Don’t tell me

Don’t tell me you care for me.  Clearly, you don’t.  Don’t tell me you feel my pain.  Cearly, you can’t.  Don’t say you will always be there for me.  Clearly, you won’t.

Words have power only when they convey truth — truth as it is, not as you wish it to be. So don’t say anything to me if your actions betray your words. If you must say these things to help you sleep at night, then say it to yourself, but spare me your idle words of support.  It hurts more to uncover a well-intentioned lie than to endure an unwelcome truth.

And, I am hurt. And, my wounds drip the will to live. And, I watch the gathering puddle as it slowly disappears into the ground below me.  And, as I sink into the mud, I think about how deep the bog has become, the innumerous drops needed to create such an inescapable pit, the countless bleeding wounds from which they spilled.

So, don’t tell me anything; simply show me what you feel.

The “S” word (Suicide)

Suicide.  There, I’ve said it.  You can try it to.  Trust me, it won’t kill you.  Nor will it kill the person with whom you associate it.  It’s just a word.  It has no special powers beyond the specific definition it encapsulates.  We hender acceptance of the disease when we use euphemisms such as “ended it all,” “gave up,” and (my personnal favorite) “took the cowards way out.”
The same goes for “depression,” “bi-polar,” “manic depression,” “suicidal,” “attempted suicide,” “mental health hospital,” etc.  These do not need to be exchanged for “feeling down,” “moody,” “mercurial” (although, that word is kind of cool), etc.

When we give the word special power to turn down eyes and stifle conversation, we give up on communication in the most direct and honest way.  No one ever says “heart disease” with a whisper and an anxious look around the room.  Consequently, we can talk openly about heart disease without fear of killing the party or being crossed off next year’s Christmas list.  Heart disease has been normalized as has tuberculosis, broken bones, and cancer.  Indeed, even spinal meningitis doesn’t carry the social stigma associated with “depression” and “suicide.”  Let’s say the words, let’s talk about the problem, let’s discuss the social and emotional implications, let’s get it out of the closet.

Altogether now:

“Suicide” it’s not such an evil word.
“Suicide” not the worst thing I’ve ever heard.
“Suicide” can kill you like a heart attack.
“Suicide” ignore it, but it’s coming back.

“Depression” it’s just another bad disease.
“Depression” say it over till you say it with ease.
“Depression” will get you if you don’t take care.
“Depression” it’s treatable, so don’t dispair.

Keep singing this until the words roll off your tongue.  The next person who calls to check on me had better say, “Hey, I heard you were suicidal.  How’s that going?  Have you found a good doctor yet?”  Well, for now I’ll settle for “Wow, suicide.  Man, that’s tough.  So … how about them Bears?!”