My Story

A Rectification, A Memoir, Pro Censu

If you have made it this far, I applaud you. In this day and age, I do not expect many
people to be interested in another persons account of a series of events in their own life. A short
while ago, I would be in that group of many people.
But let me clear, this is not me imposing my story on you. This is not a paid
advertisement, a PSA disseminated by the media without charge.
After many drafts, this is my way of setting the record straight. This is a piece of my past
that has shaped me into who I am today, and by my fault all but a select few know of this.
Many people who know me have come to understand I do not bear a strong (or really
any) social media presence. Outside of the few I interact with daily, many people see me as
another familiar face. I do not and have never felt the need to advertise my life. I have never
been a narcissistic person and I understand a majority of my peers have a large social media
presence, and I am not attempting to detract from them.
Simply put, I don't give a fuck. Ill follow who I want, wont who I dont, and there will
never be a second thought.
This is a contributing factor to the publication of this memoir. I feel it important for those
who want to know to have the right and true information.
Now that is said, for the past 16 months, I have fought a battle with major depressive
disorder. I imagine many reading this are thinking, Thats it? Something as simple as
depression?!?
To be honest, that was my first thought when I met with the first of many doctors to
diagnose me with the same thing. I could not understand how a disorder, something that is
diagnosed mostly on medical opinion with subjective tests (with the exception of a functional
MRI) could explain everything that has been through. But two more doctors, one being a
member of the Board of Neurology, said the same thing.
So let me explain; the closing months of 2014 were pretty rough. Our family was falling
apart and my parents and myself had quite the growingrift. Confrontations between my father
and mother, my father and myself escalated to a point where the blue men of authority were
stepping in and action had to be taken: meeting with a family councilor.
At this point, things were becoming more clear. My dad had the stress of a company he
had tripled in size over two years on his back. My mother had adversity of her own she was
facing, and I had, well at this point, we realized I had a problem.

For months, I did not sleep through the night. Averaging 5 hours of sleep, walking up
every other hour, but always feeling tired. I had also lost the quintessential motivation to do the
things I love. But more so, I was mad. I was mad because I did not feel, well, feel anything. I
never got excited, I didn't get giddy, the butterflies, I didn't really get nervous, but I got mad. I
didn't really know why.
Looking back, I was also saddened by this. I didn't realize that the only emotional I really
felt was anger. Hatred. Rage. No matter what I did, I felt like a bad person.
Once this was apparent after meeting with the family councilor, I really lost all emotion.
The winter break of 2014 was rock bottom for me. Responsibility had piled up over top of me, I
hadn't eaten or slept in days, I felt everything I did was not going to help anything. I was
overwhelmed by this mountain in my head I had made. That was really the only thing I could do.
My brain, my actual brain, could not process emotion, instincts, thoughts, memories, or
desires. Four days I lay in my bed, sequestered in my room, staring at myself through my out of
battery iPad. I was fucked up but didn't want anyone to know.
At night, I contemplate suicide. I propose different ways to end my suffering. Ways to
end this cancer I was to all those around me.
Finally, I got in my car, feeling naked without a seatbelt, rounded the corner, and floored
it down Spyglass Hill. As I approached a dumpster filled with concrete from a demolished
houses foundation, my arms went numb.
Nearing 80 miles an hour, I couldn't slide myself into my grave.
The next day, we met with the specialist and I left HOAG Hospital officially with
depression.
The thing is, depression is usually caused by something. Sometimes there are genetic
predispositions to a major depressive episode, or something that causes major depressive
disorder.
For me, and after endless analytical and forensic hours, we had some idea of why I
was where I was. For one, I was not happy with my school. To be honest, I had a deep,
fundamental problem with the majority of students at CDM.
As some may know, I was born and raised in the 303 of Longmont, Colorado. 8845
Crimson Clover Lane was what I called home for 13 years.
But 6 days after my 13th birthday, I moved to the 949.
Fuck the 949.
I went from a private, competitive, International Baccalaureate school of Boulder Country
Day (BCD) to the home of Prom Drafts, grade hacking scandals, and the craziest parties on the
west coast of Corona del Mar High School (7-12 aka CDMHS). At BCD I found my name on the

