This is a picture of an old, favorite Kate Spade bag. It has taken me on many every day adventures- the gym, a board review course, the beach, friends’ homes for dinner. I bought this bag long before she sold the company, and I like to imagine she (Kate Spade) had something directly to do with it.
As much as I cherish the bag, I know it is a bag and ultimately replaceable. A mother is not replaceable, nor is a daughter, sister, or wife (nor a father, son, brother, or husband, for that matter). No person is replaceable, not even a designer with a whole brand - or two- to her name; nor is anyone expendable to everyone. There is someone somewhere who cares, someone for whom our existence really matters. I believe this is true.
And now, Anthony Bourdain, who was a man who seemed to live his life in search of and finding wonder.
I am sad this week.
For some tragic reason, Kate Spade, Anthony Bourdain, and how many others(?) lost that knowledge over these recent days. Perhaps they never actually had a grasp on it. Death’s deep dive into the nothingness of the abyss held more appeal than living.
I have stood at the edge of that abyss; I know its draw and allure. Standing at the edge and hearing that final silence behind the “you will never be ____ enough” and the impossibility of ever measuring up makes simply taking that next step seem to hold the promise of relief from the constant cacophony of criticism and shame. Standing there at the edge, peering down into the nothingness, and knowing stepping off means conclusion and closure, it becomes a kind of farewell to this now impossible life. Stepping off is an expression of profound hopelessness and resignation. It is also, quite simply, a way to end the pain.
Twenty-five years ago, I would sit on the balcony of my 8th floor apartment in the Ashley House on Lockwood Boulevard and wonder what it would feel like to hit the pavement. I wondered if I could be brave enough to find out. I was not. I was unsure whether it would be enough of a fall and too chicken act on my longing. Some part of me was clearly not ready to die; another part too afraid of not dying to attempt it.
It was a hollow time. I was lonely and desperate and hungry for relief, silently screaming my pain. My world and imagined future were shattered. I couldn’t find hope as I moved through the days, both dreading and longing for the cover of night so I could sit on the balcony, despondent and broken and yearning for the peace of the end but never quite brave enough to actually jump.
Yes. Brave. I’ve said that twice now. I think it does take bravery to act in such a final way. It takes bravery to die alone, to go through with such a permanent act. In that space, suicide can even seem selfless. A friend explained the “fatal trilogy” as this:
1. I am alone.
2. I am a burden.
3. I am not afraid to die.
Twenty five years ago, I was afraid of not dying, and that kept me safe for the moment; safe enough I continued to limp through the days. Time did pass, and with it the unbearable heaviness lightened. Therapy helped. Exercise helped. A few true and good friends helped. I would not admit a need for medication for many more years, but now never miss a dose. Twenty-five years ago, I was afraid of not dying. Today, while I am not afraid of death, I know I am not alone; I trust I am not too much a burden.
I am sad over Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain. I am so sorry they felt they had to go, and I am troubled by the rise in suicide rates across our country. I am also encouraged by all the talk about it. Four years ago, we, as a nation, were heartbroken over Robin William’s death by suicide, but we were less ready to discuss it in the open.
Suicide is present in thought, feeling, and even progress all around us. It is impossible to know just how many of us are directly affected by it in some way. Perhaps acknowledging this reality might urge us on to a more compassionate way of speaking and relating with one another. Isn’t that what the world needs now?
Get free help now: Text CONNECT to 741741 in the United States.
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255
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