Some days you feel as if you are Pandora’s Box itself. All the sorrows of the world reside within you. All the hate and fear and bile and shame – straining against your edges and scratching grooves into the smooth surface of your resolve. Control seems like an illusion: as gossamer-thin as a butterfly’s wing. Misery is a foregone conclusion, and you’re powerless against the onslaught of emotions.
Sound familiar? If so, know that you’re not alone. And if not, well, you’ve led a charmed life… mazeltov.
Today marks the end of national suicide prevention week. I’ve seen mentions of it across social media and in the news. I’ve thought of the many ways we kill ourselves – for my son, whether intentional or not, it was drugs. With my good friend Tracy from high school, it was a Wilkinson double-edged razor on a blustery February afternoon. For Vincent Van Gogh it was a revolver to the chest. Sylvia Plath, a head in the oven. For Virginia Woolf, a pocket of heavy stones and a rushing river, and Robin Williams – a belt for a noose as Sunday slowly faded into Monday.
So. Much. Loss.
All I’ll say, not only as a human being and person who’s shouldered my fair share of depression, but as a mother who couldn’t/wouldn’t/didn’t save her son – don’t do it. Please.
I know it’s both the easiest thing to ask and hardest to do. Try anyway. And should you ever need a sympathetic ear – I’m ready to listen.