When they go
It’s no question that we’ve become increasingly desensitized to bad news. In both mainstream and social media, we see and hear of events as they unfold in a continuous and ubiquitous barrage. It’s both a hallmark of progress and a challenge that so much information is laid at our feet to digest.
That’s why when you get such honest and sobering words, it makes an impression. A chef, author, and TV personality, Anthony Bourdain gave irreverent and compassionate commentaries on human connection. Through simple acts in and around food, he took viewers to local and far-flung cultures for unapologetically unfiltered conversations.
Personally I’m the most fond of those without an agenda; those who simply have a point of view that remains as fluid as they are curious. Bourdain did this. He encouraged us to “move, as far as you can, as much as you can. Walk in someone else’s shoes or at least eat their food.”
He believed what I appreciate more with each passing year: “skills can be taught. Character you either have or don’t have. Maybe that’s enlightenment enough: to know that there is no final resting place of the mind; no moment of smug clarity. Perhaps wisdom, is realizing how small I am, and unwise, and how far I have yet to go.”
To you I say: thank you. And farewell.
Sometimes a piece of news will strike a chord harder than others. For me, Bourdain’s death by suicide is one of them. I have not been intimate with suicide (in attempting), nor have I wanted to memorialize in writing my presumptions that haven’t been put to the test. But it now occurs to me that I might understand it better than some.
I empathize more than most people I know. I’m habitually introspective and open-mindedly curious. This lets me feel the performance highs, ordinary wonders, wrathful clarity, tempestuous depression, and desolate grief. Life is filled with nuance and I both delight in it and am driven to infuriating dissatisfaction with it.
Of course for every person who can feel as I do, there are just as many who don’t identify, understand, or are even aware of the nuances. They might register experiences point blank, or without a grain of salt. When someone says “I’m happier than I thought I could be”, they don’t catch the reflected significance. They can’t understand why a person can’t just be plainly happy like they would be. They expect “typical” emotional reactions limited to their own experiences above the surface.
For those who are not depressed, they look forward to the future. They meet obstacles as a challenge to rise and learn from. They embrace the support of friends and family and can feel wholesome after defeat. They can be proud of themselves and move on with lighter steps.
When a person is truly unhappy at their core, this isn’t possible. They’re mentally, emotionally or spiritually pulled over. By all appearances they might have the worldly trappings of success: wealth, power, acclaim, beauty, even love. But they’re unfulfilled, for reasons only they understand. And regardless of their environment, there’s very little that external forces can do to pull them out of it. Drastic changes must be made, and primarily from within themselves.
A day is no longer made up of people, places, or events. It becomes a haphazard iteration of triggers for the same maelstrom that plagues you. That depression pulls you underwater against the current, where exhaustion makes you cease to care and your standards fade away. Things you valued lose its meaning. You have no goals, and eventually no desires.
What started as restless turmoil turns into numbness. And this is where the danger lies: when a person comes to question their own existence, and by extension the necessity of their mortality.
The stigma of mental health comes from the expectation and definition of a “great life”. When depressed, it matters not what you have, how you live, or who surrounds you. It matters only the untangleable mess that persists, insidious and oppressive. When I was in it, there was hardly a moment I didn’t feel wretched with my inability to find a solution. It was clear to me that my reality was mine to fix, and that burden was a vast hopelessness. It felt like there was nothing left for me anymore. At some point, pure apathy hits.
When the pain becomes too much, suicide then becomes an option, and perhaps a solution. The only meaning of the act is end. Those who call it cowardly or selfish are preaching to deaf ears because it’s a non-issue. At that moment, you are not a daughter or son, sibling or parent, spouse or friend. There is no character to fail; there is no romance. Whatever life has left is simply not worth it. You are just a frail human in an endless cycle. Suicide becomes pain management, a relief to that constant companion.
To some, this may sound over-dramatic and illogical. Can’t you rationalize a way to move forward, they’ll wonder (often with cheery platitudes)? Indeed we frequently experience less grave episodes of misery: disappointment, heartbreak, illness, loss. All of which we can move on from close to perfectly.
But emotions are irrational, and even the most brilliant and spirited of us can yield to that nether self if driven so far. If we make that connection to an existential crisis, we might truly not be able to move on.
Of course in the end, it’s a choice. Our choice. It’ll depend on how we’ve set up our life scale to balance, and whether we tip it toward the light or the dark.
