This is what I plan to post on my Facebook right before I go. I included a few things i learned from this wonderful group, too. Feel free to let me know what you think.
_______________
to my beloved family and friends (and sure, even you acquaintances),
a few of you will receive private letters, but i felt it is important to not leave people in the dark.
i want to apologize for the immense pain my decision will create, even though an apology is absurdly insufficient. my sorrow over hurting you is indescribable. i hope this letter will ease some of the pain and can exist as something to revisit as you move through the grief and anger.
this is not an impulsive decision; it's one that has been decades in the making. i've just been postponing it as long as possible. i was probably nine years old the first time i decided to take my own life. i shredded my little diary and disposed of the pages, and went into the street to step in front of a truck. survival instinct kicked in at the last moment and i chose differently. but i have been eyeing that truck ever since, so to speak.
i do not believe suicide is a reasonable way out for most people who live with depression and anxiety. for so many, a combination of therapy and medication works wonders. if that is you, KEEP GOING. you've got this. but for the rest of us, we're stuck. it just. doesn't. work. for people like me, it isn't a manageable case of the sads. nothing, and i mean NOTHING, keeps the insurmountable anguish at a reasonable distance. the only "drug" that works for me is external validation, and that is profoundly unsustainable. weed isn't my thing; it just makes me panicky. i'm not a drinker; it just gives me migraines. antidepressants did nothing; we tried that when i was a teenager, and i tried it again in adulthood. my brain makeup doesn't allow for meditation; it's laughable. therapy is useless for me. and it is exhausting to keep "shopping" for the right one in hopes of finding a fit. my most recent therapist, who was deeply ill-equipped to help a client in crisis, suggested i take a "nice hot bath and watch a funny movie". i was like… "uhhh… i still have to deal with myself once i towel off and when the credits roll". oy. a while ago i did call that standard suicide hotline… and was repeatedly disconnected before a human even answered the call. it was almost comical. upon researching that issue, i found that the suicide hotline has failed a lot of people. one "counselor" told a woman she should go get her nails done.
what some of us are wrestling is not the cheeky little animated cloud in antidepressant ads. it's an absolute undefeatable monster that steals joy.
but i want to be clear that i have known joy. fleeting, yes, but i've been lucky to know it. and my greatest joys have been with so many of you. theatre kept me alive. rehearsing with you, laughing my ass off with you, connecting with you. hitting the joke just right and waiting out the crest of audience laughter to continue with the scene. opening night exhilaration. closing night hugs. holding your hand at curtain call. exchanging gifts. dressing room shenanigans and talking shit. the nights when we are so locked in, that nothing exists but your eyes staring back into mine and the text feels brand new again. struggling to click with a particular scene and then the utter exhilaration of finally GETTING IT on the night of final dress.
i have known god, whatever that may be, in all those moments. i know you know what i mean.
but inevitably, i'm always left with the monster. he waits.
what i find unlivable is that i have been feeding the monster. and in turn, i have hurt a lot of people throughout my life. my toxicity has hurt those closest to me in indescribable ways. and when they (understandably) leave me, i cannot cope. my depression/anxiety/toxicity has destroyed so much… and most recently, my beloved best friend. (name redacted) was the greatest partner who protected, comforted, and loved me at my MOST unlovable. and that extraordinary rare precious gift wasn't enough to save me from myself, and it wasn't enough to stop me from repeatedly setting fire to our marriage. i cannot fault him for walking away.
the pandemic has made it worse, which is obvious. suicides have risen because of it, and i get it. the loneliness is unbearable. waking up each day is a disappointment; i've been longing to die in my sleep. the days are long. i think hours have gone by and i look at the clock to see twenty minutes have passed. i am alone in this apartment, pacing the floor. friends have offered to go on walks, and i can't do it. i sob and sob and sob. at a certain point, one becomes a burden to those friendships when they have nothing to fill the relationship's tank. i am emptied out. the well is bone dry. i have thought long and hard about what would make me "feel better". even if i COULD hug someone, or even if the industry was back on its feet, or even if i could get back onstage today, the monster of despair would be right there with me. it never ends. i know myself well enough to recognize the difference between fixable cracks versus being irreparably broken.
i cannot continue this battle. reading through my old journals, it's all the same. decades of utter misery. clawing to get my nose above water to achieve the things i want, achieving the thing, feeling no different, and drowning all over again. for those who love someone like me, the knee-jerk response is to be like "no! she has so much to live for! we must do something to help stop her from killing herself!". what you need to understand is that people like me have already killed themselves where it really counts. and as david foster wallace said, "when they 'commit suicide', they're just being orderly".
i look in the mirror and feel so much guilt, because i have a fuckload of privilege. i'm able-bodied, white, conventionally attractive, relatively financially stable, i have parents whose greatest wish is for me to be happy. and even with all this, i can't make it work.
i have been hanging on as long as i can for the people who love me, and this decision has been far from easy. but the time has come when the pain i feel from being alive has become more intense than the pain i feel from the guilt of initiating a situation that causes my loved ones to grieve. my hope is that you can find comfort in knowing that i am no longer in pain. if my suffering was from a physical ailment, you would be deeply deeply saddened by my death, but would likely find consolation in that line of thinking. i hope you can apply it here. just because my ailment cannot be seen on a CT scan does not make it any less real.
I'll leave you with this quote from David Foster Wallace:
"a person doesn't try to end her life because death seems suddenly appealing. the person in whom its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning highrise. make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows - their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view: i.e., the fear of falling remains a constant. the variable here is the other terror, the fire's flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of the two terrors."
i love you all. thank you for loving me back. i'm so sorry for hurting you.
