Sorry in taking so long in getting back — I think I’ve been really chewing over what you’ve said, and I won’t mince words: it’s because of what you said about you and your son. Because my head immediately went to one name, and I thought, do I wanna go there? Because that’s a HUGE can of worms, that’s the MOTHER of all worm cans, and really, this was Wendy’s experience, and this was enormously generous of her to share it, and what good can come from opening that GODDAMNED CAN?

Wendy, I’m opening the can.

“Andrea Yates.”

I think there’s something about being a depressive — maybe particularly about being a depressive woman — that gives you particular empathy toward the entire spectrum of mental illness. And years before I was either a mother *or* diagnosed with depression, I heard the story of Susan Smith and instantly thought, “You calculating, homicidal bitch,” and later the story of Andrea Yates and immediately thought, “You poor, sick woman.”

I’ve literally almost come to fisticuffs with my best friend over Andrea Yates, and he’s 6′4″ and I bruise easy, but I’d like to kill Russell Yates with my bare hands — the man who watched her endure postpartum depression and continued to insist she keep having babies, the man who told his brother (who then told Larry King on “Larry King Live”) that all depressed people needed (not unlike your in-laws) was “a swift kick in the pants” to get them motivated. My best girlfriend has suffered severe postpartum depression (as she’s mentioned on this thread) and it sounds like you’ve endured the same. You’re so fortunate you and your son escaped with your lives. . .

Thanks so much for contributing to the dialogue. It actually better helps me understand my friend Jennifer and a little bit of what she was going through during some very rough months, too. If only all women had the same level of support. . . !

Like CG, I have also battled depression. I have never done a stint in a hospital (thanks to the grace of God), but did at one point have a plan for not only taking out myself, but also taking my infant son with me (I wonder what that says about me. I couldn’t think of anyone else in that moment, yet I was also thinking that I couldn’t bear the thought of his going on without me).

Like you, I fight the social stigma attached to confessions of depression. My own family is fairly understanding (my father views it as no different than his diabetes – his body doesn’t produce enough of the normally adequate reserves of insulin, my body doesn’t produce enough of the normally adequate reserves of seratonin, thus we both must add what is right back to our bodies). My spouse’s family, on the other hand, are full out “what do you have to be depressed about? why can’t you just get up off your butt and do what you know you need to do?” Sadly, I’m a tremendous people pleaser and spend WAY TOO MUCH TIME trying to fit the mold they hold up for me.

I guess what I really want to say is thank you for the touching and honestly raw post. Plus, thank you for continuing the conversation about this problem. Although suicidal moments don’t often respond to the sense of the presence of others, the day-to-day struggle with depression does indeed seem less daunting when you know that others have been there.

Like CG, I can’t wait to delve into your blog further (and also to read any eventual novel you publish).

First, I probably should have emailed you with this stuff since I’ve created a very long post in your comments.

Second, I know Celeste would have loved David’s response. We all want our friends and family to remember us and smile. And if they laugh after we’re gone that’s a bonus.

Third, I answer comments and create a dialogue in the VIP Lounge (my comment section) like you do and I always feel obligated to be the last response in a thread.

But sometimes what the other person said is basically enough to end the conversation. What do you do in that case? I don’t want to seem rude but I think, at times, we’ve completed our conversation. You know what I mean?

And then in reverse, like here, I don’t want to leave you hanging, but it’s your space. So when you reply I feel a bit compelled to respond.

Oy, I probably need a bump in my Zoloft.

Carry on.

“That’s one of the things about suicide, it’s just a completely isolated act. It’s not about anyone else. It’s about stopping the pain that has become unbearable. At a time when outside contact was very important it was the last thing I wanted. It was too exhausting to even sit in a room with another person, much less interact. I wanted to be left alone. Just alone forever. I didn’t have it in me to even consider how anyone else felt.”

It’s encapsulating the isolation and emotional exhaustion of depression and magnifying it a thousandfold. I’ve been extraordinarily low before, curled in a fetal position in endless tears, but I’ve never come close to taking my own life; your words truly crack a much-needed window into the suicidal mind.

Thank you so much for relating your story, and good god, perhaps we *all* would’ve been suicidal; it was the perfect storm of awful, and I’m so sorry for your series of losses. . . And begging pardon, I also want to punch your father (not to mention your priest) in the face; it’s exactly those attitudes — that people “choose” to be depressed — that keep the shame and stigma of it burning so fiercely. Firstly, depression is a chemical imbalance — a chronic illness often no less debilitating than MS or Alzheimer’s, and for some people just as fatal. Secondly, you were responding to a grave and grievous situation — the impending deaths of your mother and brother, a callous brother-in-law and blind sister, an advantage-taking priest and the uprooting of your children — in the APPROPRIATE MANNER: with expressions of your grief and loss and confusion, with sorrow and tears. Had you responded any other way, well, wouldn’t *that* have been the real definition of mental illness?

