We Don't Know What We Don't Know

I don't understand.  I've never been clinically depressed so I don't understand.  Relatives?  Yes.  Friends?  Definitely.  Celebrities?  Too many to count.  So when I hear that someone I and the world loves takes his own life,  no matter how much I want to, I don't understand.

By every account, he gave joy to everyone, everywhere he went.  So who could have known what was buried within?  Such is the way depression presents itself so often:  the afflicted does his or her best to bury it, so no one knows - and can you blame them?  "Ah, just do something that makes you happy."  "Take a happy pill."  "C'mon, snap out of it."  In talking to a friend who suffers from this very real condition, these are only some of the things she's heard so of course she is going to bury it.  I would too.

But I, luckily and maybe against all odds, have never had to do that.  I, luckily and maybe against all odds, don't suffer from depression so I don't understand.  I want to, I desperately want to understand so that in at least some tiny way, I can help.  

I'll never forget that day at Linfield.  I was standing on my porch when my best friend arrived home next door after a weekend at home with his family.  He was visibly upset and when I approached him, he broke into tears and told me they had found his grandfather who had taken his own life.  All I could do was hold my friend and wonder why the old man didn't tell anyone, and why, after so many years, did he chose to do it then and mostly, why, why did he chose to do it in such a violent way and in full visibility so that when his son and family drove up his driveway, he was the first thing they saw?  I remember being so mad at him for creating such pain in my friend.  It made me think of my own grandfather who I never knew.  When he died by self-inflicted gunshot, there was a years-long investigation as to whether it was a gun-cleaning accident or if, in fact, he chose to take his own life.  No one will ever know.

Since then, though, I've known the people who have suffered.  I've cried with them, I've held them, I've done everything in my power to help.  But it's not something someone like me, programmed to fix things, can take away.  It is so frustrating to not be able to help, and I feel actual anger when my friends hold back because they "don't want to bother me."   Well goddammit, I may not understand but I want them to bother me. I'll come over and crawl into bed with them and hold them.  I'll cook for them.  I'll make sure their bodies are nourished and their pets are fed and their house is cleaned and their physical life is taken care of.  

Because I don't know what I would do if one died at his or her own hand if there were even an inkling of a possibility that I could have helped.  

We, everyone, are LOVED and needed, I promise.  And not just by me, I guarantee it.  I know sometimes it is hard to fathom that one amazing bit of information but it is true.  And I don't make promises I can't keep.

I know this is disjointed.  It is just like the disease of depression, of that I am sure: thoughts in and around, not knowing where to go - but with help, maybe, just maybe, it will all begin to make sense.

Rest in Peace, Mr. Williams.