My Kate Spade Story (spoiler: I suffer too)
Tuesday, like millions of others, I was shocked to learn about Kate Spade’s untimely death by suicide. I had the reaction I have every time I learn about someone famous, living a seemingly idyllic life, taking their own life: shock and surprise and then a reminder that nothing is ever as it seems. I appreciated the endless tributes and the charming stories we all shared about our first Kate Spade bag. I remember being in my early 30s and coveting the simple nylon black bag. I started noticing my trendy co-workers in NYC carrying these simple, nondescript bags and wondered what all the fuss was about. Then I got a closer look and caught the bug. My first indulgence was the diaper bag. It was so chic and NY and I felt like a far better mommy because I had one.
Those stories were sweet and reminiscent of a period of time for me when I was discovering my own style and taste. But, beneath the stories lay the realization that Kate Spade had no way to experience the immense impact she had on so many women (and men)’s lives. The darkness that lorded over her and distorted her view of reality prevented her from relishing the pleasure she brought to so many. She lived with depression and anxiety and it likely consumed most of her energy to manage the demons that haunted her mind. Beneath the gallery of smiling images that the news media replayed over and over lay a deep and profound sadness that many, like me, intimately understand.
The dirty little secret that we do not like to share is that many of us carry that same load, some days heavier and some lighter. Sometimes we forget that it is on our backs and some days the weight feels so overwhelming that we cannot stand. The dysphoria caused by depression and anxiety is acute. And, it often requires every ounce of energy we have to remember to breathe in and out and fight the noise telling us to simply stop going forward. The laughter that flows freely one day can quickly disappear and be replaced by immense pain and hopelessness. No amount of love, adoration, affection or encouragement treats the wound. We are hollow and there is simply no light.
Yes, you never know the burden that someone else is carrying and we are quick to judge others without ever understanding their struggle. Mental illness must be taken seriously and, ideally, we would have a safe space to tell our stories but, in fact, the only reason why I can tell my story today is because my mind is clear and I am not in the throes of battle with my own depression. I feel hopeful and can experience joy. That might disappear in a day or a week or a month. And, when it does, I have no voice. I cannot find the words to share my pain. I just want to lay in my bed, numb myself and disappear into the darkness. Most people around me — even those who love me the most — have no idea what I am experiencing. They may think that I am off or having a bad day. If they have never experienced depression, they equate it to a sad spell or a rough patch. They can never understand the thoughts that overtake me, struggling to remember that I have two children who need their mom. They can’t imagine how I could lose sight of how the world would be less wonderful without me in it. The voice is my head booms loud telling me that this journey is too hard, too overwhelming and I am destined to fail. Might as well just give up. If those thoughts have not been verbalized in your brain, you can’t possibly imagine how impossible it is to lift yourself up, dust yourself off and start a new day.
I suppose this is my birthright. As a young girl, I spent at least two miserable evenings in the hospital waiting room, not understanding why the ambulance took my mother away, groggy or unconscious. Pills were her outlet and I had not yet glimpsed into the mouth of the monster so there was no way for me to process what was happening to her. Instead, I was terrified and angry, feeling unloved and neglected. Why would she try to leave me motherless? Little did I understand that my mother was gone, consumed by depression and anxiety. She just never fell deep enough into the darkness to not be able to make her way back.
We need to take this illness seriously. We need to understand that it is all around us. Even those of us who have smiling faces on Facebook and can share our #gratitude suffer. We just do a really great job of covering. Until we cannot. And we always navigate the razor’s edge and pray that the last image of us is not one with a white sheet over our bodies.
Depression is real. Anxiety is real. Today is a good day for me. Let’s hope it is not my last.
