On Bennington and breaking down.

•Shesha•
Jul 21, 2017 · 4 min read

Disclaimer: If emotional explanations of depression, suicide and the general hopelessness of life, make you roll your eyes, please go hug your mother or stay under your bridge. This one isn’t for you.

Linkin Park, lead vocalist, Chester Bennington committed suicide today.
I didn’t know him. Haven’t met him. Never sat down for tea in his family kitchen, nor complimented his mom on her new perm.

But I’m upset.

Chester, to me, like all my other favourite musicians are, was indestructible. He was a man, a voice, that held me through some of the darkest times of my life. The lyrics, the screams he belted out to the heart-shuddering music used to and still creeps into my skin — listening to them was an experience. It was like willingly falling into a time capsule, sucking you into a vacuum of days you thought you had forgotten, the dull tempo in line with your heart-beat, slow, then fast. Thinking about it now makes me shiver. There was so much loneliness in my life at one point that it rips me to shreds when I think of how I managed to crawl out of that self-destructive hole without causing lasting harm to myself.

I don’t think about it too much.

I’ve learned now, as an “adult” (if you can call me that, I’ve been told that I’m not) that you don’t dwell on things that make your heart drop. There is more to life than talking about what hurts you.
Sweet coping mechanism.
If you’re a heartless leech, sucking scum off the ocean bed. (No offense to sea leeches .)

Chester’s death hurts because he was someone who kept me alive. As a teenager, I was as angst-y as they come; all black eyeliner, black nail polish, as if the darker my clothes were the quicker I’d entire the abyss of emptiness and escape mortal life.
(Intense moment there, lol.)
Long sleepless nights were spent awake in my room, surrounded by my dreary art work, a lava-lamp emitting the only light I would allow, listening to Minutes to Midnight and Hybrid Theory over and over again until the words were blurry and sleep finally came. The lyrics were what kept reality worthwhile — using outdated search engines to find the exact words, scribbling them down in scraps of papers and thinking “I’m going to get this tattooed on me someday.”
Depression is ugly and destructive yet we stay fighting. Chester was one of the voices that fueled the soundtrack to our lives when we were at our lowest. Heck, I can attest to that. Like all the other bands, singers and performers who made bad days a little better when actual people surrounding us couldn’t, he was for me, a rock.

I’m not a super fan.

I don’t know their albums by heart. I don’t know all the lyrics. I don’t know when Chester was born. But I know that when he died, he brought back a realization that we all live with but choose to ignore.
You never really get over the scars of your past. You can’t escape depression unless you address it. It’s like an exorcism. You can’t live with the demons inside you , pretending that everything is “fine” when really there is a voice inside your head, whispering destructive thoughts— you call them out. You drag their vile, venomous bodies out of you and you do it every day if you have to.
Money, fame, the social construct of what “success” is about as worthless as an umbrella in a sandstorm.

Sigh.

I don’t know why I’m writing this.
I just need to get it all out of my system, I guess. I’m upset, I really am. I’m reminded of all the times I wanted to give up but never did because of his music and the promise that there were better things to come. And I’m glad I listened because yes, better things did come and even during the worst of times, the music kept reminding me of what could be. A friend messaged me this morning, telling me about how this month had been really tough — “I’ve been listening to LP for weeks, then this happens.” I didn’t want to tell her that I did the same, more often than I care to admit.
I walked into work and my co-worker was on a call. I guess he saw my face because less than a minute later he walked over and said “Chester?”
I nodded.
He isn’t an emotional guy but he managed a reassuring smile. “It’s sad,” he said. I nodded again.
“You don’t expect this kind of thing.”
Nod.
“Are you okay?”
To which I smile and jokingly say “We should play Linkin Park on the PA system today.”
He laughed and walked off.

And that’s it, that’s all we can do.

People die every day, but when someone who kept you from falling six feet under, gives up on the same fight you’ve been vanquishing for years — it really gets to you.

Chester Bennington’s death to me is a reminder that you need to surround yourself with support every day. You need to reach out and talk about what hurts you. You need to stop hiding pain and you need to start addressing the problem. Sometimes you will deal with it alone. Sometimes you will find music, literature and hobbies that hold you close. Sometimes you will find friends. Or family.

But for the most part, you will be alone.

And when you are, remember, the strength to pull the trigger is in your hands. Use it to put the gun down.
Please.

Take that strength and go tell someone you love them.
Or give yourself a hug.

Just don’t give up. Take it from someone who didn’t.

•Shesha•
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