I always say it’s a writer’s duty to be vulnerable on the page, to write about taboos, to spelunk into the darkness, unearth the dead—whatever it takes to write this nettlesome, knotty, slippery, sharp thing known as the truth.
Somehow, almost two years ago now, the universe led me to Nothing Short of 100 which led me to 100 Word Story which led me to The Art of Brevity and, of course, to you, Grant Faulkner. How grateful am I for all of that? I know I'm just one soul of many who connect to your words almost every single time. Thank you, Grant, for all of those words. I'm in line to sit next to you... to just sit... do nothing... other than just listen, laugh, feel comforted.
Thanks so much, Rachel! It's so interesting what a difference a simple medication can make. It doesn't work for all, I know, but I can't believe I had to live 61 years before figuring this out.
Soooo courageous of you to pull your covers like this! Wow! "My bruised brain. I live with an ache. A sad ache. A yearning ache. A melancholic ache. But now I also live with loads of anxiety."
Me too Grant, me too.
I've only seriously considered suicide once as an option for relief. Although it's been an idle thought that's surfaced a few times over the years.
I was 25, my life was going nowhere, with no hopeful outlook. I felt like a prisoner of circumstances that I had no agency over. Doomed. I did eventually shift that reality, but the feeling of impending doom has dogged me like a shadow all my life.
It seems to run in my family. My dad spent a lifetime in depression. He chose booze as his relief valve. As do I. I have the dark periods where all I want is to feel nothing, to escape the bleak landscape of my mind. It takes a massive effort to pull myself out of the tail spins. Which so far, at the end of my 6th decade, I've always managed to do.
But one of my sisters didn't. She succumbed to the blessed relief of oblivion and took herself out. I actually didn't feel sad about that. I saw her lying in her bed, covers pulled around her, looking like she was just sleeping. I felt relieved for her. She was out of her existential pain. Finally. She was 47. She'd been trying unsuccessfully to be rid of this world since her first suicide attempt at 16.
I've not had much success with antidepressants in the past. Either my anxiety levels would rev up like I was coming onto acid or I felt like my brain and body were swathed in cotton.
I have Lexapro, which I never took when my Dr prescribed it last year. I got it out of the cabinet and set it on the counter. It's been there for a couple of weeks now, whispering to me to give it a shot. I've just been so anxious ( as I am about everything these days) about the side effects.
Maybe time to bite the bullet, see if it will help banish the gray cloud that floats around on the edge of my periphery.
Thank you for exposing yourself with so much truth and honesty, Grant. And for writing it so eloquently! 👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻💖
Jody, I have the same words for you—thank you for your sharing and your vulnerability. This is so interesting; "the feeling of impending doom has dogged me like a shadow all my life." It's funny because when I think back to certain periods of my lfie, it's always dark, night time, as if I didn't experience daylight. So that gray cloud that floats around on the edge of your periphery is very real.
I don't know what to say about the Lexapro. Everyone has a different reaction to these things. I marvel at it because it flipped the switch in my brain so quickly and so effectively. I wonder who I'd be if I'd been able to take it decades ago. Because the depression definitely sabotaged me in many ways, and like you, I tended to self-medicate (without know it) with alcohol.
THnx for your good words Grant. Given your positive experience with Lexapro, I started taking it yesterday. I’m keeping my fingers crossed it works for me too! 🤞🏻
Reading this hit me in a spot that goes deeper than deep, Grant. I have a scenes in my memoir about going to Ordinary People, not knowing what I was about to see. My twin had died and suddenly I was as alone as I’d ever been. That was my family, they looked like my parents and Lynne was the golden child gone stupidly. I was Timothy Hutton. I was 25. So, this is why we write our stories and our stories about discovering our stories are your stories and yes, we do belong after all. Thanks, Grant. I’m changed again.
Wow, Jeanne. Thanks so much for sharing your story. That's intense. You were a mirror of Ordinary People. I can't imagine going into that film as you did not knowing how it was going to reflect your life. Yes, this is why we write our stories.
So many thoughts and emotions while reading this, Grant.
You've given me understanding + new questions about my mother's life & suicide. As you describe YOU here, you describe HER precisely: "jolly, gregarious, adventurous, loving, giving, cracking jokes, stirring things up, teasing, bantering, bringing people together, enjoying life."
Thanks so much, Tanya, for reading and for your thoughtful words. It's really interesting to me that we can have such discordant selves. I try to never quite believe anyone's surface, or to at least assume there are other sides at work.
