When the news broke, last month, about Robin Williams, like many, I was shocked and saddened. His suicide catalyzed many people to talk openly about mental illness. I, too, felt an urge to add my voice, and I did, if only in a cursory way, but there was something even larger stirring in me. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I could feel it building.
There were many eloquent voices in the days, and weeks, that followed, and I felt that my voice had nothing to add, so I did not speak, even though something was welling in me. Then, a few days ago, a local actor, who I did not know, though I knew of him, committed suicide, and the last vestiges of what had been holding me back fell away. I can remain silent no more.
I’m sorry that I did not know the man who died this week. I saw him in a couple of plays I reviewed over the past year and a half, but aside from those moments, I knew nothing of him. My heart is with his family. I hope they can find some peace.
Every time someone kills themselves, whether I knew them or not, I am anguished. I feel the loss in the very deepest part of my being, because I know how desperate they are. I have been there.
This will come as a shock to some people, because I rarely speak of it. In fact, many people closest to me know nothing of what I am about to say, though they may have suspected it. And this is the very essence of the problem; silence is the killer. It is silence that is the undoing, and I resolve here to not be silent for one day more.
I have suffered from depression my entire adult life, even longer. I first contemplated suicide when I was just thirteen years old. Too few people know that about me. Most of my family does not know that. I do not speak of it, because I, like many people who suffer from depression, feel an overwhelming sense of shame. We feel that we are failures for being so weak.
Our society has no place for weakness, for indecision, for uncertainty. We are a society of winners. Strong. Proud. We value the self-made person who can pull themselves up by their own bootstraps. Weakness is for losers.
We feel shameful of our illness, because our society teaches us that it should not be discussed openly. And if it is discussed, it is in whispers, and hushed tones, behind closed doors. We are apologetic, even when we do find the strength to bring it up, as if we are imposing on the world. Our loved ones feel shame by proxy, as if our weakness is a reflection of them too. Everyone prefers to just not discuss it, as if not speaking of it will make it go away, and the silence wins out.
And so it goes. And those of us who find ourselves in dark, desperate places, suffer on in silence for fear of what others may think of us. We fear the stigma of the illness, sometimes, even more than the illness itself.
No more. I say, no more. I am tired of hiding my illness away, and I am tired of sanctimonious people, that do not understand depression, minimizing our struggles. We live with an illness that is trying to kill us, and we do so mostly in silence. Enough.
First, no. I am not in crisis. This is not a call for help from me. I am writing this in an attempt to own my depression and to end the cycle of silence. If, by speaking openly about this, others can find the courage to break their silence as well, so much the better. Secondly, if that is pity you are beginning to feel, stop. Stop, right now. I don’t want your pity. I don’t need your pity. Pity, as a response to depression is meaningless. It is nothing more than the expression of your inability to empathize with my condition. Be a friend. Talk. Listen. Love. But save your pity for abused animals, or orphaned children, if you must. I want none of it.
Many people, who have never experienced depression, believe that depression can be cured, that if one takes the right pill, or learns to appreciate the good things, or finds God, or opens themselves to love, whatever, depression will go away. That might be true. There may be people for whom depression is a temporary condition, but for me, and many people like me, there is no remedy. There is no prescription. Depression never leaves.
For more than thirty years, my depression has ebbed and flowed. Some days, some weeks, some months, or years, are better than others, some worse. Every now and then, when I manage to go for a year or more, without feeling its full effects, I think maybe I’ve conquered it, that it’s gone for good, but it always comes back. Always. I can never tell when it is coming, or when it might leave. It lurks. Even in my happiest moments, I can feel it, faintly, tugging on me. There is a lead weight shackled to my soul. It can not be removed. But I believe I can bear that weight. With you all, I can bear it.
My depression has nothing to do with a lack of love, or abuse, or drug dependency. It was not caused by some traumatic event. I had loving parents, and close friends in my youth, many of whom are still very close to me. I have a devoted, caring family. A nice home. A good job. And on, and on, and on. There is no reason. There is no why. There is only the weight, and the silence.
A friend of mine, several years ago, made the decision to get sober. He made this decision publicly, because he knows that he can not do this alone. I acknowledge this too, for my depression, and believe that none of us can do this alone. It is the silence that kills us. By making this decision, and making it public, I hope that you will be able to help me when I need it most. By saying it now, when I don’t need help, maybe it will be easier to say when I do.
I hope that others, who read this, who are also suffering in silence, can find the courage to break this cycle. We can not do this alone. We are all in this crazy life together. We must help one another, but no one can help if they don’t know you are drowning. Reach out, speak up, make whatever noise is necessary, but do not remain silent.
For many years I have worried that my depression will one day over-take me, that I will be unable to claw my way out from under it, but I have been doing this, mostly, alone. Forgive me for my silence. Not one day more.
I am so very grateful for everyone in my life. I appreciate all of you. Please understand that when someone is depressed, they don’t love you any less. They are just too overwhelmed to see any other options. Depression is not reasonable, so don’t try to reason with it.
We can help one another by being more attentive and receptive to that commonly tossed away greeting, “How are you doing?” We need to slow down a little, and deepen the connections we have with one another.
If any of my friends reading this need to talk, please call me, come over to my house, email me, whatever, but don’t remain silent.
For those of you I don’t know, there are people that understand what you are going through. Call 1-800-273-8255. You can also go to their website: http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/ You are important. Please reach out. They can help.
I tried therapy a few times. It never stuck with me. Writing has always been my therapy, but I have been writing too little these past twenty years. I think that’s changing. I am finding my voice again, and I will not be silent for one day more.
Be good to each other, and keep talking. I will leave you with a poem I wrote many years ago, but have kept hidden from view.
Twenty years ago, in the dark,
desperate hours, I walked
up there on that cliff, above the soft,
sandy shore. I muttered. No.
I whispered. I screamed,
softly. I floated off
the precipice. I nearly died
above the sea.
I see the curls
of your hair spreading
in the green waves
as we splash
against the current.
My daughters. My wife.
My life. All these years, pulled
back from that ledge.
I walked, on that cliff,
twenty years past. The boy,
above. I lift my daughters,
dangling, over the waves,
and their screams of glee pierce
the evening air, echoing
up to that boy, standing
all alone.