At Burning Man, I’d remembered what tickled me, what it felt like to be present in my life. And I was no longer interested in waiting around for it. I called my therapist on the phone in an SOS emergency session and tearfully explained that I’d been asked to go back to The Dungeon.
“I can’t go back. I’ll die. I can’t. I’ll die,” I sobbed and repeated. I lay prostrate on the cool bathroom floor, rubbing my finger into the grout until the skin was raw. I knew the words I were speaking were truth.
Within a day, I was on a ninety-day medical leave of absence from work for clinical depression.
I clung to the opportunity with immense relief, mingled with shame. There is a luxury in stepping off the hamster wheel of work, but it comes with a heavy professional stigma. Lawyers don’t take breaks. They certainly don’t take them for mental health reasons. I still don’t know a single lawyer who has taken a leave of absence or left the profession for their mental health—even though many of the lawyers I knew needed it.
At the time, I thought ninety days was excessive; I just needed a break to clear my head, regain perspective. But I would have rather been labeled depressed than dead. That’s the ruthless binary of depression. It told me I had two options: “depressed” or “dead.” There was no room for “hope.” Depression suffocates it.
Office gossip had me pregnant, lying, or on leave to take care of a family member, and colleagues who became friends from Legal Aid called, trying to understand. It seemed no one could believe that my mental health had deteriorated to the point of disability. Honestly, neither could I. There was no way they could know. I’d gotten so good at masking my illness with smiles and deflecting attention that even my own family and friends were unable to help me.
My depression had become my little secret—one that I didn’t keep well from those who knew me best. My family members were trying to get in, and I was keeping them out. I worried my parents would think they’d done something wrong or hadn’t been enough for me. There were a lot of us kids, not a lot of money or time. I never wanted to be a bother. Perhaps this was middle-child syndrome, a title I share with Ahoba, the third of the four of us—some version of “I’m fine, don’t worry about me. I don’t have needs, I don’t have desires. Don’t forget about me, but don’t fuss over me either.”
Whenever my mother asked me how I was doing, I would say I was okay. “Just okay?” she’d respond. She knew something was wrong. I could hear the pleading in her voice for me to share more, but I also heard her natural mother’s desire for me to be good or—even better—great. I’d rush her off the phone to avoid crying, because I knew her heart was breaking. My dad wanted us to be successful. My mom just wanted us to be happy. I was hurting them both.
It was only my fault, I reasoned. I had “done it to myself.” My parents had given my sisters and me everything—not only life, but a good life. Safety, love, acknowledgment, private dates with my mom when we got our periods, road trips to Disneyland driven by my dad. They worked hard to make sure we had what we needed, even if that meant our new clothes came from Goodwill. Why, then, was it not enough? Did women my age living in Ghana have the luxury to be bored or depressed?
As it does in big families, gossip travels. I knew I was being talked about because one sister would have information that I’d only told another one. My sisters’ voices were heavy with concern when we’d talk, and they’d steer the conversation back to me when I tried to deflect. Aba was the only one who lived near me. I think they agreed she’d be the emissary. She would say she was on the way to check on me and I’d tell her I wasn’t home, knowing damn well I hadn’t left the couch in days. I’d go as far as to park my car around the block in the event she dropped by. Once I watched her look over the gate while I peeked out of the broken window blinds. I was too proud to admit that I was hurting and ashamed that they knew anyway. But no one knew how bad it had gotten. I withdrew altogether, keeping them abreast of only my plans and safe arrivals, and very little else.
I certainly didn’t tell them about Pascha. Within a few days I found the naked man I’d become infatuated with at Burning Man and lost in a dust storm. He’d placed a craigslist missed connection ad for me and a friend of mine had seen it: Hi, your name begins with an A, you’re from Ghana. I’m from Kentucky and my name begins with a P. I need you in my life, I hope you find this message and contact me. I tried to find your camp, but I have a feeling that you left during the white out. I loved your presence and want you so much, ciao for now. Ah—a good old-fashioned distraction. And right around the time I was scheduled to do some highly inconvenient self-examination! I leapt at the chance.
