a national audience.

February 2018 was the most manic I had ever felt in my life. At the time, I didn’t think it was a problem. I flew up from Florida to be in the Center City Philadelphia amongst the other ne’er do wells, I mean, Eagles fans. February 4th, 2018 was nothing short of magical: strangers hugging like family members, grown men weeping tears of joy, semi-legal pyrotechnics being lit in the street.

Three days later, the night before the parade, I rapped Snoop Dogg’s “Gin and Juice” in front of 200+ people at the historic McGillin’s Olde Ale House with the entire bar singing the chorus. The rest of the night was fuzzy and I don’t remember paying for another drink, but I remember feeling like a king as if the Eagles’ win weren’t ego-inducing enough.

Somehow, I woke up on parade day underneath my friend’s kitchen stairs, hungover to say the least. But, I couldn’t have cared less. I was still a monarch in my eyes. Although it paled in comparison to the night of the game itself, the parade was a fitting exclamation point to the victory. Millions of people crowding Broad Street and the Parkway, again all smiles, song, happy crying, and beer. Oh, boy, all of the beer #DillyDilly. All of this was accentuated by Jason Kelce’s legendary speech, further enforcing the chest-beating of Eagles Nation, yours truly obviously included.

When I returned to Florida, I returned a legitimate maniac. Heavy drinking, aggressive driving, gambling more than usual, talking faster than an auctioneer: all of the signs were there. But, like most people with bipolar disorder, I embraced the highs and hung on to them for dear life because I knew the alternative was far worse in my mind. In a way, I’m lucky that I didn’t party too hard, get in a serious car wreck, lose all of my money, or say something to get me in trouble. The mania, while often less treated, can arguably be more dangerous than the depression. But, I didn’t see it like that. The combination of the Super Bowl win and Embiid’s dominance made me feel like the world was mine for the taking.

But, once again, for both me and Joel, as Philadelphia hip-hop legends, The Roots, named their iconic album: Things Fall Apart.

After a first round win over the outmatched Miami Heat, Embiid and company faced the open hand slap of the Celtics and lost in the Eastern Conference Semifinals four games to one. It wasn’t that they lost; it was the way they lost and to whom they lost. After going noticeably silent after the Patriots’ loss to the Eagles, the bandwagon Boston fans came out of the woodwork to join the sports media in labeling Embiid as a clown, a bad leader, not a true all-star. As you can guess, I didn’t take this well.

After riding the highs of February 2018, March 2018 was nothing short of a crash. I started to recognize my mania. I was having violent outbursts at others and later, myself. At the time, I switched from serving tables at a local upscale Italian restaurant called Olive Garden to serving tables at the Asian-fusion fine dining experience known as P.F. Chang’s. I found myself getting testy with my coworkers, especially when I was inundated by customers and management. One night, it got to the point where I was restrained from fighting a dishwasher. That night, I went home and literally beat myself up, punching myself in the head and face several times to the point of bruising and bleeding. It was something to externalize the pain.

And then, the depression kicked in. I didn’t a have a solid plan like I did in four years prior, but every second of every day, suicide was on my mind. The chemical imbalance in my brain mixed with my lack of coping skills and frustration with my career made me think the absolute worst. I needed an escape from my situation. Thankfully, it was a move back home that provided the escape and not a jump or a bullet or anything else in that realm.

In the spring of 2018, I went through two weeks of intensive outpatient therapy, two weeks of partial hospitalization, and another two weeks of intensive outpatient. In that month and a half, I went through almost every mental health treatment imaginable: psychotherapy, psychiatry, yoga and other holistic practices, art and music therapy, basically everything aside from electroshock therapy and a straight-jacket. It was uncomfortable, but most worthwhile things in life are. And, in light of recently losing a friend to suicide, I want you to know that your mental health and your life are worthwhile.

One year later, I was relatively better and so were the Sixers. Embiid was part of the best starting five the city has seen in my lifetime. He was joined by developing all-star point guard, Ben Simmons, the ever-accurate shooting guard, J.J. Redick, one of the most aggressive and passionate players in the NBA at small forward, Jimmy Butler, and a solid mix of physicality and shooting as the stretch four, Tobias Harris. Even Allen Iverson didn’t have that solid of a squad when he was king of the Sixers. Backed by arguably the best supporting cast in the NBA that season, Embiid took another size whatever step forward and started in the All-Star Game yet again, garnering national attention as one of the best in the league. But, both of us experienced a crash: his was metaphorical, mine was literal.

Embiid and company once again made the Eastern Conference Semifinals, this time against an evenly matched Toronto Raptors. The series reached the seventh and final game. Sixers fans, you know what’s coming and I’m sorry to make you relive this, but know that it’s painful for me to write this. When the game was destined for overtime, Toronto’s superstar, Kawhi Leonard, hit an absolute circus shot at the buzzer to clinch the game and the series. Heartbroken once again, Embiid’s tears were nationally televised, reaching the point of meme status.

I was numb watching this; I’d feel the literal pain about a month and a half later. At a stop sign with cross traffic going 40 mph each way, I had to go straight through the intersection. I thought I had it but I mistimed it and got T-boned by an elderly lady who had never been in a car accident. Not only did I shatter my collarbone and have two surgeries in the span of a month, but I felt terrible for what I did to that poor woman. We both sobbed in the ambulance to the hospital. Naturally, the whole ordeal developed into a case of PTSD while in cars that I still deal with today.

It’s gotten easier over the years, but it’s still there. And, like my bipolar and anxiety, it always will be. It’s what we do with that type of pain that defines whom we are and how happy we’ll be. I’ve learned that the hard way. So has Joel.

