Martha, this is just staggering--and yes, beautiful. Your writing is gorgeous. There is no other word for it. I'm supposed to be catching the ferry for a badly needed shopping excursion but I'm sitting here reeling from what I've just read here.
The pain suicide leaves behind is like no other, I think, because everyone touched by it feels powerless in the aftermath and can't help but believe they and they alone could have done something to stop it. Or, if we could not have stopped it, we should have seen it coming, should have said and done that thing that would at least have comforted them before they made that desperate choice.
You know and I know none of that is true but we have to believe it because the thought of someone taking their own life, especially in their seeming prime, is unfathomable. We have to find reasons.
I don't mean to hijack your beautiful piece here, but I wrote this when Robin Williams killed himself:
"I have been suicidal. Depression is exhausting. It winds us down and makes us weary. It takes away any feeling of worth and no matter who is telling us we're loved, we're good, we deserve to be happy--we know better. We're feeling something else.
We are a burden not just to ourselves but to everyone around us. Love (or the lack of love) has nothing to do with it. When we're in a depressed state we have turned inward and our demons have locked the door. We put on our outside face and pretend.
The people taking turns to comfort us, to soothe us with just the right words, might as well be talking to themselves. We indulge them, we pretend for their sakes that their words are magically healing, are just what we needed, but when they've left it's as if they were never there."
I think we still find talking about these things uncomfortable. We tend to look for answers only at a personal level because we don't know anything else. And because we're thinking at a personal level we think we're not supposed to share what we're thinking. Well, you've proven us wrong and so have I. We MUST talk about these things. We need to make these victims human. We should be their champions, even when they're gone. How else would they still exist?
Oh, thank you, Ramona, truly. Your response means a lot. I agree that we have to write about these things — yes, we must — because it's too easy to obscure the humanity and individuality of each person who confronts the abyss. It's one of many reasons why I've been worried about the way suffering is discussed (or not discussed) in media, and why I do believe personal storytelling can provide necessary testimony.
No, thank YOU. I've been meaning to post the piece I'd written back then here on Substack and I did it today. I included your post, I hope you don't mind. I do think we can't ever stop making people aware of the physical properties of mental illness and how sorely neglected it is in the medical community. The stigma against it needs to finally be removed.
David, thank you for your response. I felt I took a big risk with this writing, and I'm glad to know it hits home with writers I respect so much. And you are so right about finding more enchantment in hell than heaven — alas.
Very sorry for your loss Martha, but you've explored this so well in your grief. My mother was "manic depressive" though I was the one who needed convincing at the time ("She's ALWAYS acted this way!" right?) I don't read many essays online through to the end, but you really held me. Thank you for this. It is a gift.
Oh, Suzun, this is another response that really means a lot to me. Thank you. I do know what you mean about growing up thinking such manic behavior was normal. I thought that with my mother, too, and it wasn't until decades later — after I'd been away for a long time — that I could observe her spurts of mania with more distance.
The staggering honesty and vulnerability in your writing here, I think, honors your friendship in a real way. How difficult it must've been to find the words. It shows how much you wanted to make sure that you resisted comfort and mythologizing in favor of holding on to what you *do* know and that's true about your friendship. What courage, Martha. What grace and generosity to intentionally share this beautiful piece with us.
I will never ignore the Celestial Seasonings labels again.
Neva, thank you, it's good to hear that this honors the friendship, because, of course, that was my goal. And when something terrible happens, comfort is overrated, at least for me at this point in my life. And yes, even Celestial Seasonings can take take us to a new place :-)
Breathtaking. Just a stunningly beautiful piece of writing in its honesty, vulnerability, and insight... which is to say, *your* honesty, vulnerability, and insight. Thank you for taking this risk. We readers are so much richer for it. I'm so sorry for your pain and so grateful that you are writing about it. Peace be with you.
Thank you, Lenora. I’m glad I took the risk with this piece, because pain can bring on some sort of light, though that doesn’t justify anything at all. But writing does help - it occasionally leads me to places I wouldn’t go normally - and I know that animated my friend’s writing as well.
Dinara, I know just what you mean about the text threads moving down the queue. I keep searching for them to make sure they're still there. I've saved some voice mails, too.
There's so much about this essay that rings painfully true. Writing has come to offer the writer a chance to look not only at what we see about our subject but what we see about ourselves. That's what's so impressive and ultimately moving about what you've written Martha. How you pay tribute to your friend while exploring not only your feelings but also the experiences and similarities of your life with her and with your family. Explorations like these may be the only recompense available to such such a grievous situation. We can't bring back the dead but we can still speak to them and remember and tell others what we've missed in not knowing her and must be careful of not losing.
Thank you for this moving response, J. i do agree about the power of writing to make us more self-aware and to connect our own pain with that of others. I needed to write this piece for all sorts of reasons, some self-serving, because I think that’s inevitable when grieving. But grieving together, in communion with readers (if you’ll allow straying into religion), is one of the few things that provides hope and meaning for me. It demands a kind of rigor in roping in my self-pity or hand-wringing. I’d like to think it keeps me honest.
Martha, this is just staggering--and yes, beautiful. Your writing is gorgeous. There is no other word for it. I'm supposed to be catching the ferry for a badly needed shopping excursion but I'm sitting here reeling from what I've just read here.
The pain suicide leaves behind is like no other, I think, because everyone touched by it feels powerless in the aftermath and can't help but believe they and they alone could have done something to stop it. Or, if we could not have stopped it, we should have seen it coming, should have said and done that thing that would at least have comforted them before they made that desperate choice.
