The cause of death that scares me

I’m currently working on my second play this year that ends in a suicide. Three of my closest friends have recently gone through or are currently going through crippling bouts of depression and anxiety, and one of their sisters attempted suicide a few years ago.

So it’s something that’s impossible not to think of when we’re exploring ideas about death. Suicide scares me perhaps more than any other cause of death, both for myself and others, probably because even the idea of it leave me feeling completely helpless.  

I have no history of mental illness at this point, which I feel very blessed and fortunate about given my ever-increasing awareness of its prevalence. But I know there’s no guarantee of it staying that way, that it’s not a childhood risk that you grow out of. I know my family has a history of depression, and I know there’s no reason why something won’t be triggered in me. So when I’m upset or anxious about something, it’s always compounded by a fear that they’re not everyday emotions but the start of something more uncontrollable and lasting. I value my mind and my self-control, my self-motivation and resilience, more than almost anything. The mere idea that I could become unable to convince myself to get out of bed, or throw up or have physical panic attacks from anxiety, or feel with total certainty that life is not worth living, is completely terrifying.  I’ve never felt that way, but I have spent enough time with people who have that I know how much it can change people at its worst. I am strong and tough, but I don’t know how that would change in the face of something I don’t have control over. I don’t know what would happen if I was convinced I would be better off dead. That’s one battle I pray I’ll never have to fight.

But as much as I’m scared of losing myself to mental illness, I’m even more concerned about suicide for those closest to me. Depression is as real an illness as cancer, and while it may not kill you directly, it’s the root cause as much or more than any overdose. One of my friends spent a couple weeks checked into a behavioral health hospital this winter because her suicidal thoughts were so serious. Another is seeing three different kinds of doctors and almost took a term off school in response to the strength of his returning anxiety; his parents will take any measure to combat his mental illness after his sister's suicide attempt. So as impossible as it feels that these people – who are often in good places when I see them, either cheered up by the presence of a loved one or just putting on a good face in a social setting – might kill themselves, I know it’s a very real possibility.

And I just… I don’t know what I would do with that. My instinct is to help, support, to offer a listening ear and a shoulder to cry on, and a nudge toward professional help when not already in use. I can do those things, but I don’t have any real power. I know rationally that even if I didn’t do those things and someone I love were to kill himself or herself, it wouldn’t be my fault… But they would be gone. Ripped from the world forever. And there’s nothing I can do to stop that desire in them. Nothing I can do to help.