I was greatly affected by the death this past March of designer and Rolling Stone girlfriend L’Wren Scott. Unlike a number of commentators, I had heard of her before, and did think of her first as a fashion designer, not as Mick Jagger’s girlfriend.
There was something haunting in the way (it was reported) that she tied one of her own scarves around her neck, and hung herself from a French door; her assistant found her kneeling lifeless on the floor.
Despite the fact that friends were quoted as saying that she had seemed fine in the weeks leading up to her suicide, later reporting relying on anonymous close friends, indicated that she had, in fact, been down in the dumps in the weeks leading up to her taking the final solution. It also was reported that that she had previously tried to “hurt herself.”
Yes, she had financial troubles (but a multi-millionaire boyfriend); and yes, she was forced to shutter her business; and maybe she was frustrated by her non-marriage to Mick and the fact that her childbearing years had passed her by.
But of one thing I am certain: L’Wren Scott was suffering from depression.
For those who have never been in its dark grasp, when depression descends, the very same facts that seem innocuous or par for the course most days, can take on a totally different and sinister meaning. Being depressed means feeling that all of life is hopeless and pointless. It means not being able to sleep; but also not being able to wake. It means losing one’s appetite or doing nothing but eat. It means that time stretches ahead like an eternity, an ocean of hopelessness, days battering the shores of your life with tormenting regularity; restless night leading to hopeless white daylight.
I get you, L’Wren, even though I am someone who believes in God, in accountability to him, in life after death; and that suicide cannot bring a life to an end.
And sometimes those are the only things that stop a believer from ending it all.
I, too, suffer from depression. Mine is biological, as many depressions are. I think people misunderstand depression and look for reasons why someone would want to end their lives … a lost job, loss of finances, loss of someone we love. But most people who experience these things know they must go on.
When mental illness is added into the picture, these things can become a trigger, and one’s very life becomes endangered.
When my medication is regulated, I am a happy, optimistic and productive person. When I am depressed, I become an empty shell, a vacant house.
If someone is not a believer, has never felt that life holds a greater purpose, and that suffering can in fact be redemptive, then indeed, why not “eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we shall die?”
The Book of Ecclesiastes is the Bible’s most direct book in its illustration of a life without greater purpose and without God. The author, whom many believe to be King Solomon, experiments with all of the things that humans think will make them happy: fruitful toil, a beautiful home, gardens, and vineyards, abundant wealth, entertainment, and sexual pleasure: “I denied myself nothing by eyes desired.”
Yet, he also concludes, “Everything was meaningless, a chasing after wind; nothing was gained under the sun.” No matter how long he toiled, or what he accumulated or accomplished, it was all “folly” because it would end up being enjoyed by another. Pessimistically, he writes, “for the wise man, like the fool, will not long be remembered; in days to come both will be forgotten. Like the fool, the wise man will die!”
The writer then looks beyond himself, to the misery in the world, seeing the oppressed, “and that power was on the side of oppression … And I declared that the dead, who had already died are happier than the living who are still alive; but better than both is he who has not yet been, who has not yet seen the evil that is done under the sun.”
Ah, yes. Depression causes us to focus on all that is wrong. It steals life’s small pleasures — like a cup of hot aromatic coffee in the morning, the love of a pet, the smell of a flower, the hug of a loved one. It says to its victim, “all is meaningless, there is no meaning under the sun.”
With the recent spate of young and middle-aged bankers ending their lives through suicide, including one of the founding CEOs of Bitcoin, a virtual currency start-up; with the resurgence of heroin ravaging the middle-class; with disaffected young people shooting others before killing themselves, it is clear that there is something amiss.
There is a vacancy in our hearts that can only be filled by God. As St. Augustine famously said, “Our hearts are restless until they can find rest in thee.”
Shifting light and shortening days seem to exacerbate my depression. Last fall, when I was last depressed, such things as having the check-engine light come back on in my car after having spent hundreds of dollars in repairs (including the emissions system), felt like the end of the world. Some financial problems seemed insurmountable. I felt I couldn’t go on because my situation had become untenable.
Less than six months later, I discovered that my car’s problem was not an expensive catalytic converter, but a small fix that would cost $120, (and anyway, I had bought a new car prior to the next inspection date) and the mountain of debt that had so overwhelmed me was solved with a rather painless debt consolidation. In short, things that had looked so hopeless, were, in fact just ordinary blips on the road we call life.
I wish I could’ve told L’Wren this. There is only one constant in life and that is change. If today is a hopeless, depressing day, tomorrow could be the best day of your life.
And I would echo, with the preacher who wrote Ecclesiastes, “Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man.” And in so doing, discover life’s purpose and joy that no-one and nothing can take away.