A year ago Brent and I went to Disneyland to see the brief return of the Electric Light Parade. I had loved it when I was a little kid but Brent had never seen it. To me it's iconic Disney and I wanted to share the love with him. He's a good sport and wants to do things that make me happy so we went. It was a whirlwind trip. A day and a half in the parks just to see one parade. And to shop for sparkly Disney shirts. It was great.
When I'm on vacation my phone is tucked away in a pocket and brought out for a quick picture here and there. I'm not in touch with my friends like I am when I'm at home. I'm not aware of what is happening. I'm out of the loop. And sometimes that means I miss things.
When our plane landed in Portland I checked in "safely home" and started to read my Facebook feed. Then my messages. And the picture of what I had missed started to fill in. My friend's husband had died. I was still on the plane when it filtered through. When what I was seeing reached the understanding part of my brain. My hand went up to my mouth, my eyes filled with tears and the words that came out where, "the kids, oh my god, the kids are so young." Brent got concerned, then filled in. I just couldn't wrap my brain around it. He was so young. What had happened?
As more and more details started to come out I realized that he had lost his battle with depression. A few days later Jo made a post confirming that was the case. I hadn't even realized he was sick and suffering. Because that's the deal with depression, it gives you a few faces to look at. What I saw when I looked at Ian was a devoted family man. A supportive husband really picking up the slack that happens in a two parent household when one goes back to school. A dad who glowed with his kids. A partner who loved his wife completely. Half of a couple who were surprised, for sure, by their tag-a-long-Charlie baby to go with their two older children, but overjoyed at her as well. This was the picture I saw. And it was completely accurate. He was all of those things. But he also was battling that bastard of a disease depression.
And depression lies. It tells you that all of those things aren't real. And that you don't deserve them even if they were. And so many other horrific things. It's your brain turning against you the way your body does with cancer. And sometimes, just like with cancer, you don't win the battle. And it's devastating.
My attitude about suicide has changed over the past decade. Before that my belief was strictly in the it's a selfish choice to make area. I will admit that. My grandfather killed himself. He was an alcoholic who would stage suicide attempts for attention and one time misjudged the timing. My sister's father-in-law at the time killed himself on the day of my wedding. He did it by drug overdose so it's still unclear if it was on purpose or accidental. Which then gave my brother-in-law the excuse to get coked up for the wedding and make his usual round of inappropriate suggestions. Not being a fan of him anyway, and being 18 my thoughts were more about my wedding than his loss. I will admit to that. It wasn't my finest moment. But again, I was 18 and he was an asshole of the highest order.
So my feelings around suicide were tied to drug and alcohol abuse. Which they often are because a lot of drug and alcohol abuse is tied to self medicating depression. Something I wasn't aware of when I was younger. Now that I am I had to revisit my feelings about suicide. Was it selfish or was it an act of desperation to make the pain stop?
I believe in death with dignity laws. I believe that if you are ill and not going to get better you should be able to end your own life by your own choice. Why didn't I feel this way about depression?
And, to be perfectly honest, I'm not 100% of the way there. I still hate when depression claims someone like this. Because I want it to be treatable. I want the battle to be winnable. And it so often is. I hate the giving up of hope that has to happen for someone to do this. To think the pain will not go away. Because depression lies. You can't trust what your brain is telling you. It's a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Except when you can't trust that it's temporary and it feels like it's forever. Depression is a dark hallway with no sign of an exit. Until you find one. And I always hold out the hope that everyone suffering will find the exit that leads to life, not an end.
Jo hates it when people tell her how strong she has been this past year. Because she knows she hasn't always felt strong. She's broken down. She's cried more tears than she probably ever thought she could make. She misses him like part of her is gone. Because part of her is gone. And I would guess that she also hates it when people tell her that she is strong because the implication is that he wasn't.
And he was.
So goddamn strong.
People who suffer from depression on a daily basis are heroic. Their brains are fighting them constantly. Their very existence is narrated by a voice either telling them how worthless they are or how they need to be careful because joy is temporary and the dark days are just waiting around the corner. While the rest of us are walking down the street they are slogging through quicksand. It's a challenge on a monthly, weekly, daily, hourly basis to just exist. When you cannot trust your own thoughts, what can you trust? And Ian lived with that. For years. He was a superman in the strength department, if you ask me.
This past year has been the worst of the firsts for Jo and her kids. The year we all suffer through when a loved one dies. The first holidays without them. The first anniversary of their death. And through it all she has reflected out at the world how much they loved each other. What they built together. The family that still holds him in their hearts when they no longer can hold him in their arms. She hates to be called strong, but she is. And the kids are. And inspiring. We go on; even when we don't want to.
And to top off the year of the worst of the first, she has had to deal with the public world not knowing how to talk to her about her loss. Because we don't know how to talk about suicide. Not really. If he had died in a car accident, or from a physical illness we would all have safer areas to speak from. But he didn't. He died from a mental illness. So Jo has had to deal with people who didn't know what to say. How to express their grief for her and the kids. She has had insensitive (dare I say moronic) comments from people and counselors who should know better, alike. I sent her articles to read. It's what I do. Reading information makes me feel better. So I gave her what I would have wanted. And that's really the best we can do. Help where we can.
Today, one year and one day after Ian's death is Project Semicolon day. Project Semicolon brings awareness and help to mental illness and suicide prevention. The semicolon is a reminder that your story doesn't have to end; you can keep going. If you would, please consider making a donation to the project today. Because we all need a little help being strong sometimes.
Help where you can.
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