“Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example,’The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.’

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her…”

-Pablo Neruda

***

Tomorrow, it will be one week. One week since I got a call from a dear friend. One week since I learned that a member of #teamMEA had lost her battle with mental illness. One week since I got the heartbreaking news that made me so sad that I did not know where to put all of the sadness, and so it overflowed, poured out of me, in tears and in crying out and in a frantic desire to get a message spread across the world, with words like, “I am here to help!” “You can overcome this!” “You are not alone” “Mental illness is real!” “Look around you and if you think that something is not right, DO SOMETHING!”

I’ve posted over on my Instagram throughout this past week, as I’ve tried to process the news that this beautiful soul is no longer on this earth, but in a different place, and hopefully at peace.

Out of respect for my lost friend and her family, I am keeping personal details out of this post, but I hope that any intentional vagueness does take away from any of the power of this message, because my friend was, in many ways, all of us. Not just one of us, but, again I say, all of all.

On the outside, she was stunningly beautiful, with a smile that was unforgettably bright.

On the inside, she suffered.

It is not my place to tell her story, but I cannot claim to be a mental health advocate or the facilitator of an online support group, of which she was an integral part, and also stay silent.

I write a lot about mental health issues, specifically those related to different forms of perinatal distress, but I often, like many people, dance around one specific word: suicide. It is hard to type. To be honest, I am still scared to keep it in this post, as I do not wish to offend anyone and it is just so horrible and I cannot decide whether or not to delete it, but I am not going to. I am going to be strong. Stronger than a word. I am going to be strong for my friend, because she deserves it.

When Robin Williams committed suicide two years ago, I wrote a post called “Oh Captain, My Captain” because his death also made me so so so sad. It still makes me so so so sad. I am sad for his loss, for mine and for the world’s. I am sad for the pain that he was feeling. I am sad for the pain that so many feel.

The truth is, life can be very hard, and “hard” looks different for every person. For some, hard is climbing a tall mountain or running a marathon. For others, it is getting out of bed in the morning.

And for others, it is fighting the urge to make the pain stop.

I know this.

Sometimes the pain is so acute that it is suffocating, and you cannot breathe and so…you stop.

And it is so sad.

***

On my Instagram page, I posted a video of a record spinning: In an Aeroplane Over the Sea by Neutral Milk Hotel, with the title song playing in the background of the image, static, except for the turning of the album in it’s player.

In my search for peace, I turned to music, and I heard the first lines of this song, ones that I have heard thousands of times before, and realized that they captured my friend perfectly:

“What a beautiful face
I have found in this place
That is circling all round the sun/
What a beautiful dream
That could flash on the screen
In a blink of an eye and be gone from me/
Soft and sweet,
Let me hold it close and keep it here with me.”

***

We often talk about the fragility of life and the importance of gratitude and how much beauty is around us in the world.

In some ways, I perpetuate that message, as it can be helpful to focus on the good instead of dwelling on the bad.

But, like so many other aspects of mental illness, it is a double-edged sword of sorts;

being reminded of life’s gifts–people and things and nature–can be helpful, but can also be devastating, as it is so easy to feel guilty for not being able to appreciate these things.

I can look at a pink sky, for instance, as I did at 6am on Sunday morning, and recognize it’s beauty intellectually;

or I could look at the pink sky and feel grateful and blessed to be alive;

or I could look at the pink sky and feel nothing and subsequently beat myself up over my uncontrollable apathy;

or, like I did on Sunday, I could look up at the pink sky and see my friend, her face in the clouds, beauty meeting beauty somewhere in the heavens above.

This week, a beautiful butterfly landed on a pink flower in my backyard garden. I was so awed by this and the image was transcendent for me. But it was also a sobering reminder to me.

She will never get to see another butterfly or smell a flower or feel the sun on her back or the wind in her hair. She is gone. 

I often describe my own postpartum depression as an insidious disease, as it was a debilitating illness that came as a package-deal with an adorable, sweet baby boy. That made things worse, and not better. Not being able to love him or care for him in the way that I felt I “should” made me feel like more of a failure, and made life seem all the more bleak. Instead of baby blue, my world looked black.

I was supposed to be happy and to feel lucky and instead I longed for the pain to stop.

Fortunately, I had an incredible support system of family members, friends and doctors, and they held me up, even when I was close to falling.

Not everyone is so lucky.

