Alex Donaldson shot two videos the morning of the day it all collapsed.
He woke in his one-bedroom River North apartment, the light streaming in from the east-facing windows and hitting his money tree just how he liked – the rays shimmering off the security strip in the hundred dollar bill he’d wedged between the branches.
This was his third apartment in Chicago and by far the nicest.
His first – a house in Boystown he’d shared with two college friends and a Craigslist roommate – had been an absolute dump. The wood paneling on the floors had been so warped that it creaked violently when you crossed what should have been the dining room. Where a table might have stood, they’d instead created a communal clothes pile that all four roommates were free to choose from. And they never really got the stench of store-brand margarita mix out of the kitchen carpet after someone had knocked over a pitcher during a party (why the kitchen had a carpet, it was impossible to say).
But after his videos had begun to take off, he’d been able to move in with another mental health awareness influencer – Dante Richards – and form what they called the Unhype House, a content-creation den where they felt free to collaborate, create videos at odd hours, and share the latest in mental health awareness with their nearly 2.5 million combined followers.
He’d first met Dante online, commenting on each other’s videos before a quick DM conversation got them started co-hosting Lives, where they solicited questions from their fans and offered real-time advice. Alex had sometimes called this their good-cop bad-cop routine, with Dante stressing how difficult it can be to dig yourself out of a mental health slump and the work needed to make it happen, before Alex would bring things back up with a reminder of how good it was that they were discussing these issues.
This partnership had really taken off after they’d moved into their apartment in East Lakeview, a two-bed in a high rise just off Lake Shore. They were constantly bouncing ideas off each other and popping up in each other’s videos, and their fans loved it. Dante had had the bigger following when they first met – about 200,000 – but over the course of the nearly two years they lived together they’d both surpassed a million followers, and Alex had become the more followed of the two.
The brand deals had included both of them, at first. A cleaning supplies company had paid for a video where they used a new mango-scented spray to clean their rooms as an act of self-care. An iced coffee brand had put them on a monthly retainer just to sip drinks during videos. A streaming service had even pitched a video where they curated a depression playlist for when you just want to lean into your inner sadness (they’d declined, over Alex’s objections).
But over time the offers had started to come more often for Alex, and with bigger dollar amounts attached. Alex had tried to find ways to include Dante, especially on the bigger projects, and sometimes it worked. But more and more he’d found that the brands didn’t want Dante, and Dante didn’t really want the brands.
“I mean, the sponsored posts were never the main thing anyway,” Dante had told him. “Like, I don’t mind doing them and they pay the bills and everything. But like, if it’s not a good fit I’m not gonna bend to make it work.”
“Ok, but I don’t think that’s really what they’re asking?” Alex had replied. “Like this one doesn’t make me talk about the brand at all, it’s just asking me to talk about a time when travel helped fix my depression. It’s not even about using their app or anything, plus I get complete creative control.”
“Right… but travel doesn’t fix depression. Like, it can help you feel better and all that, but it’s not a cure.”
“No, you know what I mean. Those are their words and they know I’m going to do it in my own voice, it’s gonna be all about spreading awareness.”
“Yeah,” Dante had said. And then they’d sat in silence. Eventually, it had been Alex who spoke up.
“Dante?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I say something and you promise you won’t take it the wrong way? Like, can we consider this a safe space?”
“Of course.”
“Brands aren’t reaching out to you because your videos have gotten too sad.”
“Alex, my videos are ‘sad’ because I’m depressed. Like that’s a pretty foundational part of this whole thing.”
“Ok no, I know. Like I’m depressed too, but it’s just not really safe for brands to align themselves with stuff like that. You know what I mean?”
He’d resented Dante for making him explain it like that. It felt almost like he was the bad guy, shattering Dante’s illusions. But this was their job, and wasn’t the kinder thing to tell Dante the truth so he could make changes if he wanted to? Alex wasn’t telling Dante he needed to post a certain way or change who he was, he was just trying to help him understand the reality they existed in so he could adapt to it.