You write, and I read. You share a personal thought, and I nod. You ask nothing, while you share unselfishly. Through you I grow. Without you, I just might melt into an abyss of boredom.
Grant--this peace is a gift because many people have been on similar journeys and don't know how to talk about them, let alone write about them. And the minimalist style is unexpected, when applied to a subject with such over-determined meaning--as though suicide is a pre-fab house and nothing new can be said about it. I recognize some of these states, and I'm sure other people do, too. So thank you for this generous piece.
Thanks for reading, Thaisa, and for your words. It's one difficult subject to talk about. I'm much better discussing it all on the page than speaking about it. For many reasons. I know most people never speak about it, so hopefully there's a connection on the page.
I remember telling my therapist years ago how hard it was to not be able to tell the truth about feelings like this. I had a recurring dream my entire childhood. In every one of them I was walking along a sidewalk and there was a puddle in the middle of it. I knew if I jumped in I could disappear. Every dream I would jump in. And then I'd wake up. Here I am again. Anyway, thank you for the share. I didn't read the first couple of days because I suspected it could touch some tender spots within. Important work.
It's interesting: it's such a taboo subject that it can feel wrong to even tell your therapist. I've never had a recurring dream like the one you had. So fascinating, the mysteries of the mind.
THIS: "My question: where would anyone want to live other than the edge?" When the bipolar switch in my brain turned on at 15 years old, and the cycles of black, gray, and incandescent white began, I grew addicted to the highs. I'd say to anyone who counseled me in my most manic moments to slow down, "If you're not living on the edge, you're taking up way too much space." The concept of taking up too much space eventually seized the lows, as well, and led to much suicidal ideation. Yes, medication - the correct pharmaceutical cocktail - is a miracle.
But the tendencies toward erasure? Those remain.
Thank you, Grant, for being vulnerable and sharing your story. The more people speak to their mental health frankly, the less the stigma.
I appreciate you for sharing your story, Megan. I'm glad that you found meds to help with the "bipolar switch" (a good way to pu this. But you're right, the meds can only do so much. Keep writing. Keep sharing.
Grant--thank you for staying-- and for somehow putting words to that feeling of ruminating about doing it yet knowing you won't yet being concerned that you might... You've threaded a literary and emotional and taboo set of needles here in such a deft and relatable manner. In my journal today, just before reading this, I wrote (not in relation to writing the truth, but other facets of my life and now I see how it can also apply in writing--because how we do anything is how we do everything): I'm willing to have some discomfort in service of the truth. When avoiding discomfort becomes my "truth," my "truth" is controlling me--I am gripping to a small feeling instead of trusting the vast. Again, happy you stayed. And thank goodness for depression/anxiety meds.
Thanks so much, Laura Jane. I appreciate your words. You said it: "how we do anything is how we do everything." Go with the discomfort. Be in service. You'll find many adventures by "trusting the vast." I like the way you put that.
Wow! I'm a psychotherapist and this is the most honest look at depression I have ever witnessed. This transparency is rare, and will help so many people - you have no idea, both sufferers and family - to find help and peace. Thank you!
Wow, thanks so much, Nikki! These words mean a lot. The main (and maybe the only) purpose my writing serves is to reach those who might see themselves in my experiences and feel a little less alone.
Mission accomplished. I write about grief on Substack, and there are a dozen or so moms whose sons committed suicide, and they will gain comfort from what you wrote. They can't help but feel they should have seen it, done something, or been there. I'm so glad you got the help to prevent you from dancing on the edge.
When you wrote this: "As tension builds, the body begins to crave the feeling it experiences during cutting."
I read this: As tension builds, the body begins to CARVE the feeling it experiences during cutting.
You have given me a modicum of courage, Grant. Wondering now if I can exercise that in my writing. However, I can't imagine finding better words than yours for the lived experience we seem to share.
Thanks, Karen. I feel like each of our experiences, each of our pains, is its own unique thing, so I hope you do try to go there in your writing. You'll find words particular to you, I know.
Somehow, almost two years ago now, the universe led me to Nothing Short of 100 which led me to 100 Word Story which led me to The Art of Brevity and, of course, to you, Grant Faulkner. How grateful am I for all of that? I know I'm just one soul of many who connect to your words almost every single time. Thank you, Grant, for all of those words. I'm in line to sit next to you... to just sit... do nothing... other than just listen, laugh, feel comforted.
Thanks so much for sharing this, Nin! And ... wow, I'm so glad you discovered Nothing Short of 100—and beyond!
