Dear Taeyeon, It’s Okay Not to Be Okay

This is From a K-pop Fan, With Love, a column by Giaae Kwon about her K-pop obsessions, past and present.

When I’m in Los Angeles, the day goes like this: At 6:30 a.m., my dogs, Gom and Som (known collectively as GomSom), wake up and go outside to pee. At 8:00, they eat breakfast, then go outside to roam and hang out before they spend the remainder of the morning napping. Noon is snack time, followed by a little playtime before they nap again. At 5:00, they go on their daily walk around the neighborhood, a route that changes often depending on how quickly Gom gets bored. They come home, have their feet washed and teeth brushed, then eat dinner at 6:00. After their humans eat, they get “dessert”—a piece of freeze-dried liver—and have more playtime until it’s time for bed.

My dogs like their routine, hate to be thrown off it. It turns out that it helps me too.

*

December 2017: I wake up and check social media. Jonghyun, of the boy band SHINee, is trending, and my heart immediately sinks—or is it more accurate to say that it rises to my throat and stays there? While I was sleeping in California, Jonghyun had checked into a hotel and died by suicide. His death wasn’t a surprise. Jonghyun had lived with depression for a long time, but, in a way, I think that makes it worse—when death isn’t a surprise, I always want to believe that it could have been prevented somehow.

October 2019: I wake up and see that Sulli (formerly of girl group f(x)) is trending. I don’t need to check the news to know what’s happened; Sulli, too, had a history of depression, of being relentlessly cyberbullied by rabid netizens (the Korean term for people online) for refusing to play the expected part of innocent ingenue and instead speaking out about mental health issues, openly dating an older man, posting “no bra” photos on Instagram. Her death is no surprise either. I feel rage and sadness unfurling inside me, because so many young people shouldn’t be losing their lives like this.

And then there’s the familiar worry: I hope Taeyeon is doing okay.

*

Taeyeon is the leader and lead vocalist of Girls’ Generation, a nine-member girl group that debuted from SM Entertainment (SME), one of Korea’s big three entertainment companies, in 2007. Girls’ Generation was one of Korea’s biggest, most influential girl groups, though maybe it’s not appropriate to refer to them in the past tense. Girls’ Generation is still active, but with fewer members—in 2014, SME unceremoniously and abruptly kicked Jessica Jung out of the group. In 2017, when their contracts were up for renewal, members Sooyoung, Seohyun, and Tiffany chose not to renew and parted ways with the company. Girls’ Generation released one single in 2018 as Oh!GG, a smaller unit, and Taeyeon, since making her solo debut in 2015, has gone on to become one of Korea’s top-selling solo artists and most successful OST (original soundtrack) singers.

Taeyeon has weathered a lot of shit throughout her career. Girls’ Generation endured a fair amount during their early years, disliked for their supposed closeness to boy bands TVXQ and Super Junior, both also from SME. One particular memorable incident happened in 2008 during Dream Concert, an annual concert featuring the biggest K-pop acts, when Girls’ Generation was still fairly new, before they skyrocketed to fame. For context, idol groups in Korea have their own fan clubs, fan chants, fan colors, etc.—Girls’ Generation’s color is pink, so their fan glow sticks are pink as well. Often, at group concerts and music shows, fans are seated in their respective sections, the sizes of which are determined by the idol group’s popularity and fandom size, so each section lights up a different color in honor of its group. In 2008, Girls’ Generation had somehow gained the reputation of being rude to their seniors, which added to the grumbling from other fandoms—namely those of TVXQ and Super Junior—over how the girls were too close to these oppas. When it was Girls’ Generation’s turn to perform, all the other fandoms turned their glow sticks off and turned around, essentially creating a silent black ocean with random sections of pink.

Korean fans commit. Sometimes it can be inspiring, like when fans unite to do community service or raise money for good causes in their idols’ names. Often, though, it’s simply terrifying how much power netizens wield. Their online bullying has ruined lives.

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To be a woman in any public sphere is to be vulnerable to abusive behavior from the public, and it’s no different for K-pop stars. Female K-pop stars, in particular, are expected to toe an impossible line—to be both youthfully cute and sexy—and aren’t allowed much autonomy. Like all K-pop idols, their images are micromanaged, their public personas chosen for them; they’re expected to perform all the time, to be bubbly and effusive and full of aegyo, something I can’t even begin to try to translate. K-pop idols, in general, aren’t supposed to date—that would ruin the fantasy between idol and fan—but it’s always worse for women.

