There have been two prominent suicides in the headlines this week – prominent because the names attached to them have been celebrities. The word prominent means important, so the word is problematic to me. Because, yes, their suicides are important – but it’s the lives behind the suicides — and all the others that have occurred this week, this year, this lifetime —that are truly important. And as a society, we have failed them all.
I have never had a Kate Spade bag – indeed, I’ve never spent more than several dozen dollars on my purses. I’m a schoolteacher, after all. I can’t afford that kind of luxury. I’ve been in one of her shops – an outlet shop at that – precisely one time. I really didn’t know that much about her… just about her bags. (Even in an outlet, those bags were way out of my league.)
Anthony Bourdain, on the other hand… I knew him well. Well enough to call him Tony… when I saw him… on TV. Which means, I guess I really didn’t know him at all, despite being a devoted follower. I adored his irreverence, his passion for the “F” word, his bawdy, unshaven charisma. He made me laugh; he made me want to try bone marrow (I will. It will still happen.); and he never made me feel out of his league.
Both these celebrities left young daughters behind. And that fact hit me really hard. Because while they are not as young as the Spade and Bourdain girls, I too have daughters And I love them so incredibly much. So much so that I would face demons and slay dragons if I had to in order to protect them.
But Spade and Bourdain faced dragons they couldn’t slay. They could no longer face their demons. And that tells me that the darkness they felt was way beyond anything I could ever possibly comprehend. And that terrifies me.
Because one of my beautiful daughters struggles with demons of her own.
She struggles with depression. She struggles valiantly. She struggles openly. Nevertheless, she struggles. And despite the national and international dialogue that has recently opened with regard to mental health, a stigma still exists. And so she struggles with stigma, too.
My oldest daughter is a fifth year surgical resident in one of the most competitive, prestigious surgery programs in the nation. She is beautiful. She is bold. She is successful.
She is smart. She is kind. She is important.
And despite all of these things, she is struggling… with feelings of inadequacy, of worthlessness, of hopelessness. She feels incapable and unlovable in this harsh, often unforgiving world. Not all the time. But often. And all alone.
And even though I her see brilliance and worth – even though I know how far she is from inadequate and hopeless and incapable and unlovable, I can’t help her see it. Because when she is inside that darkness, when those demons are commanding her mind, she sees nothing else. And that terrifies me.
Being a surgical resident can be isolating and debilitating. These young doctors work themselves to the point of mental and physical exhaustion. The schedules, the expectations, the demands that are put upon them are unforgiving
And the stakes are so high. Life and death rest in their hands – literally. Surgery can be debilitating for both patient and surgeon. It can ruin lives and it can end lives — on both sides of the scalpel.
Surgical residents have one of the highest suicide rates in the nation. Competition within the field isolates individuals. Everyone is jostling for accolades, for fellowships, for attending acknowledgements, and for attending positions.
In no other place in her life has my girl ever felt so very disconnected.
And what makes her situation even more complex is the relationship she has with her occupation. Love-Hate would be an understatement. She loves her job. She feels tremendous pride in her program and her abilities. The operating room is her wheelhouse and her respite. She is cloistered there. Time stops there. Her destiny unfolds there. She feels no pain; only passion. She feels one with her mind and her body and soul. Her hands are trained; her skills are seamless; her mind is taut.
But when she steps away from the cocoon of that OR, all the demons are back at her door. Howling.
It’s comparable to an unhealthy, abusive relationship. It builds her up. It knocks her down. The highs are super high. The lows… indescribably low. And the constant push-pull of it all wreaks havoc on her mental health.
As a mother, this breaks my heart and causes me endless worry.
I know she struggles. But thankfully, her program knows it too. She has not kept it secret. She advocates for herself and for others who may be feeling the same.
She helps lead a wellness committee for fellow residents, working to promote healthy scheduling and healthy dialogue between administration and her peers.
She tutors adult GED students every Tuesday night at a local library, connecting with people outside the research lab and operating room, spreading love and hope even as she so often feels neither.
She is a member of a book club, connecting with colleagues both socially and cognitively on issues more abstract than tissue and tumor.
Most importantly, she has seen a counselor – a mental health provider who has given her tools and techniques to fight the good fight.
Yes, my daughter works hard to stave off the demons, to grapple the dragon, to defeat the disease. As a mother, I would fight it all for her if I could. But I cannot. It is all hers to slay.
And my daughter is capable. I know that. She is kind and loving and genuine-hearted. She is capable and strong and talented and tender.
I just pray every day that she sees it too. That she can see through the darkness.
Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain could not.
People with everything can find themselves feeling depleted and defeated. Suicide knows no demographic. It knows no bounds.
Talk to your loved ones. Acknowledge your loved ones. Make sure they know you see them and you get them. Love on your loved ones. And then make sure they get the help that they need.
Unfortunately, getting help isn’t easy. Because the help they need is usually not covered by health insurance. And that is absolutely unacceptable. And that is just one way society has failed those battling with depression and anxiety. And that refusal helps fuel the stigma.
The stigma that if you battle depression you are weak. If you suffer from anxiety you are not strong.
But the tide of public opinion continues to shift. We can help break down the stigma and shame — by sharing our stories.
This weekend, countless celebrities took to social media speaking out and recounting their own struggles, hoping to show others that they are not alone. There is strength in numbers. Help bring hope and recognition. Share your stories. Share your struggles. This blog is my attempt to help as well, small though my platform might be.
So to all you out there fighting the good fight and battling the dark beasts — keep fighting. Stay strong and stay brave.
My sister shared some wise words about bravery with me this weekend.Being brave is not what people think it is. People who are fearless are not brave. Its easy to battle something if there’s no fear involved. The truly brave individuals are those who are full of doubt and fear, but who battle through it anyway. That is the definition of bravery.
You are brave.
You are strong.
You are important.
If you need someone to talk to — you don’t have to be suicidal to call — reach out. Call the suicide hotline at 1-800-273-8255 .