Thank you for your vulnerability Grant ♥️ Holding you tight.
You’re an inspiration, my friend.
(When my doctor prescribed a low dose of Lexapro during the pandemic, it slowed down my constant spiraling anxiety, which I’d had since I was a kid.)
Thanks so much, Rachel! It's so interesting what a difference a simple medication can make. It doesn't work for all, I know, but I can't believe I had to live 61 years before figuring this out.
Extraordinary work here, Grant. Bravo.
Thanks, Liz!
Brilliant honest piece
Thank you for sharing it in the world
With the world
I notice the 18 sections. Eighteen in Hebrew is Life.
Wow, I didn't notice that, Elaine. Or I didn't know about the number 18 in Hebrew. I like the coincidence.
I do too.
Soooo courageous of you to pull your covers like this! Wow! "My bruised brain. I live with an ache. A sad ache. A yearning ache. A melancholic ache. But now I also live with loads of anxiety."
Me too Grant, me too.
I've only seriously considered suicide once as an option for relief. Although it's been an idle thought that's surfaced a few times over the years.
I was 25, my life was going nowhere, with no hopeful outlook. I felt like a prisoner of circumstances that I had no agency over. Doomed. I did eventually shift that reality, but the feeling of impending doom has dogged me like a shadow all my life.
It seems to run in my family. My dad spent a lifetime in depression. He chose booze as his relief valve. As do I. I have the dark periods where all I want is to feel nothing, to escape the bleak landscape of my mind. It takes a massive effort to pull myself out of the tail spins. Which so far, at the end of my 6th decade, I've always managed to do.
But one of my sisters didn't. She succumbed to the blessed relief of oblivion and took herself out. I actually didn't feel sad about that. I saw her lying in her bed, covers pulled around her, looking like she was just sleeping. I felt relieved for her. She was out of her existential pain. Finally. She was 47. She'd been trying unsuccessfully to be rid of this world since her first suicide attempt at 16.
I've not had much success with antidepressants in the past. Either my anxiety levels would rev up like I was coming onto acid or I felt like my brain and body were swathed in cotton.
I have Lexapro, which I never took when my Dr prescribed it last year. I got it out of the cabinet and set it on the counter. It's been there for a couple of weeks now, whispering to me to give it a shot. I've just been so anxious ( as I am about everything these days) about the side effects.
Maybe time to bite the bullet, see if it will help banish the gray cloud that floats around on the edge of my periphery.
Thank you for exposing yourself with so much truth and honesty, Grant. And for writing it so eloquently! 👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻💖
Jody, I have the same words for you—thank you for your sharing and your vulnerability. This is so interesting; "the feeling of impending doom has dogged me like a shadow all my life." It's funny because when I think back to certain periods of my lfie, it's always dark, night time, as if I didn't experience daylight. So that gray cloud that floats around on the edge of your periphery is very real.
I don't know what to say about the Lexapro. Everyone has a different reaction to these things. I marvel at it because it flipped the switch in my brain so quickly and so effectively. I wonder who I'd be if I'd been able to take it decades ago. Because the depression definitely sabotaged me in many ways, and like you, I tended to self-medicate (without know it) with alcohol.
Be well. Keep sharing.
THnx for your good words Grant. Given your positive experience with Lexapro, I started taking it yesterday. I’m keeping my fingers crossed it works for me too! 🤞🏻
Let me know how it goes, Jody. They told me it could take 3-4 weeks to take effect.
Thank you for writing this brave piece. Such a gift. It helps us understand loved ones with emotional pain and their illness. Applause. Applause.
Reading this hit me in a spot that goes deeper than deep, Grant. I have a scenes in my memoir about going to Ordinary People, not knowing what I was about to see. My twin had died and suddenly I was as alone as I’d ever been. That was my family, they looked like my parents and Lynne was the golden child gone stupidly. I was Timothy Hutton. I was 25. So, this is why we write our stories and our stories about discovering our stories are your stories and yes, we do belong after all. Thanks, Grant. I’m changed again.
Wow, Jeanne. Thanks so much for sharing your story. That's intense. You were a mirror of Ordinary People. I can't imagine going into that film as you did not knowing how it was going to reflect your life. Yes, this is why we write our stories.
So many thoughts and emotions while reading this, Grant.
You've given me understanding + new questions about my mother's life & suicide. As you describe YOU here, you describe HER precisely: "jolly, gregarious, adventurous, loving, giving, cracking jokes, stirring things up, teasing, bantering, bringing people together, enjoying life."
