I knew this was coming but it was still a shock. When I read that Sinead O’Connor had lost her son to suicide, it was a a given that she wouldn’t stick around. Her panic and horror were familiar, and I relived it for a long time. I braced myself. And it seems like a miracle that she stayed as long as she did, a little more than a year.

Even if you never liked her, you must have recognized an exquisitely sensitive soul without much of a protective membrane. She clearly was driven to tell the truth – not tell, but shout out – without thought of the consequences. I used to be like that, once.

She told us that her son was her soulmate, the only person who had ever loved her unconditionally.  And that’s just too much of a loss. I have been there. I’m still there.

When you lose your soulmate, or your twin soul, whatever term you like to describe this, you literally feel hollowed out, less substantial, without the ballast that kept you safely rooted to earth. I’m not being poetic, just factual.

Sinead O’Connor’s death is such a tragedy because it shouldn’t have happened and yet was inevitable. There are a million tributes and think pieces now that she’s gone, and while it’s a comfort to know that she was appreciated, it has really destabilized me personally. I feel guilty for being here after thirteen years. What kind of monster am I to go on without Max?

It hurts me to write his name. It’s better to write about Lost Sons in general. I can go for weeks without hearing or saying his name. People don’t want to bring it up, unless it’s his birthday or the anniversary of his exit. I hear music that I know he would’ve liked and say aloud, “Max would have liked this.” My husband replies, “Uh huh,” but it feels wrong. He should say, “Yes! He would love it and he hears it now! He would love it because his taste was so impeccable and wide-ranging and in keeping with his brilliance! Why is he gone? Bring him back!” But it’s not my husband’s job to speak what’s in my heart.

I always wonder if people who learn that I lost a son are thinking, “God, what an awful mother! Why didn’t she kill herself! I myself could never survive this!” One of my half-sisters actually said something like this, making it about her. Obviously she’s an idiot so she doesn’t count.

But I’m sure that other mothers who aren’t idiots are thinking this, silently reprimanding me for my unforgivable ability to go on. I don’t blame them.

I would like to apologize! Forgive me. It’s not that I’m shallow or not heartbroken beyond repair. At first, it was because I couldn’t abandon my younger boy. I couldn’t bear the thought of shattering the lives of my family members; it seemed too cruel to put them through it. Later, it was a courtesy to my husband, as I liked to remind him. Now it’s mostly a lack of courage. If I was sure we’d be reunited, I could do it. Even if we weren’t reunited, I remind myself, I’d be passing through the same door he passed through.

The other day, I was lying in bed, looking at my beautiful antique dresser and the shit on the walls and I felt a wave of sentimental fondness for them. I remarked to my husband, “I’ll miss this room when I’m dead!” He laughed and said, “Well, that’s better than saying ‘I wouldn’t miss any of this crap’!”

But I meant it. I’ll miss a lot of things when I’m dead. To be or not to be is a daily choice, not just according to Camus:

There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy. All the rest — whether or not the world has three dimensions, whether the mind has nine or twelve categories — comes afterwards. These are games; one must first answer.

and/but:

Men are never convinced of your reasons, of your sincerity, of the seriousness of your sufferings, except by your death. So long as you are alive, your case is doubtful; you have a right only to their skepticism.

I doubt that Sinead wrestled with this. I believe she followed her heart. I respect her courage and sense of purpose. If living without her boy was a battle for her, it was one battle too many. I hope he kept a seat for her. And if there’s no afterlife out in the cosmos, at least she passed through the same door. My she rest easy for eternity.

I wanted to rant about the celebrities on Twitter who are responding to the suicide of Kate Spade with recollections of their first Kate Spade bag.  IT’S NOT ABOUT YOU, I was thinking in disgust, who cares about your fucking personal memories right now?

But my own reaction, having been “triggered”, was equally personal and about me.

My feeling was, don’t send condolences to her family or the usual bullshit, talk about suicide prevention and signs of risk.

Some woman who claimed to be a friend told CNN that the suicide was “out of character.” Like it was unusual for Kate Spade to kill herself. Idiot.

But Kate Spade’s sister gives a harrowing account of Kate’s persistent mental illness. The sister says that for years, she’s been trying to get Kate to admit herself to a hospital, to get treatment for her depression. She recalls how fixated Kate was on Robin Williams’ death. She reveals that Kate feared going public about her depression would ruin her personal brand as a happy, bubbly person. Most upsetting, the sister says that she finally had to “let go.”

