The Darker Side of Writing
- Erica Farner
- Jun 18, 2018
- 6 min read
*Trigger warning: This post has some very heavy talk of mental health issues, including suicide and self-harm. If you or someone you know is struggling, please seek help. The National Suicide Prevention Hotline number is 1-800-273-8255. You are not alone. There is hope, and it does get better.*
It's no secret to anyone who knows me that I suffer from very severe depression and anxiety. The depression has been around as long as I can remember, and while the anxiety is a relatively new development that I'm still learning to cope with, I'm pushing through and taking each day as it comes.
As I said in my into post, GetLiterary is here to cover all things writing-related, including some of my own writing, which is what I'm going to do here. In the spirit of transparency, I'm blatantly telling you now that this is going to be a dark post, but I promise I am okay. Most people who write will have some dark things tumble out from time to time, and I've been through and dealt with some things. I don't always share those things, but I think it's important to show the side of writing that many writers tend to be "ashamed of"— the side of writing that goes where polite company doesn't see.
Please, whether you're a new writer or a regular sage of writing, do not hide that part of you. For one, writing about it at all can bring you healing by standing up and facing the facts. Telling yourself, "This is what happened," is the first step to feeling like yourself again. It's scary to be vulnerable, yes, but there is also so much value in it. I'm not saying by any means that you should put yourself out there if you don't feel comfortable or ready to do so. I'm saying that, if you feel the nudge, don't bury it.
It's easy to think that everyone's life is perfect. That's what we all tend to show on social media. Sharing your struggles, however, can serve as a reminder that nobody is alone. It does not glorify the actions people take when they're hurting (don't even get me started on the controversy around 13 Reasons Why), but rather helps others to understand what goes on in his/her mind.
When I was 14 years old, I lost a very close friend to suicide. In 2016, her younger brother took his life the same way she did. They were both like family to me. What follows is a short excerpt of the memoir I'm working on writing (the book I mentioned in my intro post). As I said, this will be tough to read, but it's supposed to be. With writing this, my goal is to bring awareness to the things that those suffering from mental illness have to deal with each and every day. Maybe it will help the parents of a struggling teen. Maybe it will remind someone who feels as if they've reached the end of their rope that they aren't the only person feeling this way.
If you have any desire to tear me down, save it for someone who will listen. That being said, just because this is a difficult topic, that doesn't mean I won't accept constructive criticism. I would be happy to hear anything you think might help improve what I've written. Please feel free to share this post with others if you would like for them to hear the message. Without further ado, here goes nothing:
"She's gone, Erica."
I swallowed the hot lump that was rising in my throat and choked out, "You're not serious."
Her mom scoffed in disbelief. "You really think I would be joking about this?" Her voice cracked. "Mike found her this morning. I thought you should be one of the first to know."
Tears stung my eyes as I hung up the phone. I was speechless. My heart was throwing itself against my rib cage. My chest physically hurt. I could barely breathe. There was no way this was happening. It couldn't be happening. At 14 years old, one of the most incredible people I had ever known had killed herself. Not even 12 hours before, I was speaking to her on the phone. I wanted to fly down to Kentucky and hug her. But I couldn't.
She was gone.
She was the kind of person who, any time I was upset, would spend hours with me on the phone, making dumb jokes and reminding me of all the good things life had to offer, even if she didn't feel them herself. She would sing improvised songs in a terrible English accent just to make me laugh (and when I really got going, she called it my hyena laugh). She was warm and kind, but held my feet to the fire when I needed to get my head out of my rear and think logically. If she could have seen me in that moment, she would have hugged me, let me cry and snot all over her, and then tickled me until my tears had changed to tears of joy instead of sorrow. But she couldn't.
She was gone.
It was a Saturday night, and my parents were out of the house for a reason that I can't recall at the moment. The two siblings that still lived in the house were upstairs in my brother's attic room, so I was alone downstairs. I sat on the floor and sobbed. I screamed. I pounded my fists against everything and anything I could reach. Smokey, my cat, jumped down from his climbing tower and streaked across the living room, desperate to get away from my outburst. I turned toward him and screamed, "Good! Get out! Get! Go!" I knew that yelling at him was misplaced— he was an innocent kitty who was just afraid of my behavior— but I couldn't bring myself to care.
She was gone.
How could she do this to me? How could she, knowing that I needed her, kill herself? How could she let her father walk into her bedroom and see her lifeless body hanging there? What kind of selfish person would allow everyone around them to feel the agony of losing her? I wanted to get in her face and tell her just how pissed I was at her for doing this. But I couldn't.
She was gone.
As the days passed, I became numb. I couldn't go to Kentucky for her funeral. I couldn't properly say goodbye to the friend who had gotten me through so much. And why should I get closure, anyway? I didn't deserve it. It was my fault that she was gone. When I had spoken to her just a few hours before her death, I knew something was off, but I didn't bring it up. I knew it was "that time of the month" for her, and so I assumed that she was just feeling moody and that it would pass. Because I didn't do anything, however, it wouldn't pass. At least, not in the way that we all wished it would have. I blamed myself, and the guilt was overwhelming.
She was gone, and it was my fault.
Before she left us, I had already struggled with depression for a few years, but after she left us, it got worse. Much, much worse. It seemed like I was just lost in the cold night with no desire to be found. I wanted to feel something other than guilt, so I turned to cutting. I got a sick sense of satisfaction out of dragging something sharp along my skin, feeling it bite into my flesh; after all, it was nothing compared to what she must have felt when she took her last breaths.
She was gone, and it was my fault.
It took a while before people started to notice what I was doing. I was good at hiding it. Everyone saw me as the same, happy-go-lucky person I always was; and there was no reason they should see me as anything else. (Just a reminder that someone could be struggling even if they don't seem like they are.) It wasn't until the first time I attempted that everyone around me really saw how bad things were for me. I attempted to drown myself. Obviously, I was unsuccessful (which I am now very thankful for); my instincts kicked in and wouldn't let me stay under the water any longer. I finally decided that I needed to talk to my parents about it. They reported me to the Student Assistance Program at school, which landed me in weekly, sometimes more frequent, counseling sessions. From someone who thought therapy would not help in the slightest, let me tell you it made a world of difference.
Slowly, things started to get better for me.
Maybe it wasn't my fault after all.
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