It’s a journey so needlessly long that Google Maps refuses to recognize it, suggesting instead three alternate, shorter routes that avoid the dangers of walking along one of the busiest thoroughfares the city has to offer.
But the journey along Rosa Road towards Ellis Hospital and eventually down Nott Street to the cracked, cobblestone-like sidewalks that run along Van Vranken Avenue is one I’ve come to love.
The various shortcuts through the Goosehill Neighborhood I’m sure have their qualities, but I’ve always played the long game.
I’ve often zigged where I should have zagged due to circumstances that have felt beyond my control, and I've spent more time thinking about past missteps than charting a path forward. Oh, the things that could have been. The things that should have been.
Depression has consumed nearly every bit of my humanity over the years, leaving nothing but misery and a feeling of perpetual sadness in its wake.
I’ll spare you the more painful details about the war that has raged inside my head since I was a teenager with shoulder-length hair and a charming façade, punctuated by some weird growth under my chin (Google calls it a “petite goatee,” but I don’t believe Scott Ian, the Anthrax guitarist and inspiration behind the look, would ever use such a term).
While most teenagers were planning their junior proms and viewing the world through rose-colored glasses, I withdrew; hiding from friends and masking the feelings of self-loathing and sorrow with a sarcastic personality and a laid-back demeanor that exuded confidence.
My 20s were full of suicidal ideations, which I finally acted on just shy of turning 30, when I swallowed half a bottle of Benadryl before crawling into bed with hopes of never waking up. One of those pills could probably put a goddamn elephant down, so a handful should be enough to kill me, I can remember thinking.
But after a few hours, I found myself staring at the bedroom ceiling of my Albany apartment, somehow feeling worse than ever. If only they were real sleeping pills, I thought to myself.
The incident was a turning point that forced me to finally confront the reality of my mental illness after years of denial. Treatment followed shortly after, and I’ve been on the bumpy road to recovery ever since.
Today, I’m 32 and balding at a rapid pace. The Scott Ian look is long gone, replaced by a scraggly beard (facial hair has never been a strength), and a demeanor that actually matches how I feel, at least on most days.
The years have not always been kind, but I’m here. That’s what matters.
The internal war has subsided significantly, but every so often there’s an explosion that reminds me the enemy is ever present and capable of delivering a crippling blow.
I’ve learned that when the mind is occupied an assault is less likely, but after years spent focused solely on surviving, finding ways to keep busy has proven difficult.
A significant portion of my younger years were spent sleeping or driving around aimlessly listening to the same songs on repeat at deafening volumes. Anything to be alone and drown out the thoughts surging through my mind was time well spent in those days.
The thoughts of self-harm may have dissipated, but they haven't been replaced by anything. In many ways, I’m still trying to figure out who I am and what it is I enjoy. Life, I guess, really is a journey.
But the feeling of emptiness is akin to the threat of nuclear war inside my head. It threatens to destroy everything I’ve worked so hard to build in recent years. The sirens are wailing. I need something. Anything.
That brings me to the fractured walkways of Van Vranken Avenue, where about a half-mile from the campus of Union College sits a small shop at the corner of Mason Street.
Electric City Comics may not appear like much to the average person, but for me it’s a refuge; a place of salvation with infinite possibilities that I have so desperately been searching for. It's everything.
I could spend hours thumbing through the tightly packed boxes of comics and never see it all. I often find myself taking mental notes of the various titles as I sift through, and I frequently stop to Google the seemingly endless cast of characters that make up these stories and various multiverses.
I tend to gravitate towards the back wall display featuring the new issues released each Wednesday. There are, of course, the usual titles like Batman, Captain America and X-Men, but a number of lesser-known books are mixed in that appear equally enjoyable, if not more so.
I typically wander into the shop during the early afternoon on Friday or Saturday and begin scanning the shelves of trade paperbacks before grabbing a few new issues and sorting through one or two of the stuffed boxes in the middle of the store.
The walk back to my apartment always seems to take less time than the journey there, though it could just be my imagination. Either way, I feel like my feet never touch the ground.
It’s taken some time to realize these weekly escapades were what most would call a hobby. It wasn’t until I started compiling a list of new releases to pick up and plotting plans to visit other comic book shops in the region that it finally clicked.
Comics were never part of my life growing up, but I was a fan of the Batman, Spider-Man and Justice League cartoons as a child, and I’ve followed the Marvel Cinematic Universe religiously since its inception.
I first picked up a comic book at the Barnes & Noble in Colonie Center in the weeks following my suicide attempt. I was in search of a distraction — anything to take my mind off what had happened — and somehow stumbled upon the graphic novel section.
After scanning a few titles, I settled on the first trade paperback of DC’s “Injustice” series. The stunning artwork looked like it would provide the distraction I needed and the description of superheroes battling one another seemed interesting enough.
I plowed through the book in a matter of hours and returned to buy the next three paperbacks in the series two days later. While there, I grabbed Alan Moore’s “V For Vendetta” and various other titles, including Batman, Green Lantern and Tom King’s “The Vision.”
My world was a haze and my mental health was in decline, but the splash of color helped brighten things up.
I eventually fell off comic books after I graduated college and entered the workforce a year later than anticipated amid the early days of the pandemic. I would still buy the occasional paperback and read digital comics through various apps, but I was far from invested.
The turning point came sometime around the time as the highly-infectious delta variant, which forced me to retreat to the confines of my Warrensburg apartment. Alone with my thoughts, I again turned to the colorful stories for refuge, and my interest has grown steadily since.
I hesitated to begin buying single issue comics after I relocated to Schenectady's northside. The idea seemed cost prohibitive and space in my apartment is limited. Plus, the idea of someday having to relocate stacks of books seemed terrible, especially after moving numerous tubs containing hundreds of CDs that haven't been listened to in year just months earlier.
But if there's one thing I've learned throughout all of this, it's that happiness is a priceless commodity worth all the space in the world. So the collection grows. And grows.
I guess this is the part where I should conclude by saying how grateful I am and how wonderful everything is. But I can't. The war still rages, and when I tell you it's been a bumpy road to recovery, I mean it. Albany's State Street is smooth sailing compared to the last few years of my life. But the journey continues, and things are getting better.
But, I will leave you with this: Life is fleeting.
It can be complicated, unforgiven and down right cruel at times. But in between it all, there is beauty, hope and, yes, even happiness. Sometimes all it takes is a needlessly long walk along a crumbling sidewalk to find it.
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