honor roll annually, first to turn in my timed multiplication test, top earner of extra credit in 5th
grade, and fighting to tooth, nail, and broken arms of others on the recess football fiend or
basketball court to win. I was raised in a competitive environment where everything in the
classroom was earned, (as well as most of the families had acquired their own new money).
Transitioning to CDM where many students had been extremely wealthy all their life,
been around the same people all their life, and have mastered the art of manipulating their
parents, all their life, I was a like a blue collar fish in a white collar, recirculating, inbred fish bowl.
I did not find myself fitting in to the typical OC lifestyle per-say.
CDM was the first time in my life where I saw people walk into tests bragging how they
had not studied, not done their homework, and had been doing things seventh grade Tyler had
only seen in movies.
In Colorado, I was the fastest 13-14 year old to compete in the BVSSL. I literally did not
lose an individual preliminary or finals race. During the summer, I swam, hung out at the pool
with my teammates and genuine friends, slept, and repeat. Just like Wall, I was fast as f***.
32-0. Not 49-0 but Mayweather cant swim. The problem was my little sister was faster
than me. Flash forward four years later, she is one of the fastest swimmers in the country. In the
world. Needless to say I got out of that shadow while I was still on top.
I focused all my energy on basketball when I moved to California. In my eyes, this was
the Mecca of basketball.
Being the new kid nobody knew competing with the teammates that have been
neighbors all their lives, even though the assistant coach let me know I was good enough to be
on the team they just didn't know me well enough, just like Mike, I didn't make the seventh
grade basketball team.
I really said fuck you to them. At this point, however, I cared way to much about Modern
Warfare Three to care about not making the team. I played club basketball during the spring,
spent most of my summer running on the beach or in the gym playing basketball, and truly
developed as a player. Eighth grade I was going to show them that they messed up.
Tryouts of eighth grade year I got a concussion, and just like Mike, I didn't make the
middle school team either year. This time I got right to the gym and started playing.
My freshman year I started the seasonstartingon the freshman team, although they
kept all the freshman on the same team, regardless of skill. Interesting I know.
Here it was that I realized my fundamental problem with CDM kids. As I got better every
day, worked the chip on my shoulder, and beat them out of their spot, they rested on their
laurels and didn't care when things didn't go their way.
They also made sure to let me know they didn't approve of my ways of getting better
faster than they could.

Now thats all cool and all, but this is how it comes into play. Flash forward to sophomore
year when I started getting mad, just mad, it took a lot out of me to not have what is happening
at home happen at school: not only on the basketball court, but in school as well. I wanted to
fight everyone that I felt wronged me. I felt that was almost everyone.
When I discussed this with my man Mr. Neurologist Doctor, he said, Get the fuck up
outta that school bro, or something like that. He made it well known to myself and my parents
that this was not the first time something like this has happened to someone in a position like
myself. He has STUDIED the same phenomena I was describing (inbred fish bowl).
The day after my last game as a sophomore at CDM, a Thursday, not even 24 hours
later I let my coaching staff I was transferring: technically I had already transferred.
I started and finished the second semester at a private, one student to one teacher
institution, spending 5 hours a day doing school. What was great is I now had a schedule I could
make and all the time I could want to work and train basketball, although without a high school
basketball team.
My depression was improving with help of a therapist, my game was improving each
day, and life was going good again. That summer, I was closest to not being depressed since
the beginning of that year.
ENTER JSERRA.
My mom mentioned me going to JSerra my junior year and at the time JSerra and
OCHS confessions were synonymous in my head. I was opposed to it at first, but after touring
Mater Dei, Crean Lutheran, and a couple other private schools, each presented with their own
problems. I thought I would primarily spend my last two years of high school at Mater Dei, being
acquainted with many of the fellows on the basketball team there, but not getting playing time
was something I wasn't interested in.
As legend has it, I started JSerra Catholic High School in August.
And although many said I would hate it, I liked it. The first month started off great. The
first month. Four weeks.
I got sick on a hot Saturday night. I went to the HOAG Emergency Room, had needles
take my blood and another large one take my Spinal Fluid, and was sent home to get better. But
not even 24 hours later I could not sit up without a debilitating headache. Sunday to
Wednesday night I dealt with this, when we finally went back to none other than HOAG ER. I
had a hole in my spine from the spinal tap that was leaking spinal fluid that also surrounded my
brain.

I was the lucky half a percent of patients that experience this condition that have the
procedure in the first place. I was sent home early Thursday morning with a surgical procedure
to patch the hole on Friday.
It was the longest day of my life.
Come Friday, the operation took half an hour and I woke up with a stiff, but not leaky,
back. All was good again.

Fun fact, from July 17 to September 3, each of my sisters had a surgical operation (a
sinus surgery for Eva, a spinal fusion that takes the cake for Lauren) and myself to complete the
Merrell family Hat Trick. Talk about parental stress.

They really do come in threes but we got that out of the way. Life was going good again,
for the most part. Just a little hiccup, as they said during the launch of Apollo 13.

