Proof of Life
I’ve been wrestling alot with myself lately.
The truth is, I haven’t been doing very well at all. I’ve become withdrawn, and I’ve hardly been online to update much and I’m very sorry for that.
I really don’t know what else to do. I know that to go forward from here with EmsCharityKiss I need to be a lot more organised and determined than I have been before. This seems to get harder every day rather than easier.
This is what depression is. It isn’t glamorous, it isn’t a fad for celebrity. Depression is regretting waking up in the morning. Depression is wanting to stay in bed all day. Being anxious about looking on Facebook to see what other people are up to. Thinking that everyone seems so busy and productive compared to you. Thinking that you are a waste of space and time.
I wouldn’t wish depression on my worst enemy.
But I’m still here.
Baby, my adored friend,
Starting December 30th of last year until the end of April, I lost three beautiful people and had a VERY close call with another. It’s a miracle that she lived. First, Edders…. He killed himself on December 30th, leaving one single comment of cryptic lyrics from the song “Hitch A Ride” and then he was gone. I never knew, had not even a whisper of the idea, that he was even a little low, much less devastated.
Nick killed himself on April 14th. He was twenty four. He was a graduate of the UofA. He was a lover of the outdoors, a hiker, a biker, and had a love for extreme sports. He wore these glasses that looked so cute and gave him this charming, endearing aura. We would sit next to each other at my favorite sushi joint Ra, and he would order a Vegas Roll, smile at me and say sweet, friendly things to me very muted and soft, even if we had seven other loud people sitting at the table.
Peter Steele, vocalist of Type O Negative died of heart failure on April 4th. I have the sinking suspicion that he was indeed, back on cocaine. He struggled horribly with bipolar disorder, much like me, and he nearly suffered in silence. He stood 6’6″ and had the most beautiful Black Forest green eyes that I ever saw. They completely stunned me to the point that I couldn’t speak. That had never happened before with any musician and hasn’t happened since. I first chatted with him when I was nineteen, just after he did a full spread in Playgirl, lol. The best selling issue of all time, even today and that was ’96. I met him several times after but the last was in May of 2008. I sat down on the couch next to him in the dressing room. He looked like a drawn corpse. The hollow of his cheeks and eyes made his face look like a skull. He was horribly agitated and couldn’t stop fidgeting. I was then sure that it wouldn’t be long. And indeed it wasn’t.
Finally my dear friend Sheila. She left this odd update of facebook. Then, she called me an hour later and immediately hung up. I called her back nearly hysterical several times until she finally picked up the phone. While on the phone she said, “I’m tired, I’m just so tired. Will you speak for me? Will you tell me a story, just tell me a story. Do you think I’ll be a guardian angel?” I heard her swallowing pills on the phone and while she went on speaking, I heard her start fading and slurring until I didn’t hear anything anymore except a thunk and then the line went dead. It took me and my best friend Rose an hour and a half for paramedics to find her, as she’s in Atlanta and I didn’t have an address. When the police and EMTs finally found her she was unconscious, but her abusive husband told them to leave and that she was just drunk. She woke up forty eight hours later and she couldn’t walk, couldn’t speak. She finally managed to get to the hospital. She had literally taken enough phenobarbital to kill three people. Her liver is gone. She can’t even have a tiny bit of caffeine any more. And she’s very lucky. She tells me now that she’s got a new “lease on life” and she doesn’t need help. I’m not stupid. That’s what they all say. For the last three years she would call me in the dead of night from closets and secret bedrooms, in tears, whispering frantically that she was so scared and that he was going to kill her. I’ve been there, done that. I know. She, like most women, will not leave him. She’s not ready yet. I pray that she eventually gets brave enough before she’s murdered.
Myself, you know that I’ve always struggled with suicide; since I was eight years old. And now you know just how much I can empathize with that deep and eviscerating pain of that loss of people that went before you did, that felt what you feel, and barely spoke a word. My friends, my beloveds, reflections of my deepest monster. I love you. You inspire me to great heights and I hope in every valve of my heart that you know it, feel it in your bones.
Rana xx