But after that conversation, things had deteriorated quickly. Dante had said it was all fine and that he wasn’t trying to cause drama, but he’d mostly just stayed in his room. For all intents and purposes, they stopped speaking. Alex saw Dante maybe three times in the following weeks, always just going to the bathroom or grabbing a charger. Each time, Dante had avoided his gaze, looking down with an almost ashamed expression – or was it pity?
Alex had stayed busy with his videos – even doing a virtual appearance on a daytime talk show to discuss the importance of awareness – but it was hard for him to take this sort of emotional abandonment in stride. In the end, he’d been the one to move out.
“I’ll keep splitting the rent here, if you’d like,” he’d offered, but he knew Dante wouldn’t take him up on it. “But it’s just not good for my mental health to live here anymore.”
Within a month he’d been in the new place, the first apartment he’d ever had to himself. He’d furnished it brightly, with boho artwork and wooden furniture draped with pothos and philodendrons, being sure to keep anything too colorful out of frame of the ring camera where he filmed.
So when he began shooting on the day it all ended for him, he was looking out toward the river, a color-coordinated bookshelf just behind the camera to the left, and a brown shaggy rug beneath his feet.
“Hey all my depression girlies! Today we are talking bevvies, and what drink you use to get yourself out of a funk! If you know me, you know I love something to sip on, I literally can’t get enough. But when mental health hits, it’s even more important to keep something soothing and safe at hand. So for me, I like to start with something herbal, maybe like a lavender turmeric latte and see if that does the trick.”
When he’d finished recording the two spots – always careful to end with his catchphrase “and take good care!” – he’d moved into a light yoga routine before showering and getting ready for brunch.
This was one of Alex’s favorite parts of quitting his 9-to-5 and doing content creation full-time. On filming days, if he got his videos done quickly he could be offline by 11:30 and was free to spend his time actually living.
Today that meant grabbing a casual brunch with a couple other content creators at The Oak, a trendy new spot in Gold Coast he’d been meaning to check out. When he arrived, he was escorted to a wood- and gold-plated booth along the side wall, where light from the retractable glass roof poured in.
Samantha Reed, a food vlogger who’d made her name by baking cookies for protesters in 2020, and Cat Invera, who made longform explainers on historical inequities, were already seated and smiled up at him.
“There’s our boy!” Cat said as he scooted in alongside them. “Tell me, how are the sadgirls doing online today?”
“Oh, same as ever,” Alex replied, grinning. “We’re deep in our feels.”
“As you should be. But I think we’ve got the answer to that,” Cat replied as the mimosas arrived.
They clinked their glasses, took a gulp, and started loudly debating their food options. Was the French toast too much? Alex was actually back onto carbs but now he was trying to cut out sugar, so probably better to skip. Maybe the garden omelet, but only if it came with goat cheese. Samantha didn’t do dairy unless she really wanted it, so it would be tough to split anything with cheese.
By the time their waitress brought the third round of mimosas – “ugh, bless a bottomless deal,” Samantha said, though Alex wasn’t sure such a deal existed – they were through most of their standard gossip.
“You know who I saw on Saturday?” Cat asked between sips. “Dante Richards, the old roomie! He was at that used bookstore on Broadway, he looked good. Did he always have that mustache?”
Alex felt his smile falter momentarily, but quickly realigned himself and laughed good-naturedly.
“Oh, he grows that out whenever he’s going through it. I always told him it was a bit cliche, but I do think it works for him.”
“Yeah, it actually fills his face in well,” Samantha said.
“Ok, can I ask a question,” Cat added. “And like, you know I love him. But why are all of his videos so depression-focused? Like mental health is actually a lot deeper than that and I sort of think he’s reducing the experience a bit. It’s really one note, and it’s gotten kind of boring?”
“Right?” Alex replied. “I tried to tell him this so many times. It’s fine if he’s depressed or whatever. Like, we all are, I get that. But his videos should try to be a little more inclusive of people who aren’t!”
He could feel himself getting worked up and made a point to reset his smile.