During the closing days of October, just before actual season practice was to start, I had,
what I thought, sprained my ankle getting a rebound. My pediatrician sent me to a sports doctor
who said I had a grade two sprain, or partial tear, of my ankles ligaments but more importantly,
and severely, injured the peroneal nerve in my foot. I had stretched it and consequently
damaged it to a point where I was lacking 40% of the sensation and strength in my left foot, not
to mention a structurally damaged joint. The nerve was to heal in 3-8 weeks followed by 2-4
weeks of recovery and physical therapy.
At first, I was motivated not to let things go bad. I spent the first week in the gym every
day, doing what I could with a boot and crutches. That lasted a week. Then things were going
downhill very fast, going back to a place I hadn't been in a year.
Not even two weeks into my timeframe, on November Second, my beloved grandmother
had passed away from organ failure. I was devastated. I understood the path she was on but I
could not get past the fact I had been seeing less and less of her.
Just as the gravity of my injury had set in, the realization that I may have ended my
season before I played an official game for JSerra, ate at me. But it was really the passing of my
grandmother, who was there for me since the day I moved to California, offering her house that
was a quarter of a mile away from CDM, for me to eat my lunches at and do my homework at
after school as we sat and exchanged our days with each other, someone who was, outside of
my parents, the biggest influence on my life, that really struck home. I felt terrible. There was so
much left to be said. So much left on the table. (She was laid to rest in front of her favorite
restaurant on Catalina Island on the 9th of November. I love you Judie.)
The next day, a visit to the University of California at Irvine Medical Campus rediagnosed me with major depressive disorder. I was to experiment with medication until one
was deemed fit as my symptoms where worse. I was to see therapists more often. Plans were
in place to set me on a path to right my ship, now with more resources. But for a month, the
month of December, it didn't really help.
I had really lost all motivation now. I wasn't angry, I wasn't enraged. I was low. I only felt
low. Nothing made anything better. Again.
And then I almost died.
On a Tuesday, I threw up on the way to my 6th period class. I thought it was just from
stress, as weird as that sounds it has not been the first time that has happened. I went home,
took a nap, and woke up with a 102 degree fever. I was sick. Just plain old sick.
I woke up with a 103 degree fever, but Advil and Tylenol helped reduce it. After sleeping
almost all afternoon Wednesday, I woke up with a 104.7 degree fever, sweating more than I had
in months (I was still in a boot), my heart rate was more than twice my resting heart rate of 60,
127 to be exact, and my blood pressure was in the proverbial toilet.

We got to the emergency room quite quickly, and I was admitted nearly as quick.
I was put in an airtight quarantine room, all those that come in contact with me were
subject to wear protective clothing and masks, and I was scared.
For the first time in my life, I thought I was going to die. I thought that I had made it to
this point to die of some rare condition or illness. I was so weak I imagined I would break bones
if I fell.
I was assigned a doctor from the infectious diseases department and for a solid 18
hours, nobody knew what was going on. My white blood cell count was so low, an HIV Test was
ordered to rule out full blown AIDS. That was just one of many. Others included bacteria tests,
C. Diff., and many other acronyms that weren't C. DIff. They even shot X-Rays of most of my
body and an MRI of my Beautiful Mind. My blood was taken every hour, and they couldn't use
the IV port, so I had dozens of needle marks on my arms.
I literally laid there thinking I was going to die. I had never felt this bad, which is saying
something. Then my fever went down, and down, and I was back to a cool 98.6. My blood cell
count started to go up, but very slowly. I ate, and kept it down, started wanting to use the
restroom, and things started getting better.
The next day, I was so glad.

I went home, still prone to infection from a low white blood cell count, but alive. And tired.
Most importantly, with the will to live. I didn't want to die. I had too much to do.
I returned to the court in January. I was let known my ankle would still not be 100%, but I
really didn't care. I wanted to play basketball. And god, was I bad. And then I sprained it again,
twice. But not as bad. So personally, the season was only a smidgen better than my middle
school years, like Mike.

I kid, however, as the JSerra team had a very successful year, making a CIF run that
should have been longer but left us wanting more.
A lot of people at JSerra didn't really get the opportunity to see me truly play my game,
and I cannot wait until I get that opportunity, that I feel I still haven't had.
Now as I finally conclude my memoir, there is only a few things I wish for who ever reads
this to take away. If you are a person that knows me or knows of me, I hope you have a better
understanding of my identity. You better not fucking pity me, because that was not what I set out
to do.
I feel as though many do not know me. The reflection of my identity the world sees is not
a true representation of myself. Many don't understand why I am today and why i do the things I
do, how I do them. But I am also not saying depression defines me. Quite the opposite.
Without my bout with depression, I would not be who I am today. The adversity I have
faced, how fickle it may be in the grand scheme of life, has formed me into the man I am today.
Depression would have defined me if I did not over come it. If I let it beat me, just as other
disorders can beat one, such as PTSD which is quite similar to the symptoms I present with
now, depression would define me.
Although I am left with measurable worse memory, sleep habits, experiences, and health
of recent, I have overcome this adversary with intangible parts of my character I had to develop
to, in all honesty, keep living my life.
Im not going to sit here and gloat of all the things I can do now, come on. Thats not me.
Remember? I don't have a social life. I am ad free.
I am here to let the world know (really who ever is reading this know) who I am. I have
had mixed emotions letting my bout with depression be public knowledge, but I feel now it is as
fickle as the flu. I am past it and truly want others to be aware that it is for real.
I sympathize with those going through depression. I can only encourage you to get help,
what ever may help you. Honestly, unless you are a fucking superhero, some things in life like
this need some extra resources. Its not something made up in your mind. Its just adversity you
will overcome to make you the best version of yourself. The hardest thing to do will be to let
others around you help, something I never fully was able to do.
At the end of the day, I am only seventeen and this is just one experience I never shared
on social media. I leave you with this, As Tupac Amaru ShakurLesane Parish Crooks once
said: