Despair

I pulled up to a stop light a couple nights ago. A moped came up beside me in the next lane. It was a long light, so we waited. I glanced over at the moped, looked away, then decided to give them a longer look.

There are exactly two kinds of people who ride mopeds. The first group does so for fun and entertainment. These folks are riding around on a Vespa, an original Kreidler, or maybe a Derbi scooter. The second group of moped riders do so for transportation. As in, the moped is their only form of getting around. Maybe they’ve lost their driver’s license. Or they can’t afford a car. Or their car doesn’t run. It’s pretty easy to differentiate between these two groups of people.

Same with bicyclists. For some, it’s exercise, entertainment, or both. For others, the bicycle is how they get from one spot to another. Have you ever seen someone riding a bike and smoking at the same time? They belong to the second group.

As I looked over at the moped beside me, it was obvious that moped travel was not a hobby for the riders. A guy in his late 30’s was driving. A girl, maybe 30 years old, was riding pillion (riding bitch for those of you who use a bicycle for transportation). When I looked at her, she looked back. For a brief moment we locked eyes, and then she looked down.

She said a lot in that brief moment. She told me this isn’t where she thought she’d be five years ago. This isn’t who she thought she would be with. This wasn’t how she thought her life was going to turn out. She also let me know she was resigned to the fact that this was the best she could do right now, and she had no plans to improve her position. Not out of contentment, but out of despair. Not a molecule of hope resided in her.

You might be wondering how she told me all of that in just a few seconds, without any words. 93% of all communication is nonverbal, and she had a lot to say. Normally, when I’m out in public, I make it a point not to meet a stranger’s gaze. If you see me in the wild, I’m usually just staring at my own shoes. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not a mind reader. But I do pay attention. And the people in the most pain seem to shout (nonverbally) the loudest.

I rarely know what to say in the presence of despair. That might sound odd, coming from a therapist. But despair, or the condition that exists when hope is absent, is such a barren place for the host. True despair is not just the condition that exists when life seems hard. Or when hope is waning. True despair denotes the absolute absence of hope. Despair is a faraday cage of isolation. No signal can penetrate it.

I imagine despair is what Grayson Murray felt this past weekend. Grayson played golf better than most. He won the Sony Open in January. He came in 43rd in the PGA Championship, which earned him a spot in the upcoming U.S. Open. He shot a 68 in the opening round this weekend at Colonial. Friday was another story. Five over par with three consecutive bogeys and Grayson withdrew from the tournament with two holes to play, citing illness. He took his life the next day.

It wasn’t the bogeys. Or that he might miss the cut. It was despair. Isolated despair. Unshared despair. Grayson had previously struggled with substance use disorder. His relationship with his fiancé had seen some challenges as well. All of that, or none of that, could have played a part. What is true is that Grayson didn’t see a path forward. Pain in every direction. So there was only one way out.

I’ve heard (and read) of ignorant people who say that completing suicide is a coward’s way out. Thankfully, no one has ever said that to me directly.

Remember when the planes hit the towers? Before the buildings collapsed, several people in the upper floors jumped to their death. Nobody called them cowards. But I’d imagine Grayson felt the exact same way. