Archive for Suicide

Revelations and Closure? Maybe…

Posted in Love with tags , , , , , , on April 27, 2010 by Sara Lilly

I’ve already spoken about my emotional baggage. I’m seeing a therapist for complicated grief. Anyway, she told me the most amazing thing yesterday,

“It’s okay to be angry.”

After my friend killed himself, I was angry. Furious. But everyone told me, “You shouldn’t be angry, no. He’s dead, we have to remember him. Don’t be angry.” So I wasn’t. I grieved and I praised him and I missed him and I loved him.

“There’s this thing in our culture where we idolize those who have died,” my therapist said. “Someone can be a drug addicted wife beater and when he dies, people will still cry at his funeral and talk about how much of a wonderful person he was. Who’s to say we can’t be mad?”

So I went on a rant. This is it:

Dear friend,

I am pissed off. Why? You left me. Get that? You bailed. This world sucks, I know, I’m living it. We were all sixteen–you think we didn’t have issues? You think it wouldn’t have been just as easy to die instead of sticking it out? You abandoned me. You hurt me. You wrecked me. You ruined a part of me and tainted the best memories I have of high-school. You made me feel guilty. You made her cry everyday for a year. Your dying was a final, “FUCK YOU!” and I am MAD for that.

So when I die and I see you, I will punch you in the face. Afterwards, I’ll hug you cause you’re still my friend and we’ll play cards like we used to when we were sixteen.

Love always,

Me.

God that feels so good. It’s okay to be angry.

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The Tragic Artist

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on April 12, 2010 by Sara Lilly

One of my favorite sites is SoulPancake (soulpancake.com). I submitted a question on the site about a year ago, regarding why so many incredible artists succumb to drugs and/or suicide. I’ll sort of reiterate the whole of the question here.

I discuss the topic of artistry with one of my best friends a lot. We decided we both find artistic men extremely attractive. Any kind of artist–a writer, musician, actor (a legitimate one, really) painter. Why? Because they don’t give a shit. Artists are so independent minded and so in tune with their own selves and souls that they couldn’t give a crap what other people think about them. Excuse the liberal speech but that’s so sexy.

I find real artists brilliant. They see things no one else does, and are able to bring those hidden truths to full focus in their work. They reveal the mysteries of humanity and decipher age old dilemmas in 5 minute songs.

Consider the brief list of  actors, writers, musicians and painters who have either killed themselves deliberately or drugged themselves (accidentally) to death: Ernest Hemingway, Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, Jimi Hendrix, Michael Jackson, River Phoenix, Heath Ledger, Marilyn Monroe and etc. Add to the list the amount of artists who have struggled with addiction and/or depression and the list is enormous.

None of the aforementioned artists were just okay. They were Oscar nominated, critically acclaimed, prize-winning, and in some cases, legends.

My best friend and I came up with this theory: If artists have already understood themselves through the creation of their work, and have already revealed so many things that are difficult for others to show–aren’t they bored? What’s more is, how can they relate to others who don’t possess that same kind of awareness? Wouldn’t they feel lonely?

I think too much don’t I?

Emotional Baggage

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on April 9, 2010 by Sara Lilly

When I was in talks with the lovely 28-year-old that I’ve previously mentioned, we exchanged our “emotional baggage.” It’s what everyone should go through at the start of a relationship–All right, give me the 411 on all your problems so I know what to expect and what I’m getting myself into. Here’s mine:

I lost a friend to suicide when I was fifteen. His death wrecked me. It knocked me down with a wave of shock, and I’ve been struggling to get up since. I’ve managed to trek my feet along and move on with my life, but I’m seeing a psychologist weekly for traumatic grief therapy. I’m pretty normal though: I’m on the Dean’s List, I’m not a loner, I don’t drink alcohol and I don’t do drugs. Every now and then I cry my eyes out and I think about him every day.

Some days I wonder what I would be if he never died. What would I be if this burden was lifted from my shoulders? If I had a clear mind, if guilt didn’t engulf me, if I never missed someone so desparately and passionately?

My best friends know the memories of four years ago still haunt me. My mom gets it a bit. No one else though. I’m just me. It’s funny–because I seem to have no understanding of the person I was before his death. I have nothing in common with that girl. It’s like she was a different person. I wonder how people still recognize me.