So Shea still weighs on me. But first my hometown.
My home used to be quaint. Lots of local stores, pushing, let's be honest, shit and cheap products, but small town folk are okay with that. But lately everything that used to be "local" (I hate to League of Gentlemen here) has become bland. Where there was one yard sale store for years, they seem to make up most of the littered husks of abandoned government buildings and failed music stores. They espouse names like "Antiques of Mystique" or "Vintage Grabs."
For one. "Antique" and "vintage" are not always synonymous with "old" and "used." I am pretty sure those polyester neon green stretch pants are only considered vintage if Tim Burton uses them for costume design in one of his quirky movies.
I can't help but feel this town is on the edge of death, but it will probably outlive me. It may not be all that pretty, but it will still be here when they put me in the ground, probably in those neon green pants. Just not much longer, I am afraid. The death rattle has been vocal for a long time, and these yard sale stores propagating all over like overly-fertile rabbits coupling is one of the final death pangs.
The same was the case with Shea. It was obvious something was killing her... not to be dramatic. Her life was collapsing. She kept crying out for help. She never got it.
In her case, I am not sure it would have mattered. Because when you have depression, as she clearly did, there are people who can't see it. They have been depressed before, but they don't understand the difference between being depressed and suffering from depression. These are unfortunately the people you need to see it the most. But they rarely seem to be able to see.
In the Netflix series The Haunting of Hill House, specifically ep six, one of the main characters gets hidden for a while by a ghost. She's standing in the middle of a common room, screaming for a long time, and nobody can see her. That's a perfect analogy for depression.
Shea was screaming for somebody to notice how badly she was suffering for the longest time. Occasionally, when she would talk about losing her mom or possibly her house, overly peppy idiots would reply with "You got this girl! Now go get'em!" and other useless phrases like that. Then when she killed herself, they were shocked. And eventually, angry and pissed off.
"How could she be so selfish?" a couple of these Pollyannaddicts asked. Seriously? How often did she obviously cry out for help? How often did YOUR own selfishness make you ignore all the warning signs, the nonsensical chats at night fueled by Ambien, or her posts that ended with "Please don't reply, I am not looking for sympathy"? Honestly, do these Up With People Holly Hobbies ever see a world beyond the rose tinted glasses they think they can force everybody else to look through if we just "get positive!?"
Shea didn't die because she was selfish. She died from a variety of things, such as being ignored when she needed help or direction, but she wasn't selfish. Not in that way.
If somebody is hurting themselves constantly, the best way to help is not to ignore the situation and hope it gets better if you just give a disapproving scowl or a rude rebuttal. Here, try this: "Hey, I know you are having a tough time. I'm worried about you. I want you to get better. Please let me help."
In all my trials with depression, nobody ever said that to me. I am lucky to still be alive. In fact, because of what I went through, my life has gotten better, but I still live in fear. The males in my father's side are prone to strokes, and I've already had one. My phone is always charged and I am an expert at dialing with my left hand in case of another. I have an emergency message that will text my family if anything happens (assuming I can reach the phone, which is always with me). And I have somebody in my life who actually, if I fuck up, asks me not to fuck up again... no shame, just worry for myself and others.
What I don't have in my life anymore are people who think I am not worth investing time or energy in, or who are too ashamed of me to keep me in their life. I've gone thirty-plus years with those kind of relationships, I know now that I can't live with them.
The problem is, Shea couldn't get to my point of view. I still don't know how she killed herself, and I don't want to know. Out of respect for the girl I was friends with, and just a little bit of not wanting to get any ideas.