“Sometimes you simply cannot SAVE people from themselves! One of the last things she said to me was, ‘Reta, I know you hate funerals and don’t attend them, but for me would you PLEASE come to MINE, at least. Please!’ I know she perhaps had a plan, but she insisted she did not.”

Well, letting go isn’t the answer when a loved one talks about their own funeral.

Letting go is never going to help a person in crisis, even if the crisis goes on an on.

I’m so sorry about this. In order to leave a 13 year old daughter, Kate Spade must have been in unbearable pain. You take your own life only when your suffering is stronger than your resources, I have read. She must have thought her family was better off without her. Because that’s how the suicidal brain works.

I’d like everyone who is worried about someone to call them up. Remind them that you care about them, that you need them in your life. If you’ve already had enough of someone’s resistant despair, have some more of it! Do not let go. Hang on tight. If you have a gut feeling that something is wrong, don’t ignore it.

I’m sorry. Kate Spade may have found peace, but those around her are just beginning to face a loss that will never end.

Text HOME to 741741 from anywhere in the USA
for free 24/7 crisis support

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

Today is World Suicide Prevention Day. I might have been able to ignore it if I hadn’t read that the son of a disgraced Fox news host killed himself yesterday by overdose. Nineteen year old Eric Chase Bolling Jr. was distressed by his father’s troubles. Eric Bolling was fired for sending lewd photos to women, with a ton of fanfare on social media.

Bolling Sr. may be a cunt but no one deserves this. And no one should be in such pain without a person to talk to or a voice reminding him that he is needed in this world, no matter how hard that is to recognize in moments of despair.

I needed Eric Jr. and I needed Chris Cornell, Chester Bennington, and Blake Heron, who died from an overdose three days after leaving rehab. Every day I read about someone’s son or daughter or parent leaving by suicide, and my heart breaks each time. The suffering they leave behind is unimaginable. If only they could all come running back!

Suicide can be prevented. Not always but in many cases where a hand to hold or a compassionate word might have made the difference.

We can all try to be a ray of light in someone’s darkness. What better enterprise is there, right?

We can learn the warning signs of a psyche in distress.

I admit that I struggle with To be or not to be, every single day. What keeps me here is the awareness of shattering other lives in my haste to depart. What a mess it makes! No one recovers. Obviously.

If you’re suffering, I urge you to stick around. Things will change!  Call 1-800-273-TALK (8255)  Or click here for helpful advice.

***If you are in crisis but would be more comfortable texting, 24/7 support is available by texting 741741.

If there is anyone you are concerned about, take a minute to check in with them. It could change their life. xo

When did it become a human right to broadcast yourself around the world in real time? If it’s not a right, then let’s admit that humanity is not capable of using this technology responsibly.

You may love the feeling of being a superstar when you go on Facebook Live to talk about your pet peeves or your make-up tips, but the value of that doesn’t come close to the harm generated by live-streamed suicide, torture and murder.

The murder in Cleveland on Sunday was blown up into a huge news story because it was posted on Facebook, whereas brutal, senseless murders take place across America every single day. The most notable thing about the event is that it remained on Facebook for several hours.

I don’ t want to see live murders on Facebook, and I don’t want you to see them either. I don’t want to see torture or rape on Facebook, and I don’t want you to see them either. It is not your right to see these activities. These events are traumatic. It is possible to be traumatized over and over, not just once. Trauma doesn’t work that way.

The fifteen minutes of fame that Andy Warhhol predicted did not refer to live-streaming your stupid life to your cyber-friends. No one could have predicted that it would come to this, that people would mediate every experience and thought through their cellphone. Life is OUT THERE, not in your phone or on Facebook.

But young people who have grown up with the internet are increasingly unable to conduct their lives offline. Everything that matters to them involves their wi-fi connection. And when they are overwhelmed and suicidal, they turn to Facebook Live.

Facebook acknowledges that live-streamed suicide is a problem, but they aren’t willing to give out numbers. There are at least 7 known cases since Facebook went live last year. Mark Zuckerberg pledged to find new ways to tackle this in a recent letter to Facebook users:

“There have been terribly tragic events — like suicides, some live streamed — that perhaps could have been prevented if someone had realized what was happening and reported them sooner.”

Suicide has surged to the highest levels in nearly 30 years. Suicide is devastating for the people who witness it, and could encourage others who are struggling to attempt it, too, says Dan Romer, research director of the Annenberg Public Policy Center at the University of Pennsylvania.

But Facebook has its own suicide ‘researcher’, who insists that

“…cutting off the stream too early removes the chance of someone being able to reach out and provide help. In this way, Live becomes a lifeline. It opens up the opportunity for people to reach out for support and for people to give support at this time that’s critically important.”

