But in the end
It doesn’t even matter

When I was 7 years old, I first understood the concept of death. it was frightening, deafening, shocking. I cried whole evening and night as the realisation of life finiteness struck me — or, more even, punched the air out of my lungs.
When I was 12 years old, I said ‘I want to die’ for the first time. Back then it was a childish whim, I guess; it was me being hysterical and lost, in fairly harmless circumstances — middle school pressure and yet forming doom of perfectionism were working on my mental condition, slowly milling down my confidence.
I clearly remember writing a ciphered note to my mother: it were numbers of alphabet letters bunched together to form a simple ‘I want to die.’ I left it in the bathroom together with a dictionary where I marked the pages of the corresponding letter; mother never had the patience to deal with such a conspiracy, so during a recurring fit of tears I wailed it out loud and (un)clear, choking on sobs.
She said that I don’t understand what I was talking about, the graveness of words. Indeed, I didn’t — not at that point.
Over years, I harmed myself. I scratched my tender skin to blood; I smashed my knuckles against walls when I couldn’t scream it all out. I soaked my pillows in silent tears and woke up in panic attacks in the middle of a night. I did crazy things, went adventurous, all in an attempt to surge out of this well of sorrow and feel the taste of real life.
They say you fight depression; I didn’t. I tried to live with it and live over it. There were worse days, even weeks when I’d be quiet and blank, feeling how something dark claws me from inside. Sometimes it sunk the fingers inside me in a tight grasp, deep blackness slowly rooting in my flesh and mind. Other times it felt like it expanded outside my ailing frame, heavy black wings dragging behind me and slowing my steps down.
I am not surprised that some people try alcohol or drugs to deal with it — to some, it’s a bliss to numb this nagging, hollow feeling for a day or few, to forget that you have been carrying this monster inside yourself for years. It’s true that you won’t fully understand a person with a depression unless you go through it yourself. It might not be an excuse to do self-harming things, but it is an explanation, a brief and alarming sign of what is going on inside.
Last night, an important person committed a suicide. He was the one who wrote songs that carried me through my worst days and night. Every word he sang came through his heart; you could feel the pain, the anguish; when I listened to his songs, I felt that I can relate to him.
I didn’t feel alone anymore.
So now it hurts me to read endless comments like ‘Oh well, another druggie is out’; this ‘druggie’ was not my friend, but he was my solace. Even though I lead a healthy life with an occasional drink or two with friends, now I feel tainted: does it mean that I am worse by respecting a person who had problems? Does it mean I will end the same?
There is no easy answer to this question; I shall look into it and think for a while, as long as the sorrow doesn’t fade away. But right now, there is an important message to be delivered: don’t judge him. Don’t, just because you’ll never know what he’s been going through. You see, even money and fame does not magically cure your fears and delusions. It does not make you feel easier; in fact, it only makes it worth because you have a chance to try millions of things to numb the ache inside you, but nothing really fits.
Don’t judge anyone who passed away because they couldn’t cope any longer. Don’t judge them for what they did to themselves. Don’t judge because you can’t just judge what you can’t understand.
Rest in peace, Chester Bennington. I hope you knew that your music helped people; I hope it was at least of some comfort to your tortured mind and soul.