This is the first time I found out about a friends death online. I use the term friend liberally in this case. If our paths had crossed more often, I am sure we would have become closer. She was funny, inappropriately so, and kind, and an unapologetic drunk. She dated a friend of mine until her unapologetic drunkeness became too much for him and he broke up with her. She is (was) a pretty heart surgeon with an infectious smile and she soon found a hot British man online while he languished in the dating abyss for over a year before he found someone. I’ve thought of deleting her off facebook, but I really enjoyed tangentially being a part of her life. When I logged on and noticed a post in my new feed telling her “I hope you are finally at peace”, I knew it was suicide. Peace in the form of death is only wished upon those who have been struggling against a painful terminal illness or those whose brains appear to torment them, making others around them wonder why they just can’t seem to quiet those voices.
She was so pretty and successful and from all appearances, in love. It is horrible to say, but being beautiful or successful and depressed is like having chicken pox without the pox. The outward evidence isn’t there, you don’t look sick because to me you look like you have all the things that would make me undepressed. Of course, when you look at examples like Robin Williams and Tony Scott and Allie Brosh, you know deep down it is not true. But facing that fact is a double edged sword. Firstly, it is scary knowing that achieving a certain weight or obtaining a degree or job won’t fix everything. But, knowing that the sense of defectiveness might not be real, that there isn’t something I need to fix but I may be whole already, is comforting.
I’ve always disliked it when people call those who commit suicide selfish, as if one should live solely for the benefit of others. However, I can’t help thinking of those closest to her and the guilt they must feel.