Why even broach the subject? Sadly, it is because I know too much. If I can prevent one young life from being snuffed-out, then this blog will have done its job. I, once upon a time, began to track the names of people I have loved, been friends with, known, been associated with or tangentially aware of who have died of complications of depression. The list has become too long. I can not remember everyone anymore.
Suicide like taxes is sure to light an emotional fire. This is how the majority of deaths occur but accidents do happen. Crises do occur. The survivors then feel stigmatized. Everyone has an opinion. I've heard it all. Heartless.Selfish. Mean. Reckless. Hateful. Bitter. Desperate. Stupid. Painful. Immoral. Cruel. Who are we to judge? What do you know about the intimacies of this inherited condition?
Sometimes I can see it coming but mostly like everyone else, I am saddened by the news of a death. On that day, I saw mother coming across the lawn. It was a beautiful Sunday morning but I knew immediately something was wrong. She had a message to deliver in person. She was concerned, I believe, as to how I might internalize or react to the news. "Cyndi is dead." We hugged each other tightly as tears welled in our eyes.
My mind flashed back to our last conversation. Isn't this how we react to any death? The loss is immediate. Compassion for her and her family pour from my heart to this day. We were childhood friends who would reconnect in our adulthood. Our mutual enemy would be bipolar depression. For make no mistake about it, the disease has a mind of its own. It is out to destroy you and thereby, all you love and who love you
I can recall our first conversation on the telephone. I had been recently diagnosed and she was reaching out to me. Of course, it was rarely mentioned that she had a psychiatric "problem" because we all knew she was a genius - a recipient of prestigious awards and fellowships. She was well-traveled and had found some peace and security in a marriage with a man she dearly loved. But she knew damn little about the disease that we shared. I, on the other hand, am no genius, but had checked-out every book in the library. Information is power.
So we became each other's support system. Each in our own kitchen, separated by distance, united by a phone, smoking cigarette after cigarette. She had secrets that she dare not share. This always troubled me. I, on the other hand, called it as I see it or feel it. Sometimes words and insights just escape unedited from my mind.They will either make you laugh, shock you or piss you off. She usually laughed after I shocked her. What had become of us? Where were we going? And who cares? We had more questions than answers. We had a common history and still do.
That last conversation, before she slashed herself on vacation, made me uneasy. I had come to know her as much as she'd let me and at that stage in her life, it was closer than most. I had cautioned and warned her that she was playing with dynamite. But she wanted to recapture her feelings and romanticized the previous elevated episodes.
In the end, she had gone off her medication. She told me she had done so. Treatment wasn't going so well with her. The meds interfered with passion, appetite and sexuality. This is common among those of us with psychiatric disorders. I've said it before, 98% of people go off their medication. Hers is another cautionary tale.
"We are as sick as our secrets." That's what they say in AA. Troll a meeting, say you are bipolar and are looking for a good doctor. Betcha leave with a name. One is blessed to find a doctor who "gets you". It will be one of the most important relationships in your life. Excellent psychiatrists are hard to find.
I respect her and love her to this day. How could I not? She was a young, loving, beautiful and kind spirit. I miss her very much.
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