God, what self-serving fuckers. They will never give an inch, because their stated mission is that everyone will do everything via their platform: chat, shop, argue, order pizza, make friends, kill yourself and maybe each other.

There are reasons why people want to carry out momentous acts in front of a public audience, and none of those reasons are healthy. The urge to watch these acts might be attributed to “human nature” but human nature is changing. Kids didn’t use to make videos of gang rapes for the amusement of their friends. Kids used to feel horrified by things that are horrifying. Desensitization is a real thing.

Facebook is criminal in its practices, as we all know. Selling data, promoting fake news,  discouraging face to face contact, and broadcasting rape, torture and violent death…it is the fucking devil.

The less you participate, the less power it will have to drag humanity down to zero.

On Thursday it will be three years. I never expected to still be around. Time doesn’t heal all wounds but it changes your emotional terrain.

A couple of weeks ago, I considered living for the first time.  I was experiencing a patch of happiness that felt like peace.  Naturally, I had to question this. It made me feel guilty and shallow. I forgave myself the guilt and contemplated the prospect of living the remainder of my life as if it mattered.  Living on purpose, not just because I can’t bear to hurt my husband.

It occurs to me now that this is what Max was contemplating. He wrote that he wanted to wake up in the morning and feel like living, not just to avoid hurting his loved ones, but as a choice for himself. He gave up hope that this could happen.

I feel more hope than I did when I was going around looking for someplace high enough to make a successful jump. I feel like I could conceivably find a purpose in life and make a commitment to seeing life through to it’s natural end.

But then I would have to worry about all the stuff that people worry about when they want to live. I’d have to worry about cancer instead of mocking those people on the Cancer Center commercials who want so badly to survive. I’d have to worry about my bad cholesterol, which is sky-high. I’d have to worry about dementia and social security and losing my hair or teeth.

I’m just not sure. I’ve been hovering between this world and the next, trying to cultivate a saving level of numbness. Love can break through, and it does. Maybe instead of jumping off a roof, I can jump into life. It’s a new idea. It’s somewhat threatening. But I plan to explore it.

It hurt my heart to learn that Matthew Warren, the son of Pastor Rick Warren, ended his life at age 27.

I didn’t even need to read the story to assume that Matthew’s death was caused by lifelong depression. Too often, suicide is the outcome of this kind of unrelenting pain.

Rick Warren is a homophobic cunt whose stance has done harm all around the world. He and his church have had a presence in Uganda, whipping up anti-gay fervor and violence.

But no one deserves the loss of a child. Pastor Warren probably did his best to help his son hang on. Sometimes your best isn’t enough.

Meanwhile, Matthew’s uncle led a prayer at the Saddleback Church, thanking his god for something or other.  As if some god had a secret plan for poor Matthew, and could still be relied upon for anything.

I wish someone had at least made sure that Matthew didn’t have a gun! Is that too much to ask?

I have no one to pray to. I can only mourn the loss of another sweet vulnerable soul who couldn’t stick around. The world needs more of them, not less.

Inner Vision is a computer game created by a college student who has given some thought to suicide. The goal of the game is to convince three people not to kill themselves. As a player, you interact with them, choosing the advice you believe will help them most.

It’s a simple game but it offers a surprisingly intense experience. It might be useful as a way to combat suicidal thinking. It could  also be a tool for stirring compassion and teaching us the importance of listening.

For me, it was a chance to get it right, to save three imaginary people from taking their own lives and breaking innumerable imaginary hearts. It was comforting.

You can play the game here. If you’re impressed, don’t thank me, thank Sunil Rao at his website here.

Like everyone else, I am heartbroken by the loss of Aaron Swartz, 26, who hung himself last week. He was by all accounts an amazing person. He used his brilliance in technology to advance the cause of a free internet.  He was a passionate activist whose antics led to serious charges that could have ended in decades of jail time.  Naturally, there is cause to question and condemn the over-zealous prosecutor who seemed intent on punishing Aaron in the worst way possible. Living under this threat and its attendant stress must have been difficult.

But nobody in Aaron’s world seems to want to talk about depression. Maybe they feel that being driven to suicide by the dark forces of the corporate-government complex is more noble than a loss in the struggle with clinical depression. In forums and editorials about Aaron’s death, those who bring up Aaron’s admitted depression are scolded with “Now is not the time!”