_______________
to my beloved family and friends (and sure, even you acquaintances),
a few of you will receive private letters, but i felt it is important to not leave people in the dark.
i want to apologize for the immense pain my decision will create, even though an apology is absurdly insufficient. my sorrow over hurting you is indescribable. i hope this letter will ease some of the pain and can exist as something to revisit as you move through the grief and anger.
this is not an impulsive decision; it's one that has been decades in the making. i've just been postponing it as long as possible. i was probably nine years old the first time i decided to take my own life. i shredded my little diary and disposed of the pages, and went into the street to step in front of a truck. survival instinct kicked in at the last moment and i chose differently. but i have been eyeing that truck ever since, so to speak.
i do not believe suicide is a reasonable way out for most people who live with depression and anxiety. for so many, a combination of therapy and medication works wonders. if that is you, KEEP GOING. you've got this. but for the rest of us, we're stuck. it just. doesn't. work. for people like me, it isn't a manageable case of the sads. nothing, and i mean NOTHING, keeps the insurmountable anguish at a reasonable distance. the only "drug" that works for me is external validation, and that is profoundly unsustainable. weed isn't my thing; it just makes me panicky. i'm not a drinker; it just gives me migraines. antidepressants did nothing; we tried that when i was a teenager, and i tried it again in adulthood. my brain makeup doesn't allow for meditation; it's laughable. therapy is useless for me. and it is exhausting to keep "shopping" for the right one in hopes of finding a fit. my most recent therapist, who was deeply ill-equipped to help a client in crisis, suggested i take a "nice hot bath and watch a funny movie". i was like… "uhhh… i still have to deal with myself once i towel off and when the credits roll". oy. a while ago i did call that standard suicide hotline… and was repeatedly disconnected before a human even answered the call. it was almost comical. upon researching that issue, i found that the suicide hotline has failed a lot of people. one "counselor" told a woman she should go get her nails done.
what some of us are wrestling is not the cheeky little animated cloud in antidepressant ads. it's an absolute undefeatable monster that steals joy.
but i want to be clear that i have known joy. fleeting, yes, but i've been lucky to know it. and my greatest joys have been with so many of you. theatre kept me alive. rehearsing with you, laughing my ass off with you, connecting with you. hitting the joke just right and waiting out the crest of audience laughter to continue with the scene. opening night exhilaration. closing night hugs. holding your hand at curtain call. exchanging gifts. dressing room shenanigans and talking shit. the nights when we are so locked in, that nothing exists but your eyes staring back into mine and the text feels brand new again. struggling to click with a particular scene and then the utter exhilaration of finally GETTING IT on the night of final dress.
i have known god, whatever that may be, in all those moments. i know you know what i mean.
but inevitably, i'm always left with the monster. he waits.
what i find unlivable is that i have been feeding the monster. and in turn, i have hurt a lot of people throughout my life. my toxicity has hurt those closest to me in indescribable ways. and when they (understandably) leave me, i cannot cope. my depression/anxiety/toxicity has destroyed so much… and most recently, my beloved best friend. (name redacted) was the greatest partner who protected, comforted, and loved me at my MOST unlovable. and that extraordinary rare precious gift wasn't enough to save me from myself, and it wasn't enough to stop me from repeatedly setting fire to our marriage. i cannot fault him for walking away.
the pandemic has made it worse, which is obvious. suicides have risen because of it, and i get it. the loneliness is unbearable. waking up each day is a disappointment; i've been longing to die in my sleep. the days are long. i think hours have gone by and i look at the clock to see twenty minutes have passed. i am alone in this apartment, pacing the floor. friends have offered to go on walks, and i can't do it. i sob and sob and sob. at a certain point, one becomes a burden to those friendships when they have nothing to fill the relationship's tank. i am emptied out. the well is bone dry. i have thought long and hard about what would make me "feel better". even if i COULD hug someone, or even if the industry was back on its feet, or even if i could get back onstage today, the monster of despair would be right there with me. it never ends. i know myself well enough to recognize the difference between fixable cracks versus being irreparably broken.
i cannot continue this battle. reading through my old journals, it's all the same. decades of utter misery. clawing to get my nose above water to achieve the things i want, achieving the thing, feeling no different, and drowning all over again. for those who love someone like me, the knee-jerk response is to be like "no! she has so much to live for! we must do something to help stop her from killing herself!". what you need to understand is that people like me have already killed themselves where it really counts. and as david foster wallace said, "when they 'commit suicide', they're just being orderly".
i look in the mirror and feel so much guilt, because i have a fuckload of privilege. i'm able-bodied, white, conventionally attractive, relatively financially stable, i have parents whose greatest wish is for me to be happy. and even with all this, i can't make it work.
i have been hanging on as long as i can for the people who love me, and this decision has been far from easy. but the time has come when the pain i feel from being alive has become more intense than the pain i feel from the guilt of initiating a situation that causes my loved ones to grieve. my hope is that you can find comfort in knowing that i am no longer in pain. if my suffering was from a physical ailment, you would be deeply deeply saddened by my death, but would likely find consolation in that line of thinking. i hope you can apply it here. just because my ailment cannot be seen on a CT scan does not make it any less real.
I'll leave you with this quote from David Foster Wallace:
"a person doesn't try to end her life because death seems suddenly appealing. the person in whom its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning highrise. make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows - their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view: i.e., the fear of falling remains a constant. the variable here is the other terror, the fire's flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of the two terrors."
i love you all. thank you for loving me back. i'm so sorry for hurting you.