In 2014, Taeyeon was exposed to be dating a younger man from a massive boy band (EXO) under SME. She was intensely shamed for it, accused of faking her depression when she was running around with her boyfriend, of showing off her relationship and trying to get caught. She was slut-shamed because she was his senior in both age and hierarchy, as she had debuted years before he did. When she tried to apologize to her fans—crying at Incheon International Airport, where fans had gathered to see her off, and apologizing personally—she was accused of faking her tears, being manipulative and shameless. She lost massive amounts of weight, when she was already a waif to begin with. She retreated even more from the public eye. When she and Baekhyun broke up a few months later, it was assumed to be her fault.

Much of this was hopeful to me—that Taeyeon was able to say, This is what I am going through, and to ask people to be understanding of others who live with depression.

As all this unfolded, I watched from across the Pacific, worried because we already knew she lived with depression. In a 2009 Cyworld post by Leeteuk, leader of Super Junior, Taeyeon had been listed as “Court Lady Taeng” of the Milk Club (which wasn’t anything official, just a term that Leeteuk used to refer to a group of SME members who lived with depression and gathered to bond over it). With this knowledge in mind, as well as my own intimate familiarity with how many people in Korea still stigmatize mental illness, I’ve worried whenever Taeyeon has lost a significant amount of weight, gone through hard times, lost friends or loved ones—like Jonghyun and Sulli, whom she was close to, and her father, who passed away last year. I worry constantly.

*

In 2017, Zero makes his debut on Instagram. He’s a silver poodle, a tiny floof of curly almost-black fur, named after the dog in The Night Before Christmas. We watch him grow up on Instagram as Taeyeon shares photos and videos of him, and his fur lightens into a silvery gray as he becomes her shadow, accompanying her to dance practices, photo shoots, fan meetings. He’s the perfect size for her to cradle and carry in her arms.

At the time, the idea of an emotional support animal was still an abstract one to me, but I was glad Taeyeon had Zero because I could see how much comfort he brought her. Over the late 2010s, Taeyeon had become more open about discussing her depression publicly, admitting to seeking treatment and taking medication during one of her Q and A sessions on Instagram Stories. She’d spoken about spending too much time alone, wanting to work constantly and stay busy, valuing certain friendships because they helped pull her out of her dark places. Much of this was hopeful to me—that she was willing and able to put words to it, to say, This is what I am going through, and to ask people to be understanding of others who live with depression.

I could see how much better she seemed with Zero, but, even with my own personal history of depression and suicidal thinking, I wouldn’t exactly get why until GomSom.

I didn’t grow up with dogs, though my parents made a few attempts when I was in elementary school. We didn’t really know what to do with dogs then; the Korean way (as we knew it) was to keep dogs outdoors and kind of just let them be there. Our last dog in my childhood was a jindo named Teddy, and we really didn’t know what to do with him—jindos are notoriously smart and active and require intentional socialization. Teddy would escape from our yard, get into fights with coyotes and other dogs, and cause so much trouble that my parents gave him away and swore off dogs.

Then, seven years ago, my aunt got two bichons frises. On visits with her in Baltimore, I was surprised to see how my dad warmed up to them, and even my mom seemed to enjoy holding them, happily letting them sit on her lap. As they lived alone in Los Angeles, I decided that my parents should have a dog. I spent a few years looking, off and on, for a young dog for them, scrolling through websites and visiting local shelters in hopes of finding the right dog (we needed something small, young, and non-shedding).

Finally, in May 2018, I was scrolling through shelter pages and Craigslist when I saw him: a little bichon puppy, eight weeks old, recently weaned. There wasn’t much more information, but I sent my parents the photos and texted the number. I said I would drive down to Riverside the next day to meet the puppy. My mother, though, insisted we drive down that night, even though Riverside is a two-hour drive—someone else could take the puppy that night, she feared. We stopped by Petco and bought a crate, a soft bed, some food, pee pads, one toy. My mom had cash tucked away. I already had a name—Gom, Korean for bear, my dad’s childhood nickname.

When we first met Gom, he was a tiny ball of the softest fur that shook in my arms as I cradled him to me. His high-pitched whimpers went straight to my heart as he tried to lick my face, sniff me, figure out who the hell I was. My mom handed over the cash as I took him to the car, giving him gentle scratches to let him know he was safe; he was okay; he was coming home with us. As my dad drove, Gom stopped shaking and started trying to look out the window, crawl all over me, and give me more curious licks, and, by the time we got home, he was chasing at my heels, doing a little sploot by my feet as I brushed my teeth and washed up.

My parents brought this puppy to their home, but he really became mine. What I didn’t know then, even as I knew I was sliding into another suicidal, depressive episode, was that Gom would keep me alive.

*

When I told my therapist I got a puppy, she was happy for me. As she explained, animals aren’t emotional support animals just because they make us feel good—they’re emotional support animals because they need to be cared for.