Thank you so much for sharing this. I feel like it’s given me a truer glimpse into Celeste’s mindset at the end, and greater certainty of her determination to see this through, no matter what any of us had done.

Or, as Jillian said at the memorial, “I do take some solace that she left this world like her idol, Marilyn Monroe…”

(Leading David John to lean over to me and whisper, “She was killed by THE KENNEDYS??!!” And trust me David, right then Celeste burst out laughing too. . .)

I had a lot of weird shit happening for a couple of years that sort of snowballed until it became a lot of weird shit hurtling at me, one right after the other, within a six month period.

It truly was a bunch of stressful life experiences that kept building into a fever pitch.

In the beginning of 2007 two long-term things were in place. My brother has MS and had been bedridden and paralyzed for about ten years. My mother has end stage Alzheimer’s and back then she was roughly Stage 6. My sister’s husband tried to start an affair with me the year before.

My sister blew it off as no big deal, my therapist told my husband and I to keep it quiet for fear of creating a huge rift in the family. So I was keeping that secret and trying to avoid family gatherings where they would be present.

In the middle of 2007 I started to crash from Paxil. It just stopped working for me and that did not help matters.

Toward the end of 2007 my brother had a feeding tube and a permanent catheter put in. I ran into my sister’s husband in the hospital and felt I had to stay in the room (while he was visiting my brother) to support my brother.

My father told me I was too sensitive and my expectations of people were too high. He also told me I was choosing to be depressed.

When I tried to tell my dad how difficult it was to be in the same room with that pig of a brother-in-law my father threw his head back and laughed his ass off telling me I was being childish.

Oh, yeah. I was never allowed to talk about how my mom and brother were dying and crying in front of my dad was verboten to say the least.

Let’s see, in November of 2007 my priest revealed he was lusting after me. I had been turning to the Church as the one thing that was constant and helpful to me in a tumultuous time. The fact that the priest was counseling me through the issue with my brother-in-law was ironic since the priest turned out to be a pig also.

Had to rip our kids out of that Catholic school in November (we felt we had no choice but to leave) and find a new Catholic school.

One of the last things that added up to a one-week suicidal stay in the Psych Ward was my brother calling to ask me if my husband would be one of his pallbearers.

About a week after that I saw my mom at my brother’s house and that was the first time she truly looked at me with no recognition. She wanted to know what my daughter’s name was and how old she was. She also asked me how I knew my dad.

I just couldn’t take it anymore.

My husband really has been a pillar of strength then and now, but it just wasn’t enough. It just wasn’t enough then.

That’s one of the things about suicide, it’s just a completely isolated act. It’s not about anyone else. It’s about stopping the pain that has become unbearable.

At a time when outside contact was very important it was the last thing I wanted. It was too exhausting to even sit in a room with another person, much less interact.

I wanted to be left alone. Just alone forever. I didn’t have it in me to even consider how anyone else felt.

That was the first time I had no fear of dying in mortal sin because of suicide. Prior to that time, religious beliefs had really saved me from myself. But at that time I could care less about any final ramifications. It just wasn’t worth it.

So as you can see, there’s alot of confused logic going on when a person is suicidal. Without being in a locked Psych ward, I don’t know what the lay person can/could do for someone who is in such pain.

I would guess this does nothing to resolve your own feelings about Celeste, but maybe it might help give you an idea of where she felt she was in those days leading up to her death.

Again, I am so sorry to hear about this tragic event Tracy.

Very classy way to remember someone. I’m so sorry for your loss. I think speaking your mind and telling people you care is a winderful gesture. Life is too short and it is important for all of us to know we are loved, yet it is so rarely said.

You know I have had numerous bouts with depression, therapy and meds. Most recently it has been with post partem depression after giving birth to both of my boys. It’s a shame how few people can talk about this very real medical problem and the stigma attached to it. We’ve got a long way to go in this arena.

I love you, Tracy. If you need anything, please call.

Jennifer

There was one other thing I meant to include in this post that I didn’t, because I didn’t ultimately know how much bearing it had given the profundity of Celeste’s condition: there are days I might have missed a dose of medication and everything that could have gone wrong has and emotionally, I’m somewhere between wanting to run away to a tropical island and hide under the covers in the spare room — but no matter what, I have an incredible support system: a partner who loves and supports me, parents who are there no matter what, close friends who recognize my moods and can say, “This too shall pass,” — and that little bit of comfort can make all the difference. But at the end, Celeste had *none* of that support, no one to tell her they loved her no matter what, that it was just her brain chemistry talking, that they would be there today and tomorrow as they always had — and that’s a large part of my remorse around her loss, that wondering if we had just been there to offer more of that support and remind her of all those critical things a depressed and anxious person can’t, for the moment, remember for herself.

Could you perhaps shed some light on this?