To kill myself would take an energy I do not have. I’d prefer to just not wake up. I’ve felt this sentiment several times over the past years, to varying degrees. Recently, it’s been a driving hail running deep and dark into a cave that lives within me. When I sit still, I can feel the cave and its ridges running alongside my heart, which stubbornly continues to pump blood. I think of F. Scott Fitzgerald, who wrote, “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” In a like manner, my heart beats on, hard against the current of my ruminating thoughts, born back ceaselessly into a void.
suicide
on the problem questionnaire
I don’t know whether I’m more bothered by the problems I have on this list or the fact that I have to fill out this list every time I go to the psychiatrist, yet no one ever discusses it with me.
on talking with dad about the neuropsych
Hey, Peach, what’s up?
Not too much, how are you?
Doing good. Just got that paper dropped off at mom’s school. What are you up to?
Just on the way to the neuropsych. I’m wiped out from court.
Oh yeah. What’s this appointment for again?
Basically they just want to make sure I haven’t killed myself.
JESUS KATE
What?
Well we’d certainly hope not.
Obviously, but it’s true. That’s what major depressive disorder management looks like. I’m on the four week plan so if god forbid I lose it they’re safe from med mal suits.
Well let’s just take it one day at a time.
We actually do one hour at a time. It’s working though. According to the planner they make me keep I’m having far fewer suicidal thoughts, so I’m on the up. Plus I feel better.
Well that’s good then. That’s what we want.
Plus, you gotta make light of it when you can. I mean, the waiting room is seriously like One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I may be as crazy as everyone in there, but I at least appear high functioning.
Is it really?
Yeah, like people are scratching and staring and moaning or whatever. It’s a neuropsychiatrist office. Not your garden variety group. Except in a way it is.
Well I guess so. I can’t imagine.
Yeah. It’s a special place.
Alright well you need to focus on your driving.
You’re on speaker, daddy.
Yeah yeah still.
Okayyyy.
Alright peach, we’ll talk to you later tonight.
Okay sounds good. Love you, bye.
Alright. Love you too, bye bye.
on a lost spark
This week, our nation lost a man who was so much more than just an actor and comedian. Robin Williams was a father, a husband, and a friend to many. By all accounts, he was a gentle soul and a warm, engaging person. He was an advocate for the homeless, a supporter of our soldiers overseas, and a man who made our nation laugh without racial insensitivity or crude humor.
But as I think about this man, who gave a nation comedic relief for years, I mourn for that same man who couldn’t find peace, and whom we couldn’t help. Acknowledging his battle with depression, those close to him have probably asked themselves, “what could we have done?” And while I don’t know the answer, I can share their confusion and grief.
It was only three years ago that I lost a close family member to suicide. And it has been three years of “why?” and “what should I have done?” since then. Like Robin Williams made our country laugh, my grandpa made our family laugh. He was our class clown, always quick with a joke and always keeping the grandkids smiling. My grandfather’s death haunts me. We saw his depression but weren’t able to convince him to take help. We saw the decline but couldn’t stop the heavy, rolling ball.
As Robin Williams did, my grandpa had a close and loving family as was a strong man. But depression takes hold so tightly that it shuts out family, weakens love, and cripples strength. It is as powerful as addiction and as relentless as war. It is an internal battle with grenades of dark sorrow that land unexpectedly and quick bullets of inexplicable hurt that come at seemingly random times. Though it feels like the most unnatural thing in the world, it is organic, within those who suffer its confines.
We all know what to do when someone is threatening suicide while standing on a bridge; we call 911. But what do we do when someone we love is slowly dying on the inside, and we don’t know how to help? We can’t force adults to see therapists or take medicine, nor should we. I don’t know if we can offer much more than a listening ear, an open mind, and a non-judgmental heart.
I don’t think there is anything my family could have done to prevent our loss. It was my grandpa’s choice, and his alone. I hope the family of Robin Williams can find peace in knowing that his death was also his choice, and his alone. Our families are victims of suicide, too. But I hope that from the suicidal deaths of both a common man, who brought our family laughter and joy, and a celebrity, who brought our nation laughter and joy, we can look at depression as the disease it truly is without stigmatizing, doubting or ignoring those who are afflicted.
kDe
Dear Grandpa (May 26, 2014)
Dear Grandpa,
Yesterday would have been your birthday if you’d wanted to live this long. Surprisingly, I didn’t remember yesterday was your birthday until today. I don’t whether that makes me a bad grandchild or whether it means I’m starting to heal or maybe a combination of both. I do know that three years after your death I think of you and miss you often. We recently ordered digital prints of the first year of life for me, Ryan and Caroline. There are photographed moments that I try to turn into memories, but I know I was too little. In my little face, and in your young smile, I can tell how much I loved you and how much you loved me. And I miss you.
I’ll never quite know on a deeper level why you left us. I also don’t know where you are, where your soul rests. I like to believe that altar boy in you went back to Jesus. I’m glad the church now knows that suicide is a sickness, not a sin. I’ll never know what you believed in those moments at the end. And i’ll never stop thinking about the things I could have done to stop you, though I don’t think there are any, as much as I want to pin this guilt on me. Blame brings closure. I don’t know if family ever gets closure.
I now use my lawyer skills in a way I wish I didn’t have to – I fight for your rights from your asbestos settlement. And that’s not what brings these feelings to the surface. They rush in like high tide coming early, washing over a stunned child sitting in her beach chair.
I like to think that somewhere you’re reading this and that you’re proud of me. I want you to know how much I miss you, and I don’t want you to feel guilty. I don’t have to feel guilty, and neither do you, but I’m allowed to be angry and sad, because that’s how survivor’s guilt feels. In a way, your choice has saved my life. But I’d give anything to have you back.
kDe
After the Semicolon 