Why, And If Only

A week ago a pal and colleague was found dead by her own hand, done in a merciless way and leaving literally thousands of her friends and fans shocked, saddened and at a loss to explain what had happened.

Early the next morning I was one of a handful of people desperately searching for signs of life, or even of death, but some word on a situation that rocked us to our cores. Phone calls, internet searches, texts and e-mails flew with two missions: find her, and protect her either way. Keep the rumor mill quiet; keep it off of Facebook until some official word from those closest to her announced it, or news came that it was all wrong and she was fine.

But she wasn’t fine, and by 24 hours after her discovery our corner of the professional and social world exploded with grief and bewilderment, and the constant refrains of why, and if only. If only she’d reached out. If only she’d known and understood how valued she was. If only she’d gotten help. Why had she done it? How could she have done it when she was so respected and admired, when she’d already done so much, and had so much left to do? And the good people left reeling expressed their sorrow and loss, and in many cases campaigns to combat depression, assumed to have taken her life.

I don’t know why we “suffer from” depression when we “have” a broken leg or cancer. I suppose it started when women were thought to “suffer from” The Vapours (while men suffered melancholy  – so much more manly), a nice, nebulous catch-all diagnosis that meant “shit I can’t see or fix” to the medical establishment. And it stuck, that suffering from, because it can’t be removed, can’t be excised, can’t be found in surgery or an autopsy, and that’s kind of the point. You don’t have it, you suffer from it. If you had it, someone could find it and remove it.

Normal people see the world in reverse from people with depression. They see a bad time, maybe a very bad time lasting a long time, as an episode in life, something to endure and get through. But it’s not like that with depression. With depression, it’s the other way around. Brief pauses in the action, small rays of light might break through from time to time for a few hours, a few minutes, leaving us wondering why the hell we’re making things so hard. It’s so easy! I see! But nothing like that lasts – nothing like that can last, because our brains are wired differently, can’t retain it, can’t operate like that.

People offer to help, just as they’re offering to help now through Facebook with vows of combating it, finding a cure, “just speak up; just reach out.” My friend did reach out, several times, and people tried to help. She wasn’t hiding anything, she wasn’t living in noble or destructive silence. She was asking for help from several sources, and she got it.

Some lucky few respond to meds and find more breaks than before, maybe lots of them. Some don’t respond, and for us there are make-dos of alcohol, or street drugs, or exercise, or video games maybe. For me it’s food, inflating me like a full-body Mae West when the tide starts getting too deep, in hopes of staying afloat until my toes can touch bottom again. Not ideal, as it leaves me more susceptible to the very thing I’m trying to stop from drowning in when the tide recedes and I realize I can barely walk the goddamned beach. But hey, it floats.

The problem with offers of help is that they can only help so much. Even the most intrepid friend will tire as they extend their hand on the 750th day in a row of not being better. It’s really hard work, and really annoying to be around depressed people – and at some point, come on! Can’t you try a little harder? Just…cheer up some?

The problem with offers of help is that nothing can sustain. We don’t live lives of accrued accomplishments and increments of success; we live lives of failed opportunities, of loss, of massive effort, day after day, to make it to the next one with some kind of satisfaction, if at all. That’s our normal. That does not mean depressed people will all commit suicide – just that it is a JOB to live this way, and sometimes some people just get too tired to get back up the next day.

There simply wasn’t enough positive to sustain her. No matter how hard others may try to help, no matter how many the personal accomplishments and successes, people with depression can’t retain positive things – it’s like pouring water onto sand. It can just never, ever build up. And so sometimes the best we can do is do our best to make our footprints last as long as possible, knowing that eventually the tide will take it all.