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ysobelleI always say it's better to know than not know. Usually I'm right.
jg's death was suicide.
There was so much I didn't know. So much about which I had no fucking clue. I saw him online last week and instinctively went to say hi, then checked myself-- I was tired, I was down, I didn't want to chat. The classic "I'll talk to him later." The common theme among all the people coming out of the woodwork seems to be "I hadn't talked to him in a while." Right before they say how wonderful he was, and how fabulous, and wacky, and creative, and incredibly, incredibly generous. I'm angry. I'm so angry. Why didn't he reach out to us? Why didn't we take that extra minute? How could he do this to his wife and son at Christmas? How are they, for the rest of their lives, ever going to hear a stupid Christmas song without losing their minds? How is Ian going to cope with losing his father at 13? How can I forgive you for this? How can I get over the fact that I had this great friend whom I totally took for granted would always be around?
But as angry as I am, I know it's pointless. People don't commit suicide because they're in spotless, perfect health. Depression is a disease. Asking someone who's suicidally depressed to get help is like asking someone who has cancer to walk it off. I, of all people, should understand that. Part of being suicidal is, by fucking definition, the ultimate inability to take care of yourself. If you truly, absolutely want to die, and you're not just making a desperate plea for someone, ANYONE, to help you, the last thing you're going to do is seek aid.
I never wanted to fall that far, myself. Even in my absolute worst hours, I wasn't that far down. I understood it, once. Why people do it. I've had days when I would have done almost anything to make the pain stop. I've had days when I've fallen on my knees and screamed and sobbed and asked over and over again "Why the fuck me?" Depression has turned my life upside down and beaten the shit out of me. But I'm still here.
I don't say this as some brave soldier. Some days, I feel like I've left a limb or two on the battlefield. I still fight every day to get up and get moving. I still have leftover bitterness and hurt and anger and every time someone simpers self-righteously at me, "Well, you just need to get over that," I want to beat them in the face with my fists. I take the pills. I have the therapists. I do what I'm supposed to. And sometimes, it's still not enough.
I'm not excusing jg from what he did. I'm angry. I'm horrified. I'm bewildered and grieving and stunned. If I could say one thing to him, it'd probably be "What the fuck were you thinking?" But I can't pretend I don't, somehow, in some limited way, understand. And that in itself is terrifying.
jg's death was suicide.
There was so much I didn't know. So much about which I had no fucking clue. I saw him online last week and instinctively went to say hi, then checked myself-- I was tired, I was down, I didn't want to chat. The classic "I'll talk to him later." The common theme among all the people coming out of the woodwork seems to be "I hadn't talked to him in a while." Right before they say how wonderful he was, and how fabulous, and wacky, and creative, and incredibly, incredibly generous. I'm angry. I'm so angry. Why didn't he reach out to us? Why didn't we take that extra minute? How could he do this to his wife and son at Christmas? How are they, for the rest of their lives, ever going to hear a stupid Christmas song without losing their minds? How is Ian going to cope with losing his father at 13? How can I forgive you for this? How can I get over the fact that I had this great friend whom I totally took for granted would always be around?
But as angry as I am, I know it's pointless. People don't commit suicide because they're in spotless, perfect health. Depression is a disease. Asking someone who's suicidally depressed to get help is like asking someone who has cancer to walk it off. I, of all people, should understand that. Part of being suicidal is, by fucking definition, the ultimate inability to take care of yourself. If you truly, absolutely want to die, and you're not just making a desperate plea for someone, ANYONE, to help you, the last thing you're going to do is seek aid.
I never wanted to fall that far, myself. Even in my absolute worst hours, I wasn't that far down. I understood it, once. Why people do it. I've had days when I would have done almost anything to make the pain stop. I've had days when I've fallen on my knees and screamed and sobbed and asked over and over again "Why the fuck me?" Depression has turned my life upside down and beaten the shit out of me. But I'm still here.
I don't say this as some brave soldier. Some days, I feel like I've left a limb or two on the battlefield. I still fight every day to get up and get moving. I still have leftover bitterness and hurt and anger and every time someone simpers self-righteously at me, "Well, you just need to get over that," I want to beat them in the face with my fists. I take the pills. I have the therapists. I do what I'm supposed to. And sometimes, it's still not enough.
I'm not excusing jg from what he did. I'm angry. I'm horrified. I'm bewildered and grieving and stunned. If I could say one thing to him, it'd probably be "What the fuck were you thinking?" But I can't pretend I don't, somehow, in some limited way, understand. And that in itself is terrifying.