But now is the time. Now is always the time. If you don’t understand depression, here is a good place to start. If you want statistics on college suicide, go here.  Read about the stigma of depression in the tech world here. Read Aaron’s blog post about his depression here. You already know that more US soldiers now die from suicide than in combat.

Suicide is preventable. Not in every case, obviously. But awareness and education and the dedication of friends and loved ones can and does make a difference. This website, suicideispreventable.org, is the first step in learning  how you can help and what words to use with a friend who might be thinking of ending his life.

http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/GetHelp/Someone is another good resource.  Feeling hopeless and seeing no end in sight can make death seem like the only option. Empathy and affection can persuade the depressed person that things can change.

I wish I could have comforted Aaron Swartz until he felt strong enough to go on. I wish I had stayed up with Max and held his hand until the beginning of a new day. We can’t go back in time but we can try our best to break someone’s fall if we are mindful and courageous enough to make the effort.

Sylvia Plath was a crazy mother, but what should we make of her son’s suicide? We know that depression runs in families, but most of us manage to hang on, even if our mothers were crazy.

Maybe when a family member commits suicide, it presents itself as an option that wouldn’t otherwise be considered. My own mother liked to threaten suicide, but her theatrics only went as far as rattling her pill bottles.

I had a phase, a few years ago, of routinely announcing that I wanted to put my head in the oven. I still think it’s a funny image. I am hoping to find a jeweler who will collaborate with me on my vision of a gold medallion depicting a little oven with legs sticking out of it. In memory of Sylvia, the feet would be wearing low-heeled pumps.

The other day, my ex noted that his uncle and a cousin had committed suicide, but he had an excuse for both of them; they didn’t really count, in his opinion. Men can be funny about depression, because it goes against their gender description.   Yet they kill themselves far more often than woman do, in a ratio of 4 to 1 in the US.   Are women more adept at suffering? My feeling is Yes.

When a famous person commits suicide, it’s always a blow. It makes me wonder why they didn’t wait another day, or call their doctor, or just stay in bed. Nicholas Hughes seems by all accounts to have been a vibrant, talented and lovely human being, who didn’t suffer from depression until his father died from cancer. It sounds like the loss broke his heart, and he simply couldn’t recover.

When Hunter Thompson killed himself, my prevailing reaction was resentment. How could someone so pugnacious just give in like that? What a quitter!

People who commit suicide are not only depressed but impulsive, apparently. Most important, they have lost all sense of humor. Sylvia Plath should have waited around, until the image above struck her as funny. I’m glad my own crazy mother set a better example by sticking around and tormenting us until she was 73.

It’s hard to believe that Phil Spector (above with his crazy wife Rachelle) is STILL on trial for the murder of Lana Clarkson. But on Friday, the prosecution rested its case against him. The last person to testify was Lana Clarkson’s mother, Donna, who maintains that her daughter’s purchase of eight pairs of shoes just prior to her death proves that she was not suicidal.

Apart from the fact that we already know Phil Spector is guilty, the shoe argument is a convincing one. At first, anyway.

Eight pairs of new shoes seems like a really optimistic investment, a gesture of hope. That’s a lot of shoes, even to me. If I was planning to kill myself, I know I wouldn’t buy eight pairs of shoes first.

Lana Clarkson went shoe shopping with her mother at Nordstrom, looking for flats to wear at her new job. She found eights pairs of black flats, including the Mary Jane’s she was wearing when she died. Her mom loaned her the money for the shoes, a total of $150.

150 divided by eight is….I can’t do math, but it means the shoes were cheap. This makes me reassess the whole suicide thing. What if you went home with eight boxes of awful cheap shoes and thought, God, why do I even bother to live?! That I can relate to.

I ran this by my husband, who replied, “But it’s Nordstrom, she could’ve taken them back.” He is well aware of Nordstrom’s liberal return policy, since he has driven me there to return things at least a thousand times.

But that’s not the point, duh! Even if you knew you could return them, the horror of having bought so many black flats might in fact be overwhelming. If you were already depressed, it could push you over the edge.

Of course, whatever Lana was feeling on the night she went home with Phil Spector, he blew her brains out. There is more than enough proof of that. His new lawyer is attempting to defend him by showing that Spector doesn’t hate and threaten women, specifically, but rather he hates and threatens men, too. It’s a brilliant defense strategy if the jury has been lobotomized.

However, I’m stuck with the idea of shoes and suicide. Maybe I’ll have to have a philosophical discussion with Imelda Matt. Until then, here is a pair of shoes that make me want to kill myself. They’re on sale at endless.com for only $771.81.