You know and I know none of that is true but we have to believe it because the thought of someone taking their own life, especially in their seeming prime, is unfathomable. We have to find reasons.
I don't mean to hijack your beautiful piece here, but I wrote this when Robin Williams killed himself:
"I have been suicidal. Depression is exhausting. It winds us down and makes us weary. It takes away any feeling of worth and no matter who is telling us we're loved, we're good, we deserve to be happy--we know better. We're feeling something else.
We are a burden not just to ourselves but to everyone around us. Love (or the lack of love) has nothing to do with it. When we're in a depressed state we have turned inward and our demons have locked the door. We put on our outside face and pretend.
The people taking turns to comfort us, to soothe us with just the right words, might as well be talking to themselves. We indulge them, we pretend for their sakes that their words are magically healing, are just what we needed, but when they've left it's as if they were never there."
https://www.ramonasvoices.com/2014/08/the-dark-sadness-claims-another-victim.html
I think we still find talking about these things uncomfortable. We tend to look for answers only at a personal level because we don't know anything else. And because we're thinking at a personal level we think we're not supposed to share what we're thinking. Well, you've proven us wrong and so have I. We MUST talk about these things. We need to make these victims human. We should be their champions, even when they're gone. How else would they still exist?
Oh, thank you, Ramona, truly. Your response means a lot. I agree that we have to write about these things — yes, we must — because it's too easy to obscure the humanity and individuality of each person who confronts the abyss. It's one of many reasons why I've been worried about the way suffering is discussed (or not discussed) in media, and why I do believe personal storytelling can provide necessary testimony.
No, thank YOU. I've been meaning to post the piece I'd written back then here on Substack and I did it today. I included your post, I hope you don't mind. I do think we can't ever stop making people aware of the physical properties of mental illness and how sorely neglected it is in the medical community. The stigma against it needs to finally be removed.
No, I appreciate it, and I will read your piece later today. In the midst of work busyness, I want to give it the emotional space it deserves :-)
Wow. An inarticulate response to a haunting, beautiful, and poignant piece of writing. But, wow.
I felt your pain and your grief and your doubts. To make words do all that is magical. It's enchantment.
Strange and perhaps cruel that we can find more enchantment in hell rather than in heaven.
David, thank you for your response. I felt I took a big risk with this writing, and I'm glad to know it hits home with writers I respect so much. And you are so right about finding more enchantment in hell than heaven — alas.
Very sorry for your loss Martha, but you've explored this so well in your grief. My mother was "manic depressive" though I was the one who needed convincing at the time ("She's ALWAYS acted this way!" right?) I don't read many essays online through to the end, but you really held me. Thank you for this. It is a gift.
Oh, Suzun, this is another response that really means a lot to me. Thank you. I do know what you mean about growing up thinking such manic behavior was normal. I thought that with my mother, too, and it wasn't until decades later — after I'd been away for a long time — that I could observe her spurts of mania with more distance.
My response is keep risking! This essay really blew me away.
And I love pictures of paths that disappear into a forest or in the distance, and your poem fit so well with that photograph.
The staggering honesty and vulnerability in your writing here, I think, honors your friendship in a real way. How difficult it must've been to find the words. It shows how much you wanted to make sure that you resisted comfort and mythologizing in favor of holding on to what you *do* know and that's true about your friendship. What courage, Martha. What grace and generosity to intentionally share this beautiful piece with us.
I will never ignore the Celestial Seasonings labels again.
Neva, thank you, it's good to hear that this honors the friendship, because, of course, that was my goal. And when something terrible happens, comfort is overrated, at least for me at this point in my life. And yes, even Celestial Seasonings can take take us to a new place :-)
Breathtaking. Just a stunningly beautiful piece of writing in its honesty, vulnerability, and insight... which is to say, *your* honesty, vulnerability, and insight. Thank you for taking this risk. We readers are so much richer for it. I'm so sorry for your pain and so grateful that you are writing about it. Peace be with you.
Thank you, Lenora. I’m glad I took the risk with this piece, because pain can bring on some sort of light, though that doesn’t justify anything at all. But writing does help - it occasionally leads me to places I wouldn’t go normally - and I know that animated my friend’s writing as well.
Thank you for sharing your personal pain. I still have my daughters texts, each day they moved closer to the bottom the list.
Dinara, I know just what you mean about the text threads moving down the queue. I keep searching for them to make sure they're still there. I've saved some voice mails, too.
There's so much about this essay that rings painfully true. Writing has come to offer the writer a chance to look not only at what we see about our subject but what we see about ourselves. That's what's so impressive and ultimately moving about what you've written Martha. How you pay tribute to your friend while exploring not only your feelings but also the experiences and similarities of your life with her and with your family. Explorations like these may be the only recompense available to such such a grievous situation. We can't bring back the dead but we can still speak to them and remember and tell others what we've missed in not knowing her and must be careful of not losing.
Thank you for this moving response, J. i do agree about the power of writing to make us more self-aware and to connect our own pain with that of others. I needed to write this piece for all sorts of reasons, some self-serving, because I think that’s inevitable when grieving. But grieving together, in communion with readers (if you’ll allow straying into religion), is one of the few things that provides hope and meaning for me. It demands a kind of rigor in roping in my self-pity or hand-wringing. I’d like to think it keeps me honest.