I’d started seeing my therapist in 2017 when I finally sought professional help for the depression and anxiety I’d lived with since middle school. I wasn’t just in therapy—I had a psychiatrist for the first time, official diagnoses, and medication, and I’d been doing better, learning to manage the things in my brain in healthier, more intentional ways. Still, in May 2018, I could recognize the signs; here I was again, in this familiar spiral into darkness; would I survive this one?

What I didn’t know then, even as I knew I was sliding into another suicidal, depressive episode, was that this puppy would keep me alive.

Gom fell into my lap at the right time, and, as I learned that summer, a puppy is a lot of work. A puppy is a fantastic, constant distraction because a puppy requires attention and care. Even in my depressed state, I still had to get out of bed to take Gom outside and do the work to potty-train him, feed him, play with him, give him the attention he demanded and knew he deserved. I had to take him to puppy classes, where I had to interact with the trainer and other dog parents. I had to exist, even if existing sometimes meant hugging a wriggling puppy and crying.

Animals are emotional support animals because we need to take care of them—and, in doing so, we end up taking care of ourselves.

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As much as I need my dog, I spend most of my year away from him. Gom lives in Los Angeles with my parents and his younger brother, Som, while I live and work across the country in Brooklyn. I’ve thought of bringing him to live with me, but I imagine it would be difficult for him to adjust from living in the suburbs with a spacious house and yard to a tiny apartment in a loud city that is mostly concrete. My parents are also more financially stable than I am, so they don’t have to worry as much about pet medical emergencies. And even though both my parents work, my dad comes home for lunch, so GomSom never have to be alone for more than four hours a day.

Also, Som is so emotionally dependent on Gom that I am certain Som will wither away if I take his hyung (older brother) away.

It’s a particular challenge being away from my dog, especially during depressive episodes. It’s comforting, yes, to be able to hug my dog, bury my face in his soft fur, and let his warmth melt into me, but what I miss sharply is the routine of caring for him. Gom makes his needs and wants known, and, no matter how shitty I’m feeling, he has to be cared for, his routine respected and maintained. I’m unable to keep a routine away from him, my life falling into chaos and erratic sleep and eating schedules.

Most of the time, I have to make do with my parents supplying me with regular photos of GomSom. We FaceTime at least three times a week, so I can see them and whine at Gom to look at me; has he already forgotten me? Partly because I miss him, I try to befriend people with dogs so we can hang out. I ask friends to send me dog photos when I’m feeling particularly down. I go to Zero’s Instagram account and scroll through the photos, rewatch the videos. I listen to Taeyeon’s music and hope she is well.

It’s a strange thing to worry so much about a stranger, about a K-pop star, but I hope, constantly, that Taeyeon is well. When she’s not promoting, I hope she’s keeping busy. I hope she has people in her life who recognize when she’s sliding into another depressive episode and know how to keep her safe; pull her outside, physically and mentally; listen and care and offer the support she needs. I hope she continues to get treatment, and I am thankful to her for speaking up about life with this Thing in her brain. I know it is not easy to do so as a woman in Korea, especially as a hugely successful female K-pop star.

There is no great secret to living with depression; for me, it’s waking up every day and making tiny decisions to fight against it. It’s getting out of bed, taking a shower, eating a bowl of cereal. It’s the constant upkeep of the boundaries that help fend off depression. Sometimes, it’s saying out loud that we need help. It’s taking medication, going to therapy, seeing a psychiatrist. Living with depression is a lot of things, most of them banal as shit.

And it’s also worrying about a K-pop star and hoping hard for her, even though I feel foolish doing so. In caring for, worrying about, Taeyeon, maybe that’s one way I care for myself too. I often wonder how we can become so attached to certain public figures we’ll never meet, never know—and I think, sometimes, that maybe it comes down to recognition. My soft spot for Taeyeon is rooted deep in my heart because I know what she lives with, how insidious and terrifying depression is, how much we are shamed for it. I know what it’s like to lean on a dog for comfort and companionship. I don’t think her massive fame and millions of Instagram followers somehow make us all that different in the ways we struggle daily with our brains and try to stay alive.

In the end, she and I are both just human, and we both struggle to be okay.

*

Zero is six months older than Gom, a year older than Som. We aren’t sure exactly what GomSom are, but I think they have poodle in them, given the curl in their fur, the shape of their ears, and their size. One day, my mom says, we’ll get them DNA tested, and then we’ll know.

When I’m in Los Angeles, my dog sleeps next to me. This is another little routine of ours. I like to sleep curled up on my left, but he sleeps on my right. In the early morning, he’ll growl and let out a little bark, and, when I turn over onto my right, he’ll come and curl up against me. I bury my face in his back, in his warm softness, and go back to sleep—until 6:30, when we wake up and go through another day together.

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