Morning Song
|Michael Lebowitz remembers a friend with dignity, respect, honour and honesty.
She is not young anymore. One gets the impression that even when she was young she was not youthful, given to enthusiasm and giggling. The office politics of her place of work were more and more like her dining room table in her childhood home. There was yelling but far worse was the subterfuge, the jockeying for position, grant money and office windows, trips to Germany and other such – this was bloodsport and damn near killed her.
She took up a lover. He showed up nightly in a liter sized, soon to be gallon sized bottle of cheap red. He stayed nearly all night. The days passed into night, the years slid by, a parade of tears and silence, ending in the grey uncertainty of the next dawn.
That morning she talked about how sometimes the thought of taking herself out came back to her. How odd, how final the phrase sounded coming from this quiet mouse of woman. She wasn’t built that way of course, she said. But she thought she understood it. There were scarves to knit and cakes to bake, everyone has something don’t they? Still, there is longing and fear, a bravado that belongs mostly to those who have fallen off the map. Her hands fly with surgical skill, the tapestries of her day emerge. She speaks slowly today, with what might even be amusement, at the thought of other people doing themselves in. As if. She asks one of the local musicians in the room if he has ever recorded an album he often jokes about, Songs to Hang Myself By. I’m working on it, he says, his voice getting lost in the uncomfortable laughter that starts and trails away. Almost as if it is only a matter of time, he seems to be saying.
This exchange came back to me earlier today when it became clear that it had been only a matter of time.
RIP JP Scofield
`````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````This is an article about my friends Martha and JP. Both of them have experienced the despair of depression; and two days ago JP lost the battle and committed suicide. My heart is so sad; but I understand how it is to be weary of that battle, and not be able to express those feelings to people around me. I've been there, more than once.
From an outside perspective, it's so easy to say, "but he/she had so much to live for". We all have so much to live for; but not all of us have the ability to see and feel that all of the time. There are times when in spite of all our efforts, all we can feel is despair. Personally I think it's a brain abnormality, an illness. Or at the very least, a symptom of an abnormal process caused by an illness.
I'd like to believe that if I had known JP was in danger, I could have done something to help; or at least let him know that I love him, and I understand; and therefore been able to ward off this horrible end. But I know better. When I made my attempt at suicide, I knew that people loved me; knew it absolutely. But that almost made it worse, because I had nothing to give back. I couldn't reach out and connect with those loved ones. I just kept drifting further and further away. The only thing that kept me alive was botching my attempt to end it; I woke up vomiting, and the next morning my friends took me to the hospital, and slowly I regained the ability to love my life again. But my pride almost killed me.
This morning I had a conversation with my friend Lynne about mental illness and the difficulty our culture has in taking care of those of us with these troubles. So much of the problem has to do with stigma. We all want to be "normal". Man, I hate that word. When I left the hospital I swore to myself and to God that I would not pretend any more; but lately I find myself pretending again: "How are you?" " I'm doing really well." No, I'm not. I wish I was but I'm not. Maybe it's time to let people know that. Because I really am not alone, and there is so much to love in this life.