“Had she been candid about her despair, they might have been forced to acknowledge the depth of her suffering and probably would have responded in a manner more suitable to the occasion. Playing it for laughs, she gave them an easy out.” —Marion Meade (discussing poet Dorothy Parker's severe depression and suicidality and others response to it)
I feel a strong affinity with the quote above. It's almost like because I am so honest on this blog - or written text in general - people feel able to skate around the actuality of my illness in person. A few days after my hospitalisation, Matt (my case worker) called me and said ‘I'm so glad you're alive; you made it!’. I think that's the only time anyone has acknowledged what an achievement that is. I know that is a painful and dreadful fact; but you see, if I'd survived a car accident or life threatening illness, I would be brave and inspiring. Instead I'm hushed, silenced, whispered about in small groups and told to dance to the recovery waltz; limbs held in an awkward position that somehow makes people feel more comfortable, music played and stories told to drown out the terrible sadness that no one wants to identify with, let alone say aloud. It's a lie that's easier for everyone else to bear. That is, except maybe me.
“The language of love letters is the same as suicide notes.” —Courtney Love