The Elephant in the Room (suicide)

I'm coming up on the one-year anniversary of my friend's suicide. Her memory is occupying my thoughts more frequently -- almost like they did in the months following her choice. She was sick, living her life with a severe mental illness. Sometimes she suffered debilitating lows and other times she soared joyful heights. Such is the existence of someone with bipolar disorder.

I used the word "choice" earlier and I don't believe she made a choice. She had no choice. Bipolar disorder is a disease of the brain and, when it wants to, it hijacks your mind. Seeking help is a choice, which she did. Eating well, exercising, participating in support groups, etc. are choices and she did all those things. She was an active advocate for herself and others with mental illness. She spoke up and spoke out, educating the people around her. She didn't hide her struggles in shame. That's a dangerous practice, she knew it, and she encouraged others step over shame and embrace help. Those are choices.

Sometimes, though, the disease trespasses into a life in recovery without anyone knowing it. Sometimes it snatches you right out of your life and all you can do is hold on for all you're worth until the heavens drop you from their heights or the void pukes you up from the depths.

My friend did not choose. She simply could not hold on long enough and the void swallowed her whole.