I just learned this afternoon that a friend died by suicide late yesterday. She was the one who visited me in my house in July and we talked for 3.5 hrs about so many things. I gave a lecture in her class the previous semester. It became a college-wide lecture because they opened it up to other classes and even to graduate students. She and I talked about doing another one at the start of this semester but Twin A got sick so I wasn’t able to get back to her about the syllabus and about the schedule.

My brother and sister-in-law already knew last night but they didn’t want to tell me, maybe because I was already too exhausted taking care of my sick daughter.

A common friend told me about it this morning through FB messenger as I was about to get up from bed. I confirmed with my bff and she said the husband was picking up our friend after work but it was taking her so long. They found her office door locked so they had to force their way in. They found her in a creepy situation, already dead, that I don’t want to write it down here anymore.

She has been very sad for a couple of weeks now, my bff said. Anxiety was eating her up. As far as I know she wasn’t seeing any professional…maybe she didn’t recognize that she was going through a major depressive episode. Many people do not recognize this in themselves unless they are self-aware. When you don’t know you are depressed or could not put into words what you are going through, it’s difficult to seek help. People around you wouldn’t be able to help you because they wouldn’t know how deep is this depression or you’re just sad. There’s a big difference.

I can’t fathom her doing that when she’s so anxious about her only child. She’s so hands-on with her son and she homeschooled him for a long time before transitioning him this year to formal school. I don’t know how the child would fare now. 😞

That’s why we have to be kind to everyone. We don’t know what people are going through.

And to make things worse, I now see that two of the friends who chose suicide were writers. I know a lot of writers who are depressive or had been depressed. That’s why the stereotype of the drunk writers live on…because we self-medicate and use alcohol to numb the pain that comes with depression.

I don’t know, maybe because we live inside our heads most of the time? We are prone to digging into ouselves when we write? Just like painters or actors, we eviscerate ourselves whenever we do our craft?

I really don’t know.

Tomorrow I’ll just visit my friend in her wake.