What's really going on inside?
Nobody would know.
Nobody can know.
Thank you for your vulnerability.
Thanks so much, Tanya, for reading and for your thoughtful words. It's really interesting to me that we can have such discordant selves. I try to never quite believe anyone's surface, or to at least assume there are other sides at work.
Incredible essay, Grant. Thanks for sharing your vulnerability with us.
You write, and I read. You share a personal thought, and I nod. You ask nothing, while you share unselfishly. Through you I grow. Without you, I just might melt into an abyss of boredom.
Patricia, these are such kind words. I'm just happy my writing resonates. Thank you so much!
Grant--this peace is a gift because many people have been on similar journeys and don't know how to talk about them, let alone write about them. And the minimalist style is unexpected, when applied to a subject with such over-determined meaning--as though suicide is a pre-fab house and nothing new can be said about it. I recognize some of these states, and I'm sure other people do, too. So thank you for this generous piece.
Thanks for reading, Thaisa, and for your words. It's one difficult subject to talk about. I'm much better discussing it all on the page than speaking about it. For many reasons. I know most people never speak about it, so hopefully there's a connection on the page.
I remember telling my therapist years ago how hard it was to not be able to tell the truth about feelings like this. I had a recurring dream my entire childhood. In every one of them I was walking along a sidewalk and there was a puddle in the middle of it. I knew if I jumped in I could disappear. Every dream I would jump in. And then I'd wake up. Here I am again. Anyway, thank you for the share. I didn't read the first couple of days because I suspected it could touch some tender spots within. Important work.
It's interesting: it's such a taboo subject that it can feel wrong to even tell your therapist. I've never had a recurring dream like the one you had. So fascinating, the mysteries of the mind.
THIS: "My question: where would anyone want to live other than the edge?" When the bipolar switch in my brain turned on at 15 years old, and the cycles of black, gray, and incandescent white began, I grew addicted to the highs. I'd say to anyone who counseled me in my most manic moments to slow down, "If you're not living on the edge, you're taking up way too much space." The concept of taking up too much space eventually seized the lows, as well, and led to much suicidal ideation. Yes, medication - the correct pharmaceutical cocktail - is a miracle.
But the tendencies toward erasure? Those remain.
Thank you, Grant, for being vulnerable and sharing your story. The more people speak to their mental health frankly, the less the stigma.
I appreciate you for sharing your story, Megan. I'm glad that you found meds to help with the "bipolar switch" (a good way to pu this. But you're right, the meds can only do so much. Keep writing. Keep sharing.
Grant--thank you for staying-- and for somehow putting words to that feeling of ruminating about doing it yet knowing you won't yet being concerned that you might... You've threaded a literary and emotional and taboo set of needles here in such a deft and relatable manner. In my journal today, just before reading this, I wrote (not in relation to writing the truth, but other facets of my life and now I see how it can also apply in writing--because how we do anything is how we do everything): I'm willing to have some discomfort in service of the truth. When avoiding discomfort becomes my "truth," my "truth" is controlling me--I am gripping to a small feeling instead of trusting the vast. Again, happy you stayed. And thank goodness for depression/anxiety meds.
Thanks so much, Laura Jane. I appreciate your words. You said it: "how we do anything is how we do everything." Go with the discomfort. Be in service. You'll find many adventures by "trusting the vast." I like the way you put that.
Wow! I'm a psychotherapist and this is the most honest look at depression I have ever witnessed. This transparency is rare, and will help so many people - you have no idea, both sufferers and family - to find help and peace. Thank you!
Wow, thanks so much, Nikki! These words mean a lot. The main (and maybe the only) purpose my writing serves is to reach those who might see themselves in my experiences and feel a little less alone.
Mission accomplished. I write about grief on Substack, and there are a dozen or so moms whose sons committed suicide, and they will gain comfort from what you wrote. They can't help but feel they should have seen it, done something, or been there. I'm so glad you got the help to prevent you from dancing on the edge.
When you wrote this: "As tension builds, the body begins to crave the feeling it experiences during cutting."
I read this: As tension builds, the body begins to CARVE the feeling it experiences during cutting.
You have given me a modicum of courage, Grant. Wondering now if I can exercise that in my writing. However, I can't imagine finding better words than yours for the lived experience we seem to share.
Thanks, Karen. I feel like each of our experiences, each of our pains, is its own unique thing, so I hope you do try to go there in your writing. You'll find words particular to you, I know.