Within two weeks of being granted a leave of absence, I was off to Portland on a one-way ticket to see Pascha for his birthday. He bought the ticket; I was his birthday gift to himself. Depression can happen anywhere, I decided, so I’d go be depressed in Portland instead. At least Pascha and I would have an opportunity to get to know each other. As usual, I hoped that I would be cured by his love, hoped he would save me from myself. I’d hoped for a full Disney ending—except with full frontal nudity.
In the real world, our romance lasted four days. I came off the pink infatuation cloud and crashed to Earth within minutes of our reunion, as we walked through the grocery store shopping for my stay. It finally hit me that I did not know this man I was staying with in a strange city. Black olives? Childhood trauma? Creamy or crunchy peanut butter? Arrest record? We filled our conversation with trivialities to cover up the fact that all I really knew about him was how his naked body looked covered in Burning Man’s playa dust. We’d never had sex. Still, I’d willingly hopped on a one-way flight to a strange man in a strange land. Lust is a hell of a drug.
It wasn’t Pascha’s fault. A Black country boy from the sticks in Kentucky, he had lived all over Europe as a bike messenger and had a bike messenger body—lean, muscular, stacked. He spoke fluent Russian, German, Flemish, and Spanish, all in a country drawl, and studied Russian in college. And he played the cello. I was as good as done.
But he was twenty-four years old—I’d often dated younger men, but this was young even by my standards. And as a man who moved often and didn’t stay anywhere long enough to make friends, his ambivalence about my staying with him hurt. A lot. He barely talked to me while I was there, overwhelmed by my presence, but would beg for me to stay when I suggested that I should leave. I was over the hot-cold game that he seemed to be playing. I like to know that a man likes me. He preferred to hunt mushrooms in the woods alone than talk to humans. His apartment was the size of a shoebox, which would have only fit my jewelry and his cello. Hell, I brought more things to Portland on this trip than he’d likely owned in his lifetime. I couldn’t settle into his life. I wasn’t settled in mine.
Four days after I arrived, I moved into a hotel nearby and cried for a few more days, hoping the tears were just garden-variety sexual frustration. (We still hadn’t had sex—there was no heart alignment.) Pascha was supposed to be another distraction, but the distractions weren’t working anymore. My depression was deepening. And for the first time, I couldn’t drink it away, travel it away, shop it away, fuck it away.
Thinking I’d be in Portland for a while, I’d sublet my apartment in Los Angeles. That meant I was free to go wherever I wanted until my medical leave of absence was over. But where to? I’d packed enough so that I could flex my limited wardrobe—a pair of expensive Camper shoes from Mallorca, and one fancy dress in case an event arose that allowed me to put my pretty on. After years of traveling with just a backpack, I understood minimalism, but I didn’t like it. I’d also packed three books, a journal, and a large rose quartz crystal, which I clung to when it felt like I was slipping into darkness again. It came everywhere with me.
Not knowing where to go next, I sought out an energy healer who told me that I should not go back home. “Keep going,” she said during a Reiki session. But I was at the end of my road. I didn’t know who I was or what I wanted. I couldn’t feel anything; depression had dulled my senses. I couldn’t feel myself.
Walking back to the hotel after my session, the rain started. Soft at first, then it quickly grew to a thunderous downpour. I hadn’t packed a raincoat and had nothing to hold over my head. I was not far, or so I thought, so I walked swiftly in the rain but the sidewalk ran out. Gingerly, I walked along the side of the freeway hoping a car wouldn’t splash or hit me and that the hotel would soon appear like the Emerald City in The Wizard of Oz. Sade’s Soldier of Love album had just dropped, so I marched the streets in the rain listening to the album, with the title song on repeat: I’ve lost the use of my heart. But I’m still alive.
