My beautiful friend committed suicide. Her death changed my life.
It was a Tuesday. The day after Memorial Day. Everyone was still light from the three day weekend, but I was starting to get an edge. It was nearly 6 p.m. and for some unknown reason, all of our access to our business Facebook accounts was getting blocked. We were running around from computer to computer in the office trying different things like manic teenagers waiting for an IM from a new boyfriend to come through.
I came back to my desk and switched back to my personal Facebook account and that’s when I saw the post, ‘RIP Windy West.’ I don’t even remember who posted it. I just remember thinking it was odd. To be perfectly honest, initially, I wasn’t THAT worried about it. Windy is an actor, like me. I figured she had probably gotten cast in a project and had died on set as a character or something. Us actors are always doing and posting crazy shit like that. Nothing out of the ordinary.
For some reason, I sat down anyway and clicked on to her profile. She had made a post on her page the night prior. It said simply, ‘I’m done.’ It had a ton of comments. I started to scan through them rapidly, searching for some sort of information or insight. I started seeing people — people who I knew well. People who didn’t post irresponsibly or negligently, that were indeed acknowledging that something had happened.
My next response was that this was nonsense. A misunderstanding. No. There’s no way this could be true. I stood up out of my chair in confident defiance and I called her. When it went to her voicemail, I rationalized with myself that Windy is a busy woman. Chances were strong that she was producing a radio show or on a shoot or something, but a knot had started to form in my stomach.
I did the only thing that made the most sense to me, I called the person in our community that knows everything about everyone. Our dear heart and soul of Arizona film. No answer. The next person I called was a woman close to Windy, who especially in the last few months had formed a special bond with her. Again no answer.
Time sort of stood still for those minutes before I got a call back. I think I knew in my gut what had happened. I think I had known it was coming for a while. I had had these urges for months to reach out to her. They weren’t just surface, conscious thoughts of ‘Hey I should see how Windy is today!’ but something deeper. There was something is me that sensed she was drowning.
Life always got in the way. Work was always busy. My family was always a priority or my own depression a roadblock. I usually never sent more than a text or two. I never made more than an empty promise. For three days before that Tuesday though, Windy haunted me. Now I knew why and it was too late. Those empty promises delivered on their hallow nature. I had failed her.
When I got the call, I stepping quietly into the conference room. Luckily it was empty so I could pace freely about the room as she told me what happened. I cried and I asked all the cliche questions. How. Why. Where. When. When we hung up, I didn’t know what to do with myself so I just sat there and looked out the ninth floor windows down at the city below. Something about the sound of the traffic — the big trucks and the honking horns, calmed me. The idea that life was still going on down there, just as it always does despite the chaos in my brain, despite Windy’s heart not beating anymore.
I couldn’t think about anything, not really. I just kept seeing Windy’s face and listening to the cars.
My husband and I had made dinner reservations with his cousin that night. I told him I didn’t think I should go anymore and that he should just meet her without me. I don’t think he wanted me to be alone and he thought a distraction might be healthy for me so he said he’d swing by and come get me. I didn’t have the strength or the mental fortitude to argue.
I made my way outside. That’s when I got the second call back. I’m not sure why I thought she might tell me something different. That maybe there might have been a mistake? This time I trembled as I listened to the story. I fumbled to find a pack of stale cigarettes I had in my purse and lit one. I don’t normally smoke and for a moment I worried about someone from work seeing me, but decided I didn’t care.
That’s when I heard it. All of it. She had killed herself. Suicide. Windy was really gone.
It didn’t seem real. She was bigger than life. She had a smile that could light up an entire room. She was so gracious and full of life. But that was all pretend — a character. That was Windy West. Her real name was Sara.
Sara never felt loved or valued or safe. She was constantly harassed, used, bullied, manipulated, in abusive or unhealthy relationships and didn’t know how to love herself. I’m not entirely sure she even truly knew herself.
About a year ago, I started to get the sense that she wanted to shed the Windy West persona and I had always been intrigued by her — by her layers. I didn’t put up with her bullshit. She knew that. I think she respected me for that. I told her I wanted to do a documentary about that, but it would require her to be honest with me. It would mean that she would need to be transparent and remove the mask of Windy.
She surprised me by saying she wanted to do it. We never did. I got too busy. I regret that so much. I wonder if she didn’t know how to let go of Windy. I wonder if I had given her a healthy outlet to do that with the film, if perhaps things would have been different.
I suppose that’s what we all do though when we lose people we love. We torture ourselves with what-ifs and could-haves and should-haves. I know I couldn’t have saved her. I know she chose this. Sara was loved. She was surrounded by people, women especially, that loved her and supported and uplifted her. This was what she wanted, though I will never understand it.
I took her for granted while she was here. I thought she would ALWAYS be here. I did. I know that sounds ridiculous, but if you saw her, you would get it. She had this long flowing blonde hair, a massive platinum smile, piercing blue eyes, was taller than most men and breasts that could knock out a small cow. She was at every film event, volunteered at charity events, worked for Dave Pratt, modeled, she was everywhere with that electric smile. So when I found out she was hurting, I figured her light would just be a little dim for a bit, but I never, ever thought, that light could ever go out completely. No one could extinguish a light that bright. I was wrong.
When news of her death was made public it got … I don’t have the words for it.
People used her death as a platform to express their personal agendas. The harassment continued. People continued to make comments about her weight, about her love life, about her choices, people blamed other people or felt they knew the whole story when they only knew bits and pieces. It got ugly and messy and emotional. I was furious that people had the audacity to insert themselves for the sheer purpose of relevancy or were depraved enough to make bodacious claims on her page where he family, her poor, grieving family could see for nothing other than malicious or vengeful intent. It floored me to think that these people existed, much less walked and worked alongside me in this industry. I pride myself on staying removed from most drama, so I felt blindsided by a lot of it. It felt like an ugly beast, growing in size and shape with each new comment, powered by the negative energy.
Even people with good intentions were making an already tense situation more complicated than necessary. Myself included, perhaps.
Situations are rarely black and white, especially with someone as complex as Sara. When all I had wanted was to do something nice and inclusive to remember her and give people in the film community an opportunity to commemorate her and get closure, I feel I had unintentionally created gatekeepers and owners of her memory that put up barriers and even more sanctions.
Like I said, nothing is ever black and white. Nothing is ever simple. People will hate me. It was not my intention.
When my cousin died of leukemia after years of battling and struggling for her life, I was angry and confused with god. When Sara died, I was angry with people. I am angry with people. She deserved better. We deserve better.
We are indeed doing something to honor and remember Sara. It won’t be perfect because we aren’t perfect. But we are doing some amazing things like working with the campaign for #LetsBeBetterHumans and the I Have a Name Project and Alice Cooper’s Foundation for children. We will also be providing professional services on grief counseling, suicide prevention and mental health awareness. There’s so much we can do. Sara is not the only hurting heart on the earth, not by a long shot.
My ask is not new or revolutionary. It is not groundbreaking or remarkable. It is this —
- Be kind and gentle to one another.
- Remember that your enemy, whoever he or she may be, is just a human with a heart and two hands like you that hurts and cries and feels
- Practice gratefulness and awareness in the moment.
- Don’t miss an opportunity to share love.
- Your purpose each day, can be as small and as significant as bringing joy to one person’s life with one act of good will. What a mighty purpose.