And please let me be clear: a sufferer can have an incredible support system, equal to mine, with family members and friends working tirelessly to support him or her, and it still may not be enough–so if you are reading this and thinking that I am being insensitive or suggesting that “if only” certain people had better care,

you would be be wrong.

 As I said, I was lucky. It could have gone the the other way for me, and had that been the tragic outcome, it would not have been for lack of trying–not my own and not by my loved ones and caregivers.

I am going to use an analogy that I have used before and I will preface it by saying that I do not do this glibly or ignorantly in any way:

If a patient has cancer and receives the best treatment available, eats right, follows all of the doctors’ orders and still dies, no one says, “Well, I guess she didn’t fight hard enough. Too bad she couldn’t have tried just a little harder, there. Too bad her team wasn’t just a little bit better.”

As someone who has lost dear friends and family members to cancer, I can say this with empathy, compassion and, unfortunately, experience.

However, with mental health issues, we often second guess ourselves and the sufferers. We ask what more could have been done. We don’t know what to say. What we do say, we say in whispers. I am guilty of this, as I am writing this post with careful diction, walking on my tiptoes on a tiny tightrope of words.

One of my first thoughts on Saturday upon hearing the news was, “What more could I have done for her? I tried to help. Where did I go wrong?”

But instead of wallowing in those thoughts, I am going to try to turn this experience around, as it further motivates me in my quest to help others.

I will speak out about my own experience. I will reach out to those who may need help, and risk overstepping. I will not be scared to type the scary word.

Suicide.

It still gives me a pit in my stomach to string together those seven letters, but without the bravery to type them, nothing will ever change. Not in my little support group, not for my readers, not in this culture and not in our world.

***

I said earlier that I would not be sharing personal details about my dearly departed friend, but I will share this:

In our private Mommy, Ever After group, our friend was often the first to comment on posts, whether they were about difficult mental health issues, family situations or “which dress do I wear to an event next week?”

When I posted my own issues–personal questions and complaints about the hardest aspects of life for me–she would promptly and enthusiastically comment with words of support, like “We love you Becca!” and other reminders to stay strong. She offered me support in so many ways over the years and I still cannot believe that she is gone. It is surreal.

And, again, it is so sad.

The last thing that I ever said to my friend was in a Facebook email 11 days ago, as I felt the need to reach out to her. It wasn’t a long message, nor a short one, but it was, I think, loving and respectful. My sign off was this, and I copy and paste it for you word for word:

“You’ve always had such a special place in my heart and so I want to offer my friendship. I hope that I’m not overstepping. Sending love xoxo, Becca”

I know that she read my message. I hope that she believed me. She never replied. Her life was cut short. I never had a chance to do more for her. I never will.

 I will readily admit that this is not my most eloquent post, as I am having a hard time getting the words out, let alone coherently. What you are reading is a mixture of a stream-of-conscious journal entry, a plea for anyone who reads this to seek & give help and a step in my own grieving process.

I want to do so much more, but I do not know how. I can educate. I can share. I can tell the tiniest bit of her story in the hopes that perhaps, somewhere across this world, a person will read this today and believe me when I say, “YOU ARE NOT ALONE” and decide to make a different choice, even just for one more day…

…for I can make no promises about what life has in store, but, I can say that tomorrow you could wake up and feel a bit better.

Tomorrow you could have answers that seem unfathomable today.

Tomorrow you could feel 1% more peace in your heart.

Tomorrow a friend could call and say the right thing and help, even the tiniest bit.

Tomorrow, you could wake up at sunrise

and you could see a pink sky.

And tomorrow, perhaps, if you are lucky, that could matter.

***

 To my loved ones: I love you.

To my #teamMembers: This is why we are a team. I am so grateful for your strength and support.

To caregivers: You are amazing. Keep trying. Don’t be afraid to overstep. Thank you.

To my dear friend:

You took a little piece of my heart with you when you left us. I will miss you so much. I will miss your kind words and your generous spirit. I will cherish the words that you have written to me over the years and I will never forget a moment that we shared.

I will draw strength from you in my moments of weakness or crisis. I will find warmth in the caring that you have shown to me and to others.

I will go to reach out to you, remember that I cannot, and I will, over and over, feel so sad.

And, most of all, I will look for you in every pink sky.

    And so I will end this exactly how I ended my last message to you–before we lost you last week:

You’ve always had a special place in my heart…sending love xoxoxo,

Becca