I’d bet on love and lost. I’d bet on a career and lost. I’d bet on joy and lost. I’d bet on a dry fucking afternoon and I was drenched, lost on foot along the freeway in Portland with nowhere to go. Even the skies had opened up to let the clouds grieve alongside me. Desperate once again, rain and tears mixed, dripping down my chin, Sade in my ear reminding me that I was a soldier. She’d never lied to me before but this was a stretch. I was a failure.
After a few wrong turns, the path to the hotel became clear again. Once inside I dried myself, warmed up, took two shots of whiskey, and thought about my options. My mom had been begging me to go visit her, but I didn’t want her to see me like this. I was convinced it would kill her. Same with my sisters.
This was my self-denial talking. My family, then as now, just wants what’s best for me. But my inner drive to make them proud made me turn my face away from them. I was supposed to achieve, to fulfill the immigrant parents’ dream of their children reaching a higher social class, to excel in everything I touched. They were so proud that I was a lawyer. When I graduated law school, they threw me a party, inviting the other Ghanaians in Colorado to share in our success. After all, they all had a lawyer now, not just my parents. My accomplishment was for the community. How could I look all of them in the face and tell them the truth? That I hated being a lawyer, and that a lawyer’s life was slowly killing me.
Instead, I paced and returned a call from my friend Kristin, who was curious about how my romance was going. I did not admit that I had just been lost, wet, and sobbing, but did indicate that I was free to travel. I tried to make it seem like I was charmingly on the road, and not hungry for direction. She invited me to her home in Colorado. I eagerly accepted. Another adventure; another distraction. I would deal with myself at some point. Just not today. I wasn’t ready.
Depression is a liar. It tells you that there is no hope. That tomorrow will be exactly the same. That you are a burden. That it is contagious. That no one cares, that it is your fault. That since you weren’t strong enough to stave it off, you’re not strong enough to get well again, and that you don’t know what “well” is. That you don’t deserve it.
But most of all, depression tells you that no one can understand and that no one can help. Not even—or especially—those closest to you, who love you most.
When Martha calls me, she is not ready to speak. I answer the phone while cleaning my apartment on a Tuesday afternoon, dropping my mop when I hear the cries on the other end. I sit on the floor. I wasn’t expecting this type of call, but death doulas are generally ready to handle difficult emotions with zero notice. Between strangling sobs, she tells me that her son Sean has just been found by his roommate, dead on the floor of his bedroom from an apparently self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.
He was thirty-one years old.
Understandably, Martha can’t make sense of what she’s heard or what this reality means. Sean was her only child. He’d moved to Utah a couple of years prior to get closer to outdoor sports and a slower pace of life than in Los Angeles.
“I’m sorry. I thought I was doing better,” she says, each phrase punctuated by a gulp. It sounds as though she is trying to swallow marbles. It has only been a few hours since Sean’s roommate has called. Her son’s body might even still be in the apartment, waiting for removal by the coroner’s office. I remind Martha that Sean’s death is still so fresh and she hasn’t had any time to assimilate the information yet: her son is dead, and he’d likely died by his own hand. How is anyone ever supposed to get their head around that news, even decades after the fact, let alone hours? It’s a wonder she isn’t comatose, sitting and staring at nothing. Instead, she has called for support.
Some people are leveled by news of death, others spring into action. Neither is better than the other. Martha is clearly the latter, though. As soon as she heard from Sean’s roommate, she immediately contacted Sean’s father, from whom she had been divorced for decades, as well as her siblings. One of them suggested she seek support and Martha did a Google search to find me. I am her fifth phone call.
A death doula probably isn’t someone most think of after a sudden death, given that most of our work is done with people with awareness of their approaching death. Since we work with the dying person and their community, our services are helpful to all impacted by a death, even when it is sudden. At the very least, we can be a nonjudgmental support person along the journey. A few joint deep breaths later, Martha is ready to move into action.
“Okay, so what do I need to do now?” she asks.
“Do you need a day or two to be with this news before you try to do anything?” I suggest.
“No. I don’t.”
