I learned over the weekend that another beautiful, struggling young soul couldn’t take anymore and checked out. 

This isn’t about this one human, it’s about all of our loves who suffer from terminal depression. This time of year can be one big trigger. Not everyone who has depression or anxiety had a horrible childhood. Sometimes it’s just chemical, and there’s really no big catalyzing event that brought it on. No parental abuse, no trauma, just . . . an imbalance in brain chemistry because some gland or other can’t make the appropriate chemical or hormone in sufficient quantities for some unknown reason.

For those who did suffer childhood abuse and trauma, though, this time of year is literally a killer. There is so much guilt and shame associated with abuse, so much pain associated with trauma, that all of these memories cascade into one big miasma. Those of us who don’t suffer this kind of turmoil can’t possibly understand, and we don’t have the right to impose solutions that work for us on people who don’t suffer like us. So I’m not going to say,  “Eat more kale, do some Yoga and write that novel you’ve always wanted to write.” For someone who has occasional depression, those things can be fantastic (well, maybe not the kale). For someone who lives with it every day, they’re the opposite of helpful.

So what can we offer?

A friend of the family of the young one who recently left us said they “didn’t reach out this time.” Death was so longed for that it held no fear. Death isn’t in fact a scary and awful thing, at least not according to those who have had near death experiences, or to those who are walking the thin rainbow line between life and death. It’s not scary at all. It’s warm, inviting, loving, gentle, peaceful, harmonious, perfect. But we have this idea that we’re not supposed to go there until we’re invited (with an en-graved invitation, if you’ll pardon the gallows humor). We’re not supposed to gate-crash the party.

We think of suicide as a coward’s way out, a way not to face consequences, or a way to not have to face our friends and family after committing some shameful act. And there are a handful of those situations, sure.  School shooters frequently commit suicide by engaging in a gun fight with police, for example.

But for the folks who live with suicidal depression day in and day out, getting out of bed is an act of bravery. Every step in every day is an act of bravery, of overcoming, of giving a middle finger salute to the forces of chaos running rampant in the brain. Can you blame them for wanting to let go and just . . . stop? I sure as hell can’t.

But these shortened, beautiful lives have richness and deep meaning. Have you ever been friends with someone who committed suicide? You will never have a friendship so deep and loving. These people are capable of swimming in the deepest emotional waters available, including the waters of love. The struggle is relentless and terrible, but the love, compassion and generosity of spirit that these folks bring to every day of their lives is incredible.

What we can do is be present without judgment and check in with those we love who struggle, to help them feel grounded and surrounded. 

We can approach them with the same depth of  love, care, and non-judgment that they bring to us. We can call them up, see how they’re doing, let them talk if they need to or want to, be observant. Listen without trying to come up with solutions, without trying to problem solve, without trying to fix them. And don’t guilt-trip yourself to death if they decide one day to let go. There is no fault. There is no blame. Their choice had nothing to do with you. Love them no matter what, and let them go on to the next stage of their soul’s journey with that love intact. They’ve earned it.

Sail on, dear one, and know you will always be loved.