Melancholy and infinite Sadness
On November 22, 1997, the world mourned the loss of the exceptionally talented artist, Michael Hutchence, when he was discovered lifeless in a Sydney hotel room at the age of 37.
In the early hours of that fateful morning, around 5:00 am, an adjacent room’s occupant bore witness to a heated argument and the echoes of profanity. The clock steadily approached 9:54 am, a moment etched in history. It was the time when Hutchence made a heart-wrenching call to his former girlfriend, Michèle Bennett. The conversation was fraught with raw emotion; his voice quivered with distress as he urgently pleaded to see her. At around 10:40 am, Bennett’s hurried footsteps echoed through the hallway as she reached his door, knocking and calling out. But there was no response.
The true tragedy unfolded when, at 11:50 am, a hotel maid made a chilling discovery. Michael Hutchence was found lifeless in Room 524 of the Ritz-Carlton hotel in Double Bay, Sydney, having taken his own life. He was discovered in a kneeling position, facing the door, with a haunting makeshift noose crafted from his snakeskin belt. The belt had been tightly knotted to the automatic door closure at the top, and the buckle had given way under the immense strain of his desperate act.
I won’t delve into the entire backstory of what led Michael to take his own life, but it was undoubtedly linked to a custody battle for his daughters and an ongoing struggle with depression.
I can vividly recall listening to INXS’s powerful ballad, “Never Tear Us Apart,” back in the ’90s. The lyrics, slow tempo, Michael’s soul-stirring vocals, and the piercing saxophone solo still tug at my heartstrings.
“I… I was standing
You were there
Two worlds collided
And they could never tear us apart.
We could live
For a thousand years
But if I hurt you
I’d make wine from your tears”
I’ve always believed that some of the most poignant music, both in lyrics and melody, has been composed by those who carry deep emotional scars. It saddens me to witness the tragic loss of so many gifted musicians who, in their prime, chose to end their own lives. This profound question lingers: What drives these talented souls to the brink? Is it an inherited predisposition toward melancholy, dissatisfaction with their circumstances, or the relentless pressures of the music industry, with its constant demand for performance and delivery? Perhaps, it’s a complex blend of these factors.
Since the heart-wrenching loss of my best friend to suicide when we were just 20, I’ve been vigilant in recognizing signs of emotional or psychological turmoil in those around me. It’s made me hypersensitive to the struggles people face.
But how do we define this state of profound sadness? Depression is a broad term, and it defies easy categorization. Can we truly measure psychological pain on a uniform scale? I don’t think so. Every individual is unique, responding to life’s events and circumstances in their own distinct way. Yet, what about those who grapple with unexplainable sadness? Could it be a chemical imbalance in their brains, residual effects of past trauma, or the influence of their environment? The truth is, it could be any or a combination of these factors. Psychological experts inform us that depression is a complex condition, shaped by a blend of genetic, environmental, psychological, and biological elements. It often arises from imbalances in brain chemistry, hormonal shifts, traumatic life experiences, chronic stress, or a family history of depression.
Then there is “Melancholy”. I see it as a euphemistic term, a more artistically inclined synonym for “Depression.” It serves as a kinder expression, ensuring we don’t unwittingly offend the artistic souls who endure it. While both melancholy and depression encompass persistent feelings of sadness, sorrow, and emotional desolation, melancholy often comes intertwined with a contemplative or introspective mood, frequently sparking artistic or creative expressions.
Creative individuals often find solace in their art, offering them a glimmer of hope, purpose, and meaning during their moments of sorrow. However, we’ve also witnessed the tragic departure of numerous artists well before their time, including Kurt Cobain, Amy Winehouse, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, and others. While not all of them succumbed to suicide, they shared a common adversary: depression. Each battled the demons of addiction to alcohol or drugs, and fate took them at the tender age of 27.
Speaking from my own experience, I’ve never heard of anyone successfully conquering depression through alcohol or drugs. Those who embark on that treacherous path often find themselves spiraling down, with no easy return.
I vividly remember my early days in Germany, living amidst the picturesque vineyards of Mundelsheim. Our landlords, proud owners of these vineyards, generously granted us access to their wine-laden cellar, a treasure trove of assorted varieties.
Occasionally, on those chilly winter evenings, I would descend and retrieve a bottle of the local red wine, Trollinger. I’d savour a glass, seated comfortably on the sofa, but I had made a solemn vow to myself: never would I indulge in wine when feeling sad. I swore that my relationship with wine would be one of pure pleasure, cherishing every sip. I’d swirl the glass, breathe in its rich aroma, then take a sip, allowing the wine to caress my tongue, awakening my taste buds. After swirling the potion I’d let it glide to the back of my palate, down my throat. I never binged; I swore to avoid such excess.
Nevertheless, I distinctly recall a fateful Christmas Eve from years ago. I was returning from the gym on my motorcycle, overwhelmed by loneliness and despondency. There were no celebrations, parties, or gatherings awaiting me, just solitude. Fate intervened as I spotted my friend Cyril in front of Meedo’s bar. I pulled over, and he invited me for a drink. I hesitated, explaining that I wasn’t dressed for the bar, but he assured me that appearances mattered little. I followed him inside, and we ordered rum with Coke. The first drink disappeared quickly, and we engaged in conversation, nibbling on snacks. By the time I reached the middle of my second drink, I could feel it — the warmth spreading through my chest, back, face, and ears. It was a comforting glow, a welcome sensation.
Alcohol has a profound impact on our nervous system, targeting two key neurotransmitters. Dopamine, the first, creates feelings of pleasure and reward, inducing a sense of euphoria when we imbibe. The second, Gamma-Aminobutyric Acid (GABA), possesses inhibitory effects on the brain, inducing a calming, sedative influence that promotes relaxation and diminishes anxiety.
The last drink I remember was the fourth. From there, my memories become fragmented, oscillating between glimpses of me departing the bar, meeting another friend, and the darkness that followed. I remember crouching on the side of the road, retching into the abyss, then stumbling into my room, collapsing onto the bed as the ceiling spun relentlessly into nothingness. It was a nightmarish ordeal, and I genuinely believed I was teetering on the brink of death. In hindsight, it may have been alcohol poisoning, but my cousin Robin, visiting at the time, couldn’t secure a doctor’s presence on Christmas Eve — a night when even medical professionals appear to follow a celestial star. Before I succumbed entirely to unconsciousness, I must have vomited a thousand times.
The next day I woke to a beautiful bright sunny morning. The house was empty; everyone had gone to church. But I was alone and felt horrible — a debilitating hangover, my head throbbing with pain, and a profound sense of sadness. I swore never to touch alcohol again. Years elapsed before I dared to consume anything alcoholic once more — a bitter lesson learned.
I thank God for shielding me, ensuring that my life didn’t culminate in the foolishness of my youth, a fate that has befallen so many others. Although sadness continued to haunt me, I never sought solace in alcohol to fill the void. Throughout my twenties and thirties, I explored various remedies in my battle against depression, from natural options like St. John’s Wort and Valerian plant to prescription medications like Benzos and SSRIs. Yet, nothing offered respite. It wasn’t until years later that I discovered the Way to freedom, a way to escape the relentless carousel of despair. I found hope. I was born again. Regardless of how I may feel on any given day, I know that my mind has been completely renewed — the old has gone and all things have become new.