I hear her loud and clear. I can appreciate a woman who knows herself, despite what I think is best. I ask if she wants to go to Utah or if she wants to stay in L.A. Understandably, Martha wants to go be with her son, identify his body, and be among his things. Her voice cracks when she talks about seeing his art. And she talks fast and angrily about the gun she didn’t know he owned.
I ask how she wants to proceed. The type of work we do together after this phone call depends on how much Martha wants to do herself, since the work of wrapping up affairs could be done with minimal involvement on her part. I could also advise her over the phone, creating a schedule for consultations to answer her questions, or put her in touch with a graduate of the Going with Grace doula training program who is in Utah through a doula matching service to put boots on the ground.
“I need to do it all. I can’t just sit here. I just need someone to tell me what to do and to lean on while I do it. Is that okay? Can you do that? Can you hold me up?” Her voice has grown thin, tight, and high, pleading.
“I’ll do my best.” Strong back, soft front: this is the doula motto taught to me by my teacher Olivia.
I hang up the phone after setting up a schedule for phone consultations over the next month. I want to wait a few days to allow Martha to think about our arrangement, but she assures me that she’ll feel the same in a couple of days. We can make hasty decisions after a death and I want Martha to be as clear-headed as possible before signing a contract. I try to remind my clients of this, as they often make fast and expensive decisions with funeral homes shortly after a death. There is no rush. Let the death simmer a bit. The services will be there, and grief will still be there.
In the weeks after Sean’s death, Martha rents a monthlong sublet in Salt Lake City half a mile from his apartment, finds a funeral home to reconstruct his face so she can see his body, and arranges his funeral. She contacts the police department to make sure that they keep and destroy the gun Sean used to end his life. Before she arrives, she finds a carpet service to rip it all out so she doesn’t have to see any bloodstains on the floor. She also boxes up his clothes and books, forwards his mail, sells his climbing gear and mountain bike, and frames his drawings to keep. Sean’s roommate helps by telling her which of Sean’s remaining belongings he wants. She donates the rest. Grief energizes some. It annihilates many others. As far as checking things off the “wrapping-up affairs” checklist, Martha is cruising. Emotionally, however, she is in choppy waters.
“I can’t stop wondering if I could have stopped him. Is this normal?” she asks, unprompted, as we talk through closing out his social media accounts. Martha was able to log in using the password to his phone, which she found on his computer, which did not have a pass code. This is a small victory. Martha uncovers a string of direct messages with a woman alluding to a recent breakup. She didn’t know Sean was seeing anyone. As expected, she’s trying to make her brain compute how her son made a choice this drastic. There are no clues she can find, no answers to be had. All of the answers died along with Sean.
A slightly melancholy kid, Sean was well loved by friends until he got to middle school. There he’d been bullied mercilessly by his peers for his lanky build, acne, and love of dirt, rocks, and farm animals. Formerly an engaged student, his grades tanked. He stopped talking to Martha, spending whole weekends asleep and mumbling to communicate his desires. He wouldn’t eat anything she prepared and he’d started drinking water directly from the faucet. She figured his body was either drowning in teenage hormones or he was depressed. In some cases, those are indistinguishable. She decided to wait it out.
As far as Martha knew, he’d “grown out of it.” He’d gone to a few years of community college and discovered his love for anime and rock climbing. Unable to make a living as a visual artist, he’d taken restaurant kitchen jobs to pay the bills so he could continue drawing and climb when weather permitted. He’d recently lost his job. But he told his mom that everything was okay and from afar, all she had to rely on was his word. I felt a pang, reminding me of my mother’s concerned voice over the phone, helplessly repeating “Just okay?” Even if Martha had been there, Sean likely would have been able to mask the gravity of his illness. It’s a skill for those of us that struggle with mental health.
Over beers one night, Sean’s roommate tells Martha that after Sean lost his job he spent most days on the couch playing the video games that were the inspiration for his art. He’d retreat to his bedroom at night, sleep till late afternoon, and start playing games again till the wee hours of the morning. He’d stopped hanging out with his rock-climbing buddies and dishes piled up in his room. His roommate was starting to tire of the lack of cleanliness, but gave Sean some grace because it was clear he was “going through something.”