“Ok, no because I was just saying to Cat that it feels like he’s doing it for attention?” Samantha said. “Like maybe he got jealous of how much you were growing so he wanted to take a new angle and go a little more hardcore.”
“Yeah, I mean I don’t know, obviously,” Alex replied. “We don’t really talk that much anymore, but it wouldn’t really surprise me. Honestly, and I’m not trying to be mean, but he got really weird the last few months we were living together. It really wasn’t healthy for me, mentally, to hold that space with him.”
It was true, and it felt good to say it. He’d spent the last two years making excuses for Dante when he’d disappeared from a party early or just stayed in his room when friends were over, and it was exhausting.
He loved Dante, of course, but it wasn’t healthy to pretend that the way he’d been treated was ok. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like some of Dante’s behavior had verged on emotional abuse. The silent treatment after their conversation about the tenor of Dante’s videos? The pitying looks? Even the unwillingness to do his own dishes took on a sinister sheen in hindsight.
“I just, I wish him the best,” Alex said, trying hard to stay diplomatic. “But it really stopped being a safe space for me, personally.”
“Well, here’s to protecting your peace!” Cat said as she raised her glass.
“I’ll drink to that,” Samantha chimed in, and they moved on.
More glasses of mimosa followed, before they pivoted to espresso martinis. At some point, Cat retrieved a dime bag from her clutch and they snuck off to the bathroom for a quick bump.
It was one of those afternoons that was at once cozy and alive. He felt completely safe with Cat and Samantha, completely at home in The Oak. He found himself laughing harder than he had in months, hands grasping out to embrace Samantha or touch Cat’s hair. He could feel himself healing, the loving hold of a sunny afternoon with drinks and community helping to rebuild the bonds that had felt fractured in recent weeks.
By the time they realized it was getting dark out, their waitress had long since stopped serving them. “No rush,” she’d said as she delivered the check, and they’d taken her words to heart.
But now Samantha was saying something about needing to go feed her dog, and Cat was texting some boy she swore she was done talking to. Rideshares were ordered, and payment requests were sent. Streetlights were on. Alex found himself checking his phone for the first time in hours. Hundreds of missed notifications. Too many to process.
He stumbled back into his apartment, the bag and the drinks swimming deliciously in his mind. He was getting a call, it was from his semi-manager, Joe. Alex handled most of his brand deals himself, but for any multi-creator sponsorship he brought Joe in to make sure he was getting a fair cut. They’d worked together for a little over a year now and he generally trusted Joe.
But a phone call was unusual, he typically just texted.
“Yo,” Alex said, answering the call. “How are things in L.A.?”
“Alex, I need to know what’s happening right now.” Joe was serious. That was unusual too. “Is it real? Or is it like, I don’t know, a deepfake?”
His head had been swimming pleasantly but suddenly crashed into focus. He had a headache, but he could think straight.
“What are you talking about,” he asked back to Joe. “I literally just got back from brunch, what’s going on?”
“The video, Alex. It’s everywhere and I’m getting all sorts of calls. I really don’t need this right now, I’m not even technically your manager.”
“Ok, I haven’t checked my phone in literally hours, I was doing self-care. What video? Is everything ok?”
The video, Joe explained, had been taken at brunch by someone else at the restaurant. It showed Alex, Samantha, and Cat from a distance at first, laughing and clinking glasses. Then it cut to quite close, as if taken by someone passing slowly by their table. You could overhear what they were saying. The video lingered. Whoever was filming had circled their table twice, picking up pockets of conversation.
“It’s fine if he’s depressed or whatever. Like, we all are, I get that. But his videos should try to be a little more inclusive of people who aren’t!”
The clink of glasses.
“It feels like he’s doing it for attention? Like maybe he got jealous of how much you were growing.”
They were laughing raucously.
“He got really weird the last few months we were living together.”
The waitress bringing more mimosas. A bag of coke left in view on the table. Their laughter.
Alex felt sick, he felt violated. It was voyeuristic, someone had clearly recognized them and recorded them without their consent. It was a form of abuse, a particularly noxious type of online harassment.
But Joe wasn’t having any of it.
