It's been a while since I've posted here, but most of what I've been blogging has just been day-to-day events, and I put those on my LiveJournal. The past few days I haven't even been doing that. But in the wake of Robin Williams' suicide (which still doesn't compute when I try to process the information) people are talking publicly about their own battles with depression and, well, I have a story to tell about that too. So here it is.
There may not be anyone in the world, including my doctor, who understands that thoughts of killing myself go through my head EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. Not just once, but many times. Every time I cross a bridge, I think about stopping the car and jumping. Every time I see a belt or scarf or other knottable oblong, I think about hanging myself. An oncoming semi is always a chance to slip off my seatbelt and cross the yellow line. Those are the most common ones, but other thoughts cross my mind as various opportunities present themselves in the course of daily life. These thoughts are rooted as much in my OCD with its intrusive impulses as they are in my depression, so they're usually not accompanied by a fervent desire to End It All, but they still whisper seductively, "You could do this. It would be so easy." You would be amazed at the amount of mental energy I expend on ignoring those thoughts as well as the other ones that tell me to hurt other people or behave *very* inappropriately in public. The research that came out in the past few years about "decision fatigue" confirmed what I had known all along -- it's not that I have no self-discipline, it's just that it's too busy keeping me alive and out of jail or the looneybin to overcome the urge to buy that sweater or eat that dessert.
Then there are the depressive episodes. My first mental health diagnosis was rapid-cycling bipolar disorder, but my "medium" setting is well toward the down side. Every now and then, I'll have a really terrible couple of hours, or days, or weeks, or months when I know with absolute certainty that I am worthless, fundamentally flawed, fit for nothing but screwing up other people's lives. When I am in one of those states I feel like Prince Rilian in the Silver Chair, experiencing a brief moment of clarity about how terrible my existence is in the midst of a usual glamour which convinces me that it's all okay most of the time. No one loves me; certainly, no one loves me *most*. In the event of a natural disaster, there is no one who would worry about me before or more than the other people in their lives. On the rare occasion that I cross anyone's mind in the absence of an active demand for attention, their reaction is relief that they don't have to deal with me at the moment. My only attraction for men is sexual willingness, and I am interchangeable with any other equally cooperative woman. If I suddenly stopped being around, no one would even notice. I'm not the sort of person who is designed to achieve success or honors; in fact, I'm not a person at all, just an NPC who some sadist made sentient. When I die, I'll simply blow away as a speck of dust; no lasting consciousness, no worth to any higher being, just a cessation of consciousness. And it will be a relief, because my life sucks, has always sucked, and will always suck until I have finally finished serving my time.
Those are the feelings. That's the self-talk. It's easy to say that I should choose to give myself positive messages instead, but when I try those messages sound hollow at best and ridiculously arrogant at worst. Certainly, I can't convince myself that they're true.
Probably the only thing that has kept me alive this long is a conviction that I *do* have to "serve my time", and that it's not permitted for a tool like me to defy the Universe and check out before it's done using me to make other people miserable. Also, that killing myself would be just as much "drama llama shit" as reaching out and telling anyone how I feel, asking for help, asking to be told I am loved (which people would only say out of a sense of obligation and guilt, y'know). Also, I'm a coward about taking an irreversible plunge into the unknown; this life may be terrible, but at least it's familiar.
I'm on meds, and they help. And I'm getting better about pushing my way through the lies to reach out, even when my brain is trying to talk me out of it. And even without either of those, eventually something distracts me from obsessing over those feelings and I get on with my life for a while. But the darkness is always there, talking to me, telling me what it wants me to believe, waiting for something to turn my full attention toward it again. It never completely goes away.
Seriously, can you blame someone for not wanting to face some untold number of more years like that? How is that any different from a person with chronic and unrelievable physical pain deciding that it robs them of all quality of life? It's a prison sentence either way, with no hope of parole.
I'm not telling you all this to beg for attention or positive feedback. I want you -- especially those of you who are judging Mr. Williams for succumbing to this terrible disease -- to understand what he was going through.
I was recently talking to a friend whose sister took her own life a few weeks ago. One thing that we discussed is that the concept of "at least s/he's not in pain any more" applies just as much to a death from mental illness as it does to a death from cancer or anything else. Some people have been arguing against the use of the "Genie, you're free" quote because they say it romanticizes suicide and encourages copycats, but I think it's unrealistic to not acknowledge that Mr. Williams was in a prison of pain for many, many years -- probably most of his life -- and while his passing is cause for grief, we can also find comfort in knowing that his pain has ended. (And no, I don't believe that he's in Hell, any more than anyone who dies from any other cause. Maybe he has found healing love and comfort in the presence of God, or maybe he has already started his next life and has no problems that can't be solved by Mama, or maybe he just isn't anything any more. I don't know. Take your pick.) He is free. Be happy for him.
No, that doesn't mean I think that killing yourself is the right answer to depression and emotional pain. And it doesn't mean I'm going to kill myself. It just means that I know how he was suffering, and I understand what drew him to decide he couldn't stand it any longer. I grieve for his family, and for the art he might have gone on to create, but an end to pain is always a liberation. He made it through 63 years of feeling that pain and self-loathing and sorrow and loneliness. Sometimes I can't even imagine living with it for one more year, let alone almost 20. Robin Williams wasn't weak; he was incredibly strong, but even the strongest man can only bear so much for so long.
I keep trying to find a conclusion for this piece, but none is coming, so I'll stop here and simply say that Robin Williams, along with everyone else who has lost this fight, deserves to have his memory cherished rather than judged.
Well written.
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