You never know what someone else is going through. An acquaintance of mine committed suicide, in an extremely violent manner, two nights ago. I had spoken with her for a short time Monday and had no clue that she was in that kind of pain. She had committed suicide within 36 hours of speaking with me, and I had no clue!
Even with perfect hindsight, I cannot put description of suicidal behavior on her actions. Her mask was perfect. Which is why I am so ashamed and why I am so angry. I remember putting on that mask before I left the house.; the difference between the two (her mask and mine) relegated to purely physical. Most human beings, when approached by a person with a neutral, frowning, or smiling face, friend or foe, will gravitate to the person with the smiley face. Why? My guess is, everyone walks around depressed most of the time, and smiley faces (ours or theirs) tend to convince us that we're happy.
My shame comes from the belief that as a chronic, clinically depressed person, I should have recognized her face as a mask. Which is ridiculous considering that I spoke with her as a person within the context of work, and was considered the same. She did not see me as a potential friend, a fellow traveller in depression, or anyone of significance in her life. And she was right.
She did not and could not see me as a potential friend because her mind would not be able to comprehend that anyone would want to have her as a friend. She did not see nor define me as a fellow traveller because my mask was as complex and perfect as was hers. And I was not, would never be, significant in her life because no one was.
Which is where my anger comes in.
How dare she make the decision that her death was more important than her life! How dare she make it clear that other people (friends, family) hold no significance in her life. She has chosen to dismiss everyone in her life and relegate them to secondary or tertiary importance. The height of narcissistic behavior.
Which is when I feel shame again. This time redefining the nature of depression. 'Cause remember, I was depressed before I was born. I had gone through depression and self-hatred; I went through cancer, for god's sake!; I had been through and felt what she had been through and felt. But not really.
I don't know the specific origin of the emotional response that drove her to suicide. While I may have had an emotional response, I did not have the same emotional response. How do I know? I am not dead. She is.
Which is totally the point: none of us knows what is going on in someone else's mind and heart. Annette killed herself for her own reasons. I can't even begin to discuss, or begin to wonder at the self-hatred necessary for the violence she performed on her own body.
I am sorry that she is dead. Now I will never have the chance to know her. And I feel cheated.