“You get what this looks like, right?” he asked Alex. “It looks like you’ve been faking the whole mental health thing all along, just to get rich and do drugs with the popular kids. It goes to the entire core of your brand.”
“Are you kidding me?” Alex had replied. “I was out to brunch, literally healing after a super traumatic few months, and trying to hold space for the women in my life. If someone decided to creep on us without our consent, that’s completely not ok.”
Joe was silent. Alex could feel his head spinning, his memory swerving from moment to moment. He’d defended Dante! He’d just talked about how unsafe Dante’s condition made him feel. That’s valid, he has a right to his emotions.
Then Joe spoke.
“Ok, I obviously can’t represent you, and I hope you won’t be mad if I post something saying that we don’t work together anymore. But I’m not trying to hurt you, I’ll still tell people you’re a good guy if they ask. And if you want, I’ll keep my post vague. Something about how we haven’t worked together in months, creative differences or something.”
“This is insane,” Alex heard himself almost shouting. “It’s a stalker video, I bet Dante put someone up to it. I’ll just go live and explain it all, it’ll literally be fine in two minutes.”
“Alex, do not go live. Don’t do anything dumb right now. This isn’t advice as your colleague anymore, just as a person: wait till the morning, reach out to Alex, then maybe post an apology. See if you can find a new therapist or something and say that you’re working on yourself.”
“I don’t need a therapist and I don’t need your advice. I just need people to stop being literally so judgmental of other people’s journeys.”
And with that he hung up. He was breathing heavily, looking for water. He hadn’t even had a chance to turn on the lights in his apartment, and the sun had fully descended.
He needed to act, that much was clear.
He scrolled through his notifications and saw that the reaction had been as Joe had described. Thousands of hate comments on his previous posts, coalescing around #DepressionGrifter, and his follower count was down 10,000 from the morning. Texts from other influencers, some talking politely (“Hey, hope you’re doing well! Just FYI, I’m not going to be able to do that Live next week after all, something came up”) and others less so (“Wowwwww, lose my number”).
He couldn’t even find the original video, just thousands and thousands of reposts and duets. Had the original user taken it down once it had gone viral? Had it been Dante?
He didn’t feel sure about anything, except that Joe was wrong. He knew his followers, the community that he’d built. He was all about giving yourself grace and allowing yourself to make mistakes. If he just went live and talked to them, he could bring this back around.
So he sat down at his filming station and fired up the ring light, a lone glow in his dark apartment.
“Hey, depression girlies,” he said seriously. “I have been getting a ton of questions today, so I just wanted to hop on and clear some things up for you. I’ll just wait a few more minutes for more people to join and then I’ll dive right in.”
He would have to try to walk the line of earnest and apologetic, without acting like this was actually a big deal. This was tougher in practice than in theory – go too strong with the apology and his viewers would sense defeat and grow vicious, but skip the apology entirely and he’d get dragged for avoiding accountability.
But Alex had a good sense for what his community wanted, and was grateful he’d spent so much of the past two years educating his followers on acceptance and personal journeys.
“You know I’m a big believer in growing from our mistakes, even if they’re not exactly the end of the world. Because any type of mistake is still a chance to become your better, happier self. That’s where I find my peace.”
But the comments were ruthless. They were calling him fake, saying that he was some sort of bully – as if he wasn’t literally part of a campaign to end youth bullying in schools. He saw some familiar names, fans who often joined his Lives and submitted questions, now saying they felt betrayed.
“Ok, I’m seeing some people starting to center themselves in the comments, and I want to do just a quick narcissism check with everyone.”
It didn’t help, the comments were piling up, overriding him in real time. How could these people – with whom he’d shared so much knowledge about mental health awareness – not have retained anything he’d said over the years? It was like they didn’t actually care about his mental health, they just needed something to feast on.
Maybe they could tell he wasn’t being fully honest. He always said that a key to mental health is rooting out dishonesty in others and now here was, holding off on saying anything about the person who took the video. He was trying to stay inwardly focused with I statements, but maybe he needed to try radical transparency.
