week 2: hearts & spades

Week 2 has officially been commandeered by the suicide of Kate Spade...

and the public discussion of depression and mental illness it has engendered. as is often the case with the suicide of a beloved public figure [as I am writing this, add Anthony Bordain to the tragic mix]  In her case the public persona being so fun and quirky, an icon of the urbane, styling city gal many of us aspired to be. 

I've been riveted by the story and its impact, obsessively reading articles and comments from hundreds of readers. There are all the letters from women reminiscing about when they got their first Kate Spade bag, which I didn't realize was a rite of passage for many affluent young women entering the workforce. This is the less interesting part of the story for me, given how it's more about the brand than the person. Also I acquired my Kate bags in an altogether different way:

My parents spouse went to Florida a swanky gala 

and all I got was this lousy t-shirt  fabulous handbag.

Every year she donated them as the most-coveted contribution to the swag bags for attendees of the annual benefit for a wonderful organization that helps women in need: a generous donation, which like most items in such bags, end up in the hands of people who could afford their contents. But for me, they were a treat of something I couldn't swing, not a step towards young adulthood but a nod back: an annual reminder that conjured the spirit of my younger self: adventurous and funny. relatively carefree, frequently in the thick of politicians and fashionistas and performers and all sorts of bold face names, in but not of, a constantly amused and amazed interloper. 


The comments and letters that have been pouring in are heartfelt, especially on Jezebel, where readers have let go of their frequently snarky tone for touchingly honest conversation among a wide range of women.  They speak with candor of depression and how misunderstood it is, especially the peaks and valleys that people with mental illness experience.  As Kate's family described, you can seem and even be fine one day (because they are not the same thing, not by a long shot, as the millions of us who feel compelled to hide our worst moments because of the enormous social stigma that still exists can attest) and be drowning the next.

Jezebel is an online site geared toward a young female audience - frustrating because I'm just as interested in their feminist take on the news and pop culture - and often dismissive or condescending to anyone over a certain age: 40? 50? At what age are we suddenly referred to as grey's or old's? Why isn't ageism as verboten as racism and sexism?  Hey girls, we're all going to get older...if we're lucky!

Kate Spade was not. Even being rich and successful and well-known, even having a beautiful and loving family isn't enough to save someone in the fierce undertow of suicidal depression.  She was 55, which is only young when you're dead. (that alone should be enough to change how we view women no longer in their youth.) 
Over and over I read some version of my story,  as women connect with each other in a way they likely don't in person (outside of a therapy setting):

Oh my God, are you me? I generally feel like a naturally happy person; at the same time, it is pretty easy for me to end up getting swamped by the depression that coexists with my baseline level of happiness.

These threads of women telling their stories is social media at its best: a way to connect and feel that you were not all alone in whatever you were going through, the viral arms embracing strangers in the depths of loneliness, providing a lifeline to the hopeless. And yet that sort of raw honest sharing is far outweighed by millions of self-promoting or highly curated depictions of idealized personas or brands of how we wish to be seen.  Even knowing the effort made to maintain the brand, having it in my face obliterated my inner wisdom, the pointlessness and possible danger of "comparing our insides to others' outsides". 

It’s time for brands to go back to being depersonalized concepts with a fictional logo or mascot. Most people aren’t constituted to represent some huge concept with and for their entire lives.  It also puts the livelihoods of too many people at risk based on missteps or weaknesses of the human who supposedly epitomizes the brand. 
  
But even the most enlightened and useful articles tend to put too much of the onus on the sufferer and not enough responsibility on the rest of us to listen without judgement, to stop offering uninvited, useless advice, to stop dismissing those with depression as complainers, people who just don't try hard enough.  I've become a phone-aphobe, someone who dreads social gatherings and rehearses my response to the inevitable "How are you?"s from people. I realize for the most part they don't care about the answer, but I don't like to be dishonest. I've settled on "Hanging in there" with a shrug of the shoulders and a slight smile, and then without missing a beat I ask about the other person or bring up some shared topic of interest so I don't have to continue the sham.  

If we really worked on removing stigma then I and the millions of people like me could say - not to everyone, but with discretion, to those who really do or might care: I'm really depressed, I'm not doing well, I'm having a hard time lately, whatever our truth is we would speak it and people would look us in the eyes and say, I'm sorry to hear that, and then they'd listen.  They wouldn't offer unsolicited advice or ways to fix things or reasons why you should feel better. If warranted, they'd offer a hug or help if there was something they could do, like taking care of some of the daily living tasks that are especially challenging when you are feeling completely depleted from depression.  Most of us don't have the option to lie in bed with the covers over us.  We carry the burden while holding down jobs or raising children or taking care of homes and pets and loved ones and the many tasks of daily life, no matter how dreadful that life can feel. We are grateful. We are invested in pulling ourselves out of the deep holes we find ourselves in. We are seeking professional help or going to support groups. And still sometimes it's not enough. 

Major depression is not the same as having a bad day or being a little sad about something it's appropriate to be sad about.  Depression and PTSD and bipolar disorder are diseases, people! Just like high blood pressure or epilepsy or asthma, requiring treatment. Often long-term.   

I feel fortunate that I've never been suicidal at all; I'm deeply greedy for a long life, in part because the last decade has been so mentally exhausting and I want to compensate with a happier old age.  In fact even with depression I am an easily happy, appreciative, delighted person.  Give me a smart funny person to hang out with, a well-written article/movie/sitcom, a good cup of coffee, a perfectly grilled fish taco, a hammock under a tree, the sound of water, a great piece of music, I could name hundreds of things I enjoy, that bring me joy.  Like this bag. Every time I put it over my shoulder it made me smile. I wore  it until it became unusable from wear and tear.  It's a reminder now, of smart funny creative women who carry their secrets.