“But how was I to know he’d kill himself?” she spits at me, exasperated.
“Exactly. You couldn’t.” How is anyone ever to know?
Given a particular set of circumstances, isolation, and lack of mental health support, I think quite a few people could be capable of this same thing. Including those who don’t look like it. Including me. We all pretend that we are immune from that level of despair and hopelessness. We are not. We are all just one phone call, one diagnosis, one chemical imbalance, one bankruptcy, one accident away from a physical or mental disability that might make us not want to live anymore.
There isn’t much I can tangibly offer Martha. Her rational mind knows that there is no way she could have stopped Sean, yet her mother’s heart believes that she should have known her son was hurting. She also feels guilty that she is angry with Sean for choosing suicide. All I can do is listen, validate her struggles, offer resources, and bear witness to her pain and confusion.
In her more reflective moments, Martha shares her shame. The swallowing-marbles sound in her throat is back. She is ashamed that her son has died this way and worries about the stigma. “What tone should the funeral take?” “Should we acknowledge it?” “Everyone who will be there already knows.” “Should we mention it in his obituary? Then the whole world will know.”
Questions like these are impossible for me to answer for Martha. Her levels of acceptance around mental health differ from mine, so it’s important that she honor her needs. I encourage her to center herself and Sean in her decision-making, as the funeral ritual is often just as much for the living as it is to honor the life of the person who has died. What would serve her best? And what would cause harm? Under what circumstances would she want people to know his cause of death? And why? Or why not?
It saddens me that a decision like suicide is one that we feel the need to hide in the dark. I remind Martha that Sean’s death, even at his own hand, was still a death worthy of the grief, loss, and reverence we pay to other deaths. If he had a disease of the body that progressed untreated until it killed him, there would be no shame. We are quick to say that someone who died after a painful illness is “free of their suffering and pain,” but we don’t offer the same platitudes after a death by suicide, even though it is true. Sean had a disease of the mind, which in the throes of depression, rarely feels like a disease. It feels like the truth. A serious depression is what killed Sean. Most suicide is the result of an illness. We don’t talk about it as such.
Not all parts of the work of a death doula are love and light. Death work encompasses the tough, gritty, terrorizing, and painful deaths. Babies die; there are bloody homicides, overdoses, preventable accidents, devastating circumstances. People die from all types of things, not just illness, where we have a chance to say goodbye and regard it as a natural process of the body. All command attention, grief, softness, and mercy. And all are sacred, deserving of honor and sanctity.
Until recently the common language used to classify a death by suicide was that the person “committed” suicide, because it was deemed a criminal act in many parts of the world, and still is in Ghana. It’s obviously not punishable, because when it is successful, there is no one left to prosecute. Suicide is no longer considered a crime in the United States, at least in the legal sense—although some states still have “attempted suicide” laws on the books—but the stain remains. “Death by suicide” is a more accurate way to reflect that it is just another way people die. Much like death by cancer, death by drowning, death by angry bull. It is not a crime. It is a way out of a painful life.
Societally, we have internalized some of depression’s lies—that sadness is wrong, that it is bad, that it is not valuable. That it needs to be made “better.” We celebrate wellness and leave no space for sorrow, brokenness, grief, or anything other than “I’m fine” when the truth is that life is complicated, painful, and difficult. Whole humans feel a whole range of emotions, but we applaud only half of them, driving our negatively perceived emotions deep into hiding for fear of judgment. There, they are safe to fester and grow stronger, which in turn drives us to hide them more.
People say “you are not alone” all the time, but the loneliness of depression is cavernous, blanketing, deafening—so much louder than the voices from the outside. Paradoxically, we all feel alone at our lowest moments. And so we hide, we hide, we hide. We hide until we cannot bear the voices inside anymore. Until we become walking ghosts. Until we hit rock bottom. Until someone sees how bad we are hurting. Until we let them help. Or until we don’t. And then we die.