When I was a teenager, my mother told me that my grandfather, a prominent French economist and writer who had struggled with manic depression, had died. “He was hit by a car,” she said. I suspected she was lying, and I was right. I learned the truth soon enough: My grandfather, Jean Denizet, had jumped out of the window of a mental hospital. My grandmother—concerned with appearances, and unwilling to have French high society think whatever they might about a suicide—had apparently concocted the alternate story and asked her children to pass it on.
It wasn’t the first time a Denizet had leaped out the window of a building. My mother’s younger brother, the only male among her eight siblings, had committed suicide that way in his early 30s (on the day before Christmas). Then, three years ago, one of my mother’s sisters intentionally overdosed on medications.
For another sister’s death, I traveled to Paris for the funeral. My grandmother and my mother’s six remaining sisters—most of whom have battled lifelong depression—attended. It was hard not to look around and wonder: Who would be next? And could it be me?
As the only one of my many cousins to be raised outside of France, I have in many ways been insulated against the difficulties of my aristocratic French family (more on that a bit further down). But I am connected by genetics, and, as I’ve grown older and struggled with addiction and depression, I’ve sometimes worried that the legacy of my mother’s family might enslave me, too.
After the ceremony, we traveled to the small French village of Crepy to bury my mother’s sister next to her brother and her father. My dozens of cousins and I—we range in age from 18 to 35, with most in our 20s—spent much of the trip huddled in conversation. What had really happened to our parents? How had they become so ill? And what would become of us? What had become of us? Were we genetically programmed to suffer as they had?
I was reminded of all of this recently when I listened to the latest CD from my talented, charming, and endlessly kind French cousin, Martin Mey. The best song is “Live,” which he sings in English and which is his plea to his mother, who has battled severe lifelong depression, to “get out of and live.” It’s a beautiful and haunting song, and I love him for writing it.
Indeed, sometimes the only real answer is to get out of bed and live. Amen.
Very sad story, Benoit. I can say I have not been depressed–not clinically. I do believe that chemical imbalances and genetics play a major role in depression. I think we have to help empower those with mental conditions and help them brake the cycle of depression — with medication, nutrition, behavioral changes, love–whatever it takes. There probably still is lots of shame and misunderstanding about depression. In general, we focus more on physical ailments in the healthcare system, not mental or emotional ones. I can image that to say “Get out and Live” is easier said than done among the depressed population. I think it would be a great thing to have those who have dealt with depression successfully share their stories.
One of the challenging things is that to someone who’s depressed, it’s almost impossible to see how they could be happy again. But for someone who’s happy, it’s almost impossible to see how they could be so depressed. I think Dasha’s idea of shared stories of overcoming depression is good. Somewhere on my long list of to-dos is helping some folks I know use social media as way of conquering depression through shared experiences and social interactions that a depressed person might not be able to handle otherwise. The amazing thing about social media is the ability it gives you to actually help other people. And I think that getting outside of oneself by helping others is a great path for someone suffering from depression to try.
Suicide itself is incredibly difficult to talk about. One of my best friends had a daughter who killed herself, and although she doesn’t lie about what happened, she still struggles with finding ways to talk about it with people who don’t know what happened almost every day. She’ll avoid people who have children, for example, because she just can’t bear the thought of them asking about hers.
I listened to your cousin’s song “live”, it is indeed beautiful and haunting.
Hello Benoit!!
j’ai été très émue en lisant cet excellent texte sur la famille de ta mère …Bravo d’être lucide et sans concession pour tout çà .
Pour moi il reste dans mes souvenirs d’avoir vécu 3 semaines avec Bénédicte et toi à San Francisco d’excellents moments; tu étais un jeune garçon ouvert ,curieux et très à l’écoute, me félicitant pour mes progrets en anglais !!! Je suis très fière de ton parcours d’écrivain . Tes livres sont-îls traduits en français ou le seront-ils?
Si tu viens en France fais signe!!!
je t’embrasse
claire
as someone suffering from depression and addiction it is not that easy to get out and live. i definitely relate to your family as i come from a large family with history of schizophrenia/bipolar and addiction. in a sad way it was a relief to hear your story because at least now i know that my family, including extended, aren’t the only completely crazy family out there in the world. pathetic, right?