Sunday, March 29, 2009

How Silence Kills...

Nicholas Hughes, the son of the poet and novelist Sylvia Plath and the British Poet Laureate Ted Hughes, killed himself at his home in Alaska, nearly a half-century after his mother and stepmother took their own lives, according to a statement from his sister.

My skin hairs raise with fear at the thought that should I avoid talking about depression, treating it like the serious disease it is, it can very well creep up and blindside me. Nicolas Hughes was just 47 years old. His mom was 30 when she gave in to despair. His stepmom, Assia Wevill, not to be left behind, killed herself and her own child, Shura, six years later. A father and his adult child are left to wonder who's next.

The pain of that family must be feeling overwhelms me. The painful silence that must have existed hurts me even more. I know about that silence. My family lives with it, coddles it, harbors it, gets drunk with it. But I have a big family. Silence, like dysfunction, is easily diffused in big families. It lacks a beginning or an end if you are not close to its root.

I'm not here to point fingers or place blame. There is no use in that. We beat ourselves enough without the help of another. I am just trying to learn how to live with the knowledge that we must always be on our guard. We must be ever vigilant for ourselves and those we love. It's a never ending battle. In a war that never ceases to amaze me with its irony, its cruelty.

Fears are meant to be confronted and surpassed. I choose to face my fear and break the silence. I choose to live.

The Afterw@rd