Tattooed, Tested, and Touring: depression isn't always depressing.

PRSL
4 days ago
3 min read

I want to start with the constant Tina fact.

There’s a kind of sadness that isn’t situational. It’s not “had a bad day.” It’s not “just need more sleep.” It’s bone-deep. Soul-rooted. The kind that hums under everything. I live with that kind of sadness.

Depression for me isn’t dramatic. It’s not loud. It’s not always visible in the photos where I’m holding a swab kit and smiling next to a stage banner. It’s quiet. It’s heavy. It’s crying in a van at 2am and then waking up hours later to load in like nothing happened. It’s knowing that this isn’t something that just gets cured. It’s managed. It’s carried. It’s worked through.

And still....I am here.

I am out on tour. I am setting up the table. I am hugging volunteers. I am handing someone Narcan and telling them I’m glad they stopped by. I am deeply sad. And I am still showing up.

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Valentine’s Gay with Middle-Aged Queers might be my favorite event of the year. Every year. No contest. Being back at 924 Gilman Street feels like stepping into proof that community still exists. Gilman is DIY in its purest form. It fosters volunteering. It fosters learning. It teaches you that punk is about participation. It’s about sweeping the floor after the show. It’s about making sure the kid in the back feels safe. It’s about giving people a place to scream and feel joy at the same time.

The room that night was full of rage and joy coexisting. Queer joy. Survivor joy. The kind of joy that only comes from people who have been through it and are still standing.

That kind of space gives me hope.

It reminds me why we do this.

Because in rooms like that, people swab. People grab mental health resources. People take harm reduction supplies without shame. They volunteer. They ask questions. They care.

Gilman led to me being out with Hit Like a Girl in San Jose, inside that same kind of community energy. Local shows. Local organizers. Real humans. Local shows are where you meet the people who will actually build something with you. That’s where it starts.

Next up: Not Greenday.

And I already know I’ll be surrounded by compassion.The singer of Not Greenday is also the tour manager for Wheatus. If you’ve been reading this blog for a while, you know how much I love the Wheatus team. They make me feel like I matter. Like PRSL isn’t an add-on. Like what we do is woven into the experience.

That feeling? It’s not small.

When you live with depression, you constantly battle the voice that says you are a burden. That you are too much. Or not enough. Or both. So when a team looks at you and says, “You’re important here,” it lands. It heals something, even if temporarily.

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Here’s what’s wild about this February run: I have cried multiple nights in a row. And we are still winning. We’re signing people up for the bone marrow registry. We’re putting Narcan in pockets.We’re handing out grounding cards. We’re having real conversations at folding tables in loud rooms. Depression doesn’t cancel impact.

You can be devastated and still effective.You can be grieving and still growing something.You can be exhausted and still building community. That’s the truth no one talks about enough.

Why am I telling you this. Because I don’t want this blog to only ever be highlight reels. I know, shocker with how upbeat every single blog turns out.... but “Tattoos, Tested, and Touring” was never meant to be polished. It’s supposed to be honest. There are nights I am bawling my eyes out in the van.There are mornings I am slow and heavy and unsure how I’m going to hold conversations for four- six hours straight.

And then I walk into a venue like Gilman. And I see a room full of people who care. And I remember that punk isn’t perfection. It’s participation. It’s showing up even when you’re cracked open. It’s building something bigger than your own sadness.