How Do People Take Their Own Life?

Everyday I drive to work over a long bridge. Usually, I hear of someone taking their life off this bridge once or twice a month. I often wonder how people get to that point. I have a friend who is a single mom and she is battling Cancer. She would do anything to not be ill and miss work. She is about to begin chemo and she will be most definitely weak and miserable. How can someone who doesn’t have Cancer just go to a bridge and take their life? How can they not see how lucky they are? I understand depression and suffering. I know that feeling of desperation. You are in a place where you are in pain whenever your eyes are open. I guess depression is mental cancer. It eats away at your body and takes over. You lose your appetite. You don’t care about anything. You are desperate for relief. Now, I get it. Do you?

Hearing and Seeing My Mother, In Me.

Since my mother has died, I have spent my life trying to find someone or something that gave me comfort and solace. The feeling only a mother could provide. You know, “that everything is going to be okay” feeling. It is very hard to get through life once you have felt that way and then have had it ripped away from you.

The past few months, when I speak, I hear my mother’s voice. Not something she would have said, but her actual voice. I sound like her. It’s terrifying, but also soothing…if that makes any sense. Sometimes I’m afraid to speak, as I don’t know if her voice will come out. I’ve also noticed that I’m starting to look like her, as I remember her. I was putting on my make up, and I saw her face staring at me. Another terrifying moment. I never imagined anything like this would happen. I’ve been to many psychic mediums, and I’ve prayed and asked for signs. This has propelled me into a “re-grieving” stage as my therapist says. I don’t buy it. I don’t think we ever end grieving. We just live with it, in pain…like a tumor. We find ways to work around it, even though it’s always there. Some days it hurts and we can’t take tolerate the pain, so we cry and scream. Other days, it’s manageable.

Depression is Work

I don’t choose to be depressed. I list out all of the things I’m thankful for. I’ve had a rough life, but I always remind myself it could be a lot worse. Anytime someone asks me “Why are you depressed?” I feel like slapping them. You don’t need a reason to be depressed. Do you ask people “Why do you have diabetes?” No, you don’t! You don’t ask, because it’s not something they could control. They didn’t ask to be sick. I didn’t ask to be depressed. It just happens.

Weekends are a time where I can act like my true self. I don’t have to get dressed, put on make up, and pretend I’m happy. I can stay in bed all day. It’s exhausting to get yourself through the day when you’re so down. Depression is more work. First, I have to talk myself into getting out of bed. Then I have to talk myself into getting ready. When I get to work, I have to convince myself to do work, and “act” happy. No one can know how miserable I am. Even if they did, it would not change how I felt. So, the weekends are a time when I can just be, depressed. I don’t have to fight it.

In Hiding

The neighborhood that I grew up in was and still is predominately white. Everyone was white, catholic and Irish and/or Italian. We weren’t. I guess that’s what made me start to hide our realities, starting at a very young age. Our reality was poverty. We were on welfare. We received Medicaid and food stamps. My mother was mentally ill. She needed massive amounts of medication to function. My father was so angry and bitter about their divorce that he did not provide her with much child support. It was difficult for my mother to maintain a job. We were Jewish, but my mother loved Christmas, so we celebrated that, maybe she was into hiding too?

How did we hide? I would clean our entire apartment. I would organize and redecorate. I would spend my babysitting money on anything to improve our apartment: new curtains, tiles, artwork, paint, and more. I would hide all of my mother’s pills. I would drape a blanket over the couch and arrange our throw pillows. I staged a “normal” home. I made our outside look “normal” too. I’d make my mom bring me to buy flowers, bushes, and gardening supplies. Then, I would spend hours gardening. I started “staging” our life when I was 9 years old. Have you ever seen a 9 year old use hedge cutters? I did.

This facade wasn’t just physical. I would lie when anyone inquired about my religion. I would insist that my mother was catholic and my father was Jewish. My mother didn’t care, she was so depressed and anxious, she’d do anything I told her to do. She knew I meant well. Keeping up this facade, was so exhausting. I didn’t have time to be a child.

I’ve only admitted to myself recently, even after I put myself through Catholic religious classes and received sacraments, that I am actually Jewish.

I’m not sure I have a religion, but I’m happy I was finally able to admit who I really am, 35 years later. I’m done hiding.

Bad Week

I wish I could have written more this week, but it’s been rough. I’ve been crying for no reason, practically on cue. I Googled, and it’s a symptom of my severe depression. Someone gave me a compliment the other day and I cried in the car. I thought about how far I’ve come, how I’ve had to do everything on my own, and how I’m actually proud of myself. I thought about how I had the task of “raising” my mother. I thought about how I tried to hide her mental illness. How I spent my first paycheck, on re tiling our kitchen floor, so that it looked like we lived in a “normal” house. How I hid in a corner when she paid with food stamps at the grocery store. I thought about how we hid that we were Jewish. It made me cry to think about all of these obstacles I had battled and overcame, and how I received a compliment, a really nice compliment. Something I wasn’t used to receiving. So I cried.

What is the theme?

If you want to write a memoir about your life, you should choose a theme. I reflected on my life, and pulled some themes: Strength, independence, perseverance, be yourself-which led me to: You Only Need You. As I think about all of the struggles of my life, that is the theme. How did I overcome loss, heartache, poverty, abuse? Myself. So, You only need you will be the theme of this blog, and maybe eventually my memoir. What is the theme of your life?