After losing Jimmy Butler to Miami, JJ Redick to retirement, Ben Simmons to clown status, and head coach, Brett Brown, to the unemployment line, Joel has done nothing but carry the 76ers despite continuously being disrespected by the media, being double and sometimes even triple teamed on the court, and management doing the bare minimum to give him the supporting cast he lost. After the failures of the COVID “bubble” season of 2020, the infamous choke job against Atlanta in 2021, and a hard fought playoff loss against Butler and Miami this past season, Embiid finds himself joined by former league MVP, James Harden, blossoming superstar, Tyrese Maxey, and - hopefully - a better bench behind him. If that’s enough to compete with conference juggernauts like Miami, Milwaukee, and Boston, time will tell. But, we Trust The Process. And, now, I need to do so more than ever.

In the fall of 2019, I took a job at a car dealership. It was full-time, paid well, had great benefits, and a “family” work culture. I finally felt like a real adult despite the fact that I still lived with my family. But, as cyclical as mental illness can be, and like clockwork, May 2022 provided me with my third major suicidal bout. Supply chain issues and labor shortages made my job immensely difficult. My writing/filmmaking career was going nowhere. Seeing friends and relatives get married, have children, buy homes, obtain postgraduate degrees, work in their chosen fields, and so on drove me to an existential crisis as I was about to turn twenty-nine in August. Comparative thinking is one of the worst things one can do, especially with mental illness.

A week before Memorial Day, I found myself especially down on another Monday twelve hour shift. I drove to a nearby supermarket to pickup some spicy tuna rolls to eat back at the office (side note: Giant sushi is low-key amazing. This is not a sponsored message.) As I went back to the dealership, my ideations kicked in and I felt the sudden urge to swerve into oncoming traffic. And, I almost did. I let go of the wheel as I was going 45 mph down a hill, but immediately jerked back into my lane upon hearing the first car horn. I broke down once I parked in the employee lot.

I walked back into the dealership, still wearing sunglasses so customers and my coworkers couldn’t see the red rings around my eyes from the tears. As the day dragged on, I found myself stabbing at the spicy tuna, unable to actually eat it. My concentration on the piling amount of I work had to do was nonexistent. I texted a few of my friends about what just happened on my lunch break. Thankfully, one of them called and gave me an ultimatum that may have saved my life.

“You have two options,” she said calmly, “Either you take yourself to a hospital or I dial 9-1-1 and 302 (involuntarily commit) you at work.” I figured that I was going either way, and it would be better to leave on my own terms rather than get dragged out kicking and screaming at my place of business. “Family emergency,” I lied to my boss as I clocked out and trashed the delicious store brand sushi (again, not an advertisement.)

I drove myself to a nearby hospital and waited over six hours to be seen. In that time, I heard a girl who sounded just younger than me sobbing and yelling that she wanted to go home. An hour or so later, two cops showed up to escort a middle-aged woman high on God knows what into a wheelchair so she could be seen immediately. Shortly after that, I overheard a concerned father tell a hospital worker that he found suicidal and homicidal notes on his teenager’s laptop. One of the employees told me to hang in there and that I would be seen as soon as they handled the 302s first. Maybe I should have let the EMTs drag me away from the dealership.

Finally, I was finally face to face with a mental health professional, who advised me that inpatient therapy may not be the best given that I’d likely see and hear more scarring things like the ones I did waiting in those long hours prior to our meeting. I was discharged and sent back to the program where I was treated back in 2018. Once again, I felt trapped in my own mind. I started to think what was the point of living if I’m back in severe treatment after another four years and who knows if I’ll live to see 2026 at this juncture. I relapsed into both self-harm and manic behavior and would go into group therapy every morning, embarrassed but obligated to report it. At this given moment, I’m thankfully on an upswing and stepped down to weekly meetings with my individual therapist.

July 11th, 2022. 4:27 AM EST to be exact. I find myself lying wide awake in my bed, counting the hours of sleep I’m losing before group therapy at 9AM today. Hungover from one glass of wine too many at family dinner last night, my head pounds as I look to my trusty red Gatorade for comfort. My mind races.

“What am I doing with my life? Is this therapy even working? What idea or ideas should I commit to in order to get my creative career off the ground? Should I get back into standup? Should I delete Hinge? Is there a more effective dating method in Bucks County? Are the Eagles going to be for real this year or are Nick Sirianni and Jalen Hurts just ain’t it, fam? Is the Sixers’ front office doing enough for Joel Embiid?”

That last question stops me in my tracks. Once again, I’m allowing some Cameroonian goofball to dictate my happiness. Cynics may think it’s childish. And, you know what? Screw it. I don’t care if it’s childish. It makes me happy and I’m going to keep doing it.

For many people, sports are a distraction and an emotional release. The intense feelings that we experience while supporting our favorite teams are often cathartic of our real world problems. When I see Joel Embiid, a man who has overcome injury, scrutiny, and heartbreak galore, lace up his size whatever sneakers and take the court, I am unabashedly inspired. I may not have torn ligaments or been chastised by the media or have my tears be mocked in front of the entire world, but I know that I, too, have had my battles and yet I still put on my size fourteen sneakers and take the proverbial basketball court every damn day.

Some days, I’m dunking on my mental illness. Other days, I’m watching it hit Kawhi Leonard-esque game winners to knock me out of the metaphorical playoffs. But, I’m still standing. I might be about a foot shorter than my hero, but I’m still standing nonetheless. And, in a strange way, I have Joel Hans Embiid to thank for it.

Trust The Process.

#joel embiid #trust the process #philadelphia 76ers #mental health #mentalheathawareness #bi polar #philadelphia #nba #basketball #sports #tw selfhate #tw sui ideation

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