Words Do Matter

“Once, an elderly general practitioner consulted me because of his severe depression. He could not overcome the loss of his wife who had died two years before and whom he had loved above all else. Now, how could I help him? What should I tell him? Well, I refrained from telling him anything but instead confronted him with the question, “What would have happened, Doctor, if you had died first, and your wife would have had to survive you?” “Oh,” he said, “for her this would have been terrible; how she would have suffered!” Whereupon I replied, “You see, Doctor, such a suffering has been spared her, and it was you who have spared her this suffering – to be sure, at the price that now you have to survive and mourn her.” He said no word but shook my hand and calmly left my office. In some way, suffering ceases to be suffering at the moment it finds a meaning, such as the meaning of a sacrifice. ” - Viktor Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning

A friend shared this passage with me when things were at there lowest, when I was in the psychiatric hospital. In my few days there, these were the most important, helpful words I heard. My friend helped me see  my suffering had meaning, that I needed to make it through for my son. She helped me see what I couldn’t. She gave me the perfect words. 

Giving words of comfort to a depressed/suicidal person is not an easy task. Like trying to impart wisdom to a teenager you are bound to be met with an angry “Nobody get’s me.” or a “Why can’t the people in my life talk to me like the characters on My So Called Life or Samantha’s dad in Sixteen Candles?”

So to hear the perfect words at a desperate moment, that is a gift like no other. Words aren’t everything but they are a very important thing, especially when those words give you another day.

I think when you spend over a year dealing with severe often suicidal depression you start to ponder a lot about yourself, those around you, and the world as a whole. You think about things you were never forced to consider before. Of all the different beliefs that were cemented in my thoughts during this past year, there is one I am more certain of then all the rest: Crazy people love PayDay candy bars. Now let me clarify, I do not believe all people who are mentally ill eat PayDays, that would be a ridiculous sweeping generalization. I do, however, believe anyone who eats a PayDay is some form of diagnosed or undiagnosed crazy. This stance is based on a lot of research. In my life, before I had my lovely stay at the mental hospital, (which I also like to refer to as one of Cleveland’s finest Bed and Breakfasts. No shit, Alton Brown would call it a delightful yet understated hidden gem.) I had never seen anyone eat a PayDay. During my brief residence at the crazy people B&B, I saw three different people eat them. I feel so strong in my convictions that if you see someone on the street eating a PayDay, you could ask them what SSRI they are currently on. I pretty much guarantee they would answer you with the same automatic response they have come accustomed to when answering the myriad of doctors they go to. And if you think about it, the crazy person/PayDay connection makes total sense because you have to be somewhat ill to be convinced this is a candy bar in the first place. A PayDay is a glorified hunk of nuts. Yet at every grocery store or drug store you go to, it has somehow gotten the glorious location of being with the good, chocolaty, legitimate candy bars. I mean really, the Bit-O-Honey has more of a right to be there. Now prehaps you are a PayDay fan and none of this makes sense to you. To you I say “Let me know if you need a good psychiatrist, I know tons of them.”