I was recently skimming my local bookstore and came across a book by Ted Hughes. I have a bit of a love/hate relationship with him. He is talented for sure, but I resent him a little. Why? Sylvia Plath’s suicide.
Sylvia committed suicide at 31. She put her two small children to bed, sealed off the kitchen, and proceeded to stick her head in the oven.
Sylvia suffered from severe clinical depression. Some say manic-depression, some will say bi-polar disorder. It doesn’t matter what kind, all that matters is that she suffered. She fought demons every single day.
Many say that suicide is selfish. While I certainly don’t believe it’s right, I still don’t believe it’s selfish. I’ve suffered from depression since age 4. That’s almost 25 years of dealing with mental illness. I’ve been all over the spectrum with different terms thrown at me. Anxiety, clinical depression, borderline personality disorder, and acute anorexia for a short time. Going through mental illness makes you stronger. Like I said, you fight demons every single day. Your mind is always active. Sometimes you don’t care about anything, sometimes you care too much. It’s hell. I’ve suffered. I’ve had plenty of friendships and relationships ruined from depression. “It’s all in your head, there are people that have it way worse.” There are moments where I had considered ending my life. I pushed people away, stopped taking medicine, stopped caring.
But now these deaths seem to be romanticized. People want a mental illness. Young girls think anxiety is cute. Self harm is edgy. They pick up a copy of The Bell Jar and think depression is the best way to get attention. It’s sick. I remember reading Hamlet and identifying with Ophelia. The poor girl went mad. She was mentally ill and killed herself. Some girls thought that was romantic. “She was in love.” Or the day Kurt Cobain died. People followed in his footsteps. Once I got to high school it was suddenly trendy. Nirvana was trendy. Suicidal thoughts were cool. They are not cool. My depression was real. Not trendy. I had a messed up childhood. I was abused. I lost my baby sister and watched my mother admit herself to the mental institution for depression. That was not cool. This was never a reach for attention. This was me, completely numb from my experiences.
I have so much respect for those that suffer. They are doing the best they can. I still have respect for those who decided to end their lives as well. Sometimes the most tortured souls produce the most beauty in this world. I know I will be forever grateful for the work Sylvia Plath produced. Everything she ever wrote seemed to hit a nerve in me. As well as Virginia Woolf and Ernest Hemingway, who both decided to die by their own hands.
I’m extremely grateful that I’ve been able to receive proper health care over the years and never hit the lowest point. I’m thankful to still be alive. I’m thankful to have the strength to always fight the demons and always have a purpose, a reason to live. Some don’t have that. Some do, but still can’t win the battle. Don’t judge those people. Don’t wish for a mental disorder. Don’t romanticize depression or suicide. Be kind to everyone, you never know what’s going on in their head.
That concludes my nonsensical ramblings about depression. Thank you for reading.