If you go on the internet and onto the ‘blog world’ in particular you’ll find a whole host of words written about mental health. This is GREAT. The conversation should be continually happening and constantly evolving so that folks feel like they can open up, read and be involved in a subject that is fucking hard to broach for a lot of us.
I have never had what one might call ‘proper’ depression. I’ve never really been close to killing myself or taken steps to actually end my life. I’ve thought about it and thought about what it might be like or who it might affect but in terms of actually feeling like the end is near? No. However I come from a family where my Grandad and Auntie both committed suicide due to long-term depression. Both situations where they had lived with the ‘black cloud’ for many years until they succumbed to it.
I never met my Grandad, he passed in the 1970’s and all I know about him was that he was a scientist and had two children, a wife and on the face of it no real troubles. Well, when I say troubles I’m talk superficially – no money issues, nothing that would put his livelihood in jeopardy. The rules of engagement in the 70’s were obviously completely different, people did not talk about mental health in the sort of terms that we do now and people just didn’t understand it.
I think in my life I’ve been worried at times about the possibility of this mental health issue being passed down to me as if it were a gene. When I’ve felt really down or sad or broken up with a girlfriend and I’ve toyed with the idea of throwing the word “depressed” into the fold, I’ve always wondered if I’d end up having the same issues that my two late family members had.
My Auntie passing away is a different story altogether. She lived with depression all her life and was on prescribed medication like Prozac. She left behind a loving family, big house and a great life. I think what strikes me the most when I think about both of these people or in fact anybody who has committed suicide is that we want to know why. The question of “why did they do it?” is always on our lips. We want a rationale and what we constitute as a proper reason. Maybe that type of thinking is aligned with our need for answers in life. We’re part of a religion because we think it might give us the answers we need to be happy in life and be fulfilled when we get to the end, we become scientists because finding the end-result is tantamount to finding underlying truths. We watch murder mysteries because we want a puzzle where we can try to work out whodunnit, we have zoom calls in lockdown where we do quizzes with friends to competitively find answers.
Maybe in the end, the “why” isn’t so important. We can’t always nail down a reason why someone wanted to end their existence because there might not be one or the answer isn’t what we understand or expect. Are some people not made for this life? Is the daily grind of working, loving, fucking, holidaying, sleeping and repeating just too difficult for some? Maybe. I think the other thing we contemplate when someone decides enough is enough is the feeling of “I could have done more” or “I should have been there”. As though calling them up a couple more times and checking in on them or going for a coffee would have changed their path. I think that people obviously believe in the butterfly effect and of course we should all do more to care for people who are struggling and conversations should be happening and therapy/counselling should be available readily for everyone. But how do we marry those regrets and then get on with our own lives? We can’t ever just move on, can we?
Unlike in decades gone by, shame isn’t really associated with suicide. People openly talk about the subject like I am now (albeit typing is easier than a face to face discussion) and it hurts. I really miss my Auntie and I resent the fact that what happened also tore my family apart for various reasons. It’s a heartbreaking occurrence but my family isn’t unique, the remnants of what people leave behind have to get on with it. We’re the leftovers. We get up on a miserable wet Sunday afternoon, we take out the dog, we order a greasy Chinese takeaway, we have children of our own, we marry twice over, we just get on with it. What’s really left are memories. Memories of time passed, memories of smiles. We don’t remember the shitty Tuesday nights when under the fake grin, they spent the evening crying or the mornings you weren’t there when they couldn’t get out bed because it was too fucking difficult.
I don’t even know what the point of this blog post is really aside from allowing me to wrestle with these thoughts. The good thing about mental health in 2020 is that we can feel like we can write these types of ramblings on a website. There’s a hell of a long way to come in regards to employer support, government funding and a whole raft of people who still don’t understand mental health issues. The landscape is ever-changing and even recently with the debacle of Kanye West running for president and discussing his private life and his wife opening up about his struggles with bipolar disorder. This is the type of conversation that helps immensely, when celebrities with a truly astronomical influence and reach decide to speak up. I can also improve on my outlook, sometimes I can be too quick to judge people before fully understanding if they have an issue themselves. Maybe as a society we’re too quick to pass judgement on people and that’s something I think we can all work on.