“I see a bunch of people asking how I’m doing, and if I feel safe given that someone was apparently stalking me at brunch.” It wasn’t true, no one was asking, but he needed an entry point in to his honesty.
“Yeah, it’s been really hard. And I’m trying to hold space for that, mentally. But we’re not really sure who took that video or why. It definitely is scary, so we’re working with authorities to figure out if I’m safe in my home or if I maybe need to relocate to a secure location.”
It wasn’t working. Why wasn’t it working?
The comments said he was redirecting, that he was being dramatic, that he wasn’t taking accountability. Hadn’t he done that at the start? He’d said he made a mistake, didn’t that take a lot of bravery?
It had always been hard for Alex to talk about his errors – that was a function of his anxiety that his followers should’ve all known about. He thought back to when he’d lived with Dante, how it had always been on Alex to own his mistakes, but Dante wouldn’t take accountability.
When Alex had spilled that margarita all over the kitchen carpet, he’d said it wouldn’t happen again and had offered to bring in a carpet steaming service he couldn’t afford. But when Dante did something – when he would sit silently in the corner when Alex had friends over, or forgot to pay the electric bill on time – he’d just say sorry and look down. He’d never explain himself, never talk through it.
But it was Alex who was being labeled a fraud? When Dante never wanted to talk about anything real, aside from being depressed? When Dante had gone silent on him, withholding his friendship? When all Alex had done was try to bring awareness?
He felt the next part spilling from his lips before he had a chance to think it through.
“I have heard some people saying that the video might have been posted by a certain ex-roommate of mine, which I mean, I don’t know if that’s true – I hope it’s not – but if it is, that would be absolutely crazy. I mean, talk about emotional abuse. To do that to someone? To creep on them and stalk them? Like that’s really not ok, and we’re gonna have to have a conversation about that.”
The comments slowed for a moment. He could tell they were absorbing what he’d said, and he was too. There was no walking that back, no putting that back in the box. He just needed to see if it had worked. If speaking his truth had recentered the narrative.
But no. Of course not. These people didn’t care about him, they were vultures. The hate surged again, comments claiming he was making it up – as if he’d lie about that? – or grasping.
They started tagging the user who they said had originally uploaded the video. Alex clicked over to her profile, all the while talking about how important it was for everyone to feel heard here. Her name was Katie J. and she looked like any other girl in the city. About his age, wearing a beanie over a shoulder-length bob. She even followed him. Her account was private now so he couldn’t see more, but his mind raced.
Could it be a fake account? A friend of Dante’s? How did he even know this was the person who had posted the video?
The comments kept coming.
He felt them like blows to the head. These were his people, the community he had cultivated. They had changed his life, and now they were circling him and pouncing as if he was nothing to them.
They were telling him to apologize to Katie J., to apologize to Dante. They wanted him to shut up, to log off. They told him they wished they’d never followed him, that he had done so much damage.
They told him to kill himself. They said he would be better off dead.
He ended the Live. He closed the app. He put his phone down on his desk. He turned off the ring light. He laid down.
His phone was still buzzing, probably brands trying to cancel their deals with him or other content creators telling him to unfollow them.
It was still dark in his apartment, the moon hadn’t yet begun to shimmer off the river like it did late at night.
He laid there for a while – an hour maybe? – and waited for his head to stop spinning. Why had he had so many mimosas? Why hadn’t he thought that someone might be listening in on his conversation? Why did he think The Oak was a safe space for sharing?
And the thought just kept creeping in.
There wasn’t another way out, the damage was too deep. He couldn’t escape it. He got up, and went back over to his desk overlooking the river, ten stories down.
He picked up his phone and before he could talk himself out of it, he deleted his account. 1.4 million followers, gone in an instant.
He stood looking in shock at his own hand, the extremity that had just ripped up his life’s work, still holding his phone.
It buzzed.
A text.
From Dante.
“Hey, are you doing ok? Give me a call if you need.”
*****
Tom Meyer is based in Washington, D.C. and originally from the Chicago area. In addition to writing, Tom works in communications for a climate nonprofit.
