I See You

I’m sitting at the beach again this morning— after a Walmart run to get some Banana Boat dry oil spray with the lowest possible SPF you can buy that still contains SPF (it’s 4, if you’re wondering, and after a few more visits I’ll buy another container that contains 0 SPF... what can I say? I like to be tan) —because lately, the beach is where I go when the writing bug bites me. Words build and build, like the waves which I’m currently watching, and I find myself texting mini blogs, full of alliteration, philosophy, and a high adjective and superlative content. As my friend Julia can attest to. She’s borne the brunt of it this past week.

This morning, my spirit is heavy. It’s so heavy. Part of it may be my (sometimes accursed) empath nature, but the truth is, all of our spirits should be heavy today. This morning, we lost another human— I won’t be flippant with the loss by labeling him a celebrity, because his life is of the same value as any “regular” human; no more, no less— to depression and suicide. The second in the media this week. 

I’ve heard more times than I can count, just this week, “But they were rich. They were famous. They had everything.” 
“Everything” is utterly subjective, friends. Maybe the people who have what we deem “everything” realize “everything” isn’t enough. Maybe the people who have “nothing” are also acutely aware that they’ll never “have enough”. Maybe what it all boils down to is that, somewhere, deep inside, there is a fundamental lack that screams they are not enough, everything amounts to nothing, and therefore there is no such thing as everything. It all totals not enough. Every “everything” in the world can’t fill a fundamental conviction of not enough. 

I’d say there’s a sudden epidemic of suicide, but that would be, again, making less of something so large. An epidemic, at least to me, implies a sudden surge of a disease or phenomenon unlooked for; and that is not what this is. This... this is an insidious, long buried, long ignored, long building illness which, because our world has grown smaller due to the internet and media and our constant connection to one another, because of our tiny steps toward acknowledging mental illness as a real illness, is finally rearing its head in a culture that slowly, oh, so slowly, is becoming aware that this issue, this creature, even has a head to rear. 

When I was in high school, I thought I was depressed. Twenty years later, I realize that all I was was a highly sensitive person, with a melancholy disposition that led to a penchant for melancholy music, bad friends who treated me like garbage and contributed to a feeling of isolation that I didn’t deserve, and big heaping helpings of 16 year old “I feel sorry for myself”s. What I felt then wasn’t even on the same planet as clinical depression or anything under the mental illness umbrella. 

Recently, depression has reared its head all around me; from strangers in the news, to friends and family members who have their own stories to tell and who can tell it all in their own good time if they so choose. If it’s this exhausting and weighty to me, I can’t even begin to fathom the everyday battle these brave humans are waging to keep themselves pushing through, when all they want is to embrace the creature that rears its head to them regularly; a creature we don’t even know about or understand, because it’s buried deep to the rest of us. 

I have a confession. One that has kept me awake many nights for the past several years; a wasted opportunity on my part, a failure. A failure. One I don’t even want to share because it’s an ugly truth that I’m ashamed of, but nevertheless feel compelled to share (as I so often do).

When Robin Williams killed himself, I posted a beautiful photo of my daughter in Peter Pan tights, with a favorite quote from Hook. “To live would be an awfully big adventure.” 

I talked about one of our dearest friends, Tommy, who battled depression for more years than many people knew, and finally committed suicide just two weeks before his 27th birthday. I pleaded with people, to please, please, seek help. Seek friends. They weren’t alone. People loved them. 

Following that post, a person I knew remotely contacted me, asking if I would ever be free to hang out with them. They saw my post and it spoke to them. I knew for a fact that this person struggled with dissociative disorder and psychosis. And—oh God, forgive me— I got scared. I didn’t feel equipped mentally or emotionally to dive into a situation like that. I knew this person had endangered themselves on more than one occasion, and there was a possibility they could or would endanger others. I thought of my kids. And I got scared. I didn’t educate myself the way I should have, and I sure as hell didn’t understand half of the compassion I had so fluently written about. So I chickened out. I told this person I didn’t feel like I could give them what they wanted or needed. I referred them to suicide hotlines, programs, churches, organizations. 

That person then told me, in no uncertain terms, what they thought of me and all my words. 

They were right. They were too right. I’ve told very few people about that incident, because I was so ashamed. And now, almost four years later, I think— dear God, I hope— that I would respond differently. I remember their words in vivid detail. I stare at the ceiling at night and wish I could go back and give a different answer. And I wonder, if I am so tortured by what I did, if I relive my words and their words so often, how much more does that other person relive them? A person- a brave human- who stiffened their spine and took an extra shot of bravery and reached out, and was summarily rejected by another human who hid behind words and couldn’t come out from behind them and at least try to be equally brave. 

I don’t share this for absolution. Not even a little. I was wrong. I was so wrong. I share this because I know I’m not the only one who has been presented with or will be presented with an opportunity to shine a light for someone who is surrounded by darkness. I fumbled. I dropped my light. You don’t have to. 

I was afraid of something I couldn’t understand. In a society that wears “happy”; that sloshes the word around like a can of paint for us to slap on our walls and cover up drywall damage, 

we are horribly, woefully, unacceptably undereducated.

It isn’t right. It’s a travesty. People- humans- who run the gauntlet every single day against themselves, just to win the battle to live- something that is a basic human right, the most basic and fundamental of human rights- shouldn’t have to buy cans of that paint, shouldn’t have to wear it like a second skin over what our culture has too long deemed as damaged. It. Isn’t. Right. 

I don’t have answers. I don’t have training, or the right words, and a lot of days, I don’t have a whole lot of bravery. God knows, I wish I did. What I do have is a heavy, still heart, a desire to educate myself, and a big can of paint remover to help scrape that coating off of my fellow humans who are tired of wearing it. 

You are not broken. You are not alone. You are not a waste of space, you are a part of what makes this space we live in so worth occupying. There are those who consider it their supreme joy and honor to occupy this space with you. You’re not alone. I see you. Always. 

**I'd be remiss if I didn't list resources here for those of you (or someone you know) who are bravely battling depression, any type of mental illness, and everything that goes with it. Maybe you've seen and heard it all before, and maybe you won't call. But maybe, just maybe, you will. And maybe "not enough" can slowly become enough.

**The National Suicide Hotline: 1-800-273-8255 or text HOME to the Crisis Text Line at 741741

**https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

**For those of you who, like me, want to be better educated and better equipped to shine some light, there are more websites available than I could possibly link. If you know of any in particular, please comment.