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Prophecy Six Blog

Sharing My Unedited Writing Experiences & Life Experiences.

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suicide

Thinking Thursdays: Depression, Suicide and Writers (TW)

Hello World Out There World!

I am going to start off with stating that there is a Trigger Warning for this post. We will be discussing depression, suicide, and mental health in this post which may bother some of you or affect some of you. With that said, you have been warned.

The discussion below is a combination of two questions I was asked to answer during an author’s interview a few weeks back for Serious Reading and I thought that sharing some of what we discussed would be both something different and give you my view on these issues. If you want to read more of my interest with Serious Reading CLICK HERE.

All right, now that that is out of the way – let’s begin:

Writers are permanently depressed; how true is that?

I can see how some people would believe that. There are writers that have written about their depression or have become victims of suicide. Many of the greats we study today were depressed, or suffered from some mental health issues. But, just as there are writers that suffer from permanent depression there are those that have never and will never suffer from a mental health disorder.

To answer your question, I don’t think it is true because it depends on the writer and every writer is different.

Personally, I’ve struggled with depression and anxiety. The important part was that I recognized the problem and got help. I spoke with people that helped me find ways to cope with my mental health but there are those out there that never seek help or never require the help they need.

Being aware of your mental health and looking for ways of educating yourself or getting help with managing your mental health is important. It saddens me that in a time where we have so much knowledge we have yet to really approach the subjects of mental health.

Sure, there are brief mentions of it when we lose someone famous we admire to suicide. Their loss sparks a short discussion but there is so much we as a society need to do to change the way we think about mental health.

 

Poets and writers in general, have a reputation of committing suicide; in your opinion, why is that the case?

I think poets and writers are empathetic people that are tuned into the world. That could be both a good thing and a bad thing. The good out of being one with the world is that you see the beauty and the potential it holds. You catch the connections between people or the environment and find ways of creating that emotional connection through words. Many writers (Shakespeare, Poe, Wolfe, Bronte) all have a way of putting humanity in their works and painting this world that is so close to our own while still giving us a sense of disconnect. This is a talent some have naturally, while for others – like myself – work at building.

The bad part about being connected to the world is that you see the horrific truths many aren’t aware of. You catch sight of the darkness in people and some writers even confront the darkness within themselves. Everyone has demons that whisper in the back of their minds nasty realizations, but writers tap into those whispers and sometimes don’t have the strength to stop listening. It is at that point that writers can’t see that beauty but instead see the world in a tainted light where only pain and suffering thrive.

I think every writer/person is able to deal with the negatives in different ways. Some are able to find ways back to the rose tinted glasses world that the majority of society lives in, while others aren’t so lucky. It’s those unlucky ones that don’t see hope and don’t have the strength to pull themselves out… who think they’re alone… that add to the reputations that writers/ poets generally commit suicide.

I want to know what you think.

Do you agree with my answers to these questions? Do you disagree? If you disagree, tell me why. I would love to get a discussion started in the comments down below. 🙂

Today Marks One Year

Hello World Out There World!

About a month ago I wrote this around the anniversary of my mother’s – wait… she hated how I called her mother – mom’s death. I was hesitant to post it unsure how my readership would react, but since I want to be honest with all of you and show you the true me I think it best to share with you how it feels after one year after losing someone that formed my world and was a big part of who I am today. This is free writing, which means I did not edit I just let my train of thought take me wherever it wanted to go. I wanted this to be as pure as possible even though my emotions may have gotten the better of me at some parts. Forgive me for that…

So, without delay here is Today Marks One Year:

It feels like years some days and just yesterday on others. There is a piece of me that breaks whenever I see a mother and daughter laughing together. A part of me pings with jealousy when I listen to a conversation on how a daughter will have their mother for their wedding or for their first child. I feel angry when I overhear a daughter ignore or insult their mother because they will have the time to make up for it.

You always will think you will have time to make up for it. You will always think there will never be a time you won’t have her there to support you, to love you, to laugh with you. You will always have that time until you don’t.

Today marks one year.
One year since I lost my best friend, my biggest support, and my selfless protector.

I will forever remember the moment my heart was ripped out of my chest. That all those walls that had protected me for all those years crumbled leaving me to stand alone amongst the rubble to rebuild from the pieces left behind. It is not easy. It will never be easy to take the memories that had brought you so much joy that now make you collapse into a pile of sobbing tears. The memories that made you laugh and in some way still do while your eyes water when you realize that you won’t be making new memories with her.

Time will pass, the pain will fade but there will be moments where there will come overwhelming emotions you didn’t know you could feel.

They said I would hate her. They said I would be angry.
Maybe one day I will be.

Maybe one day when I’m standing at the alter saying ‘I do’, I will have that pinch of anger that she wasn’t there to help me get into my dress or give me advice that all mothers give to their daughters on their special day. Maybe one day when I have gone through hours of labor and I’m holding my little one in my arms, I will have a ping on anger that she isn’t there to help me like she promised she would be. But right now, right at this moment a year from the day she left me I can’t hate her.

I cannot be angry.

It wasn’t her that took her life but the demons that kept her awake at night. It wasn’t her that took her from me but the thoughts that she would never be herself again. She believed she was a terrible mother. She was convinced that her illness was destroying us. She believed ending it all because that was the only way she could be at peace. She is gone because of the lies that filled her head from the whispers of the monsters that we couldn’t see, from the demons the doctors didn’t believe were real, and from the fears she never expressed because of the way society views mental health.

Today marks one year since my mother died.

How easy it is to be so quickly defined by one actions. You could be a famous comedian, a musician, a government official, a mother… but what you only hear about is their death. My mother was creative – she could turned stockings and wire coat hangers into fairy wings without a template. She was selfless – always trying to find a way to better the world and the people in it either through volunteering or helping a single mother at the place where she worked. She loved nature – let it be hiking, swimming, or just spending the day out in the garden. She was a great mother – fighting against the school for my education, giving up all her free time to ensure I had a well-rounded/ event filled childhood with dancing, soccer, swimming, horseback riding, and summer camps. She read to me every night, taught me the importance of being myself and allowed me to explore the world always knowing if I needed her she would be there.

Today marks one year since my mother was a victim of mental illness but her illness won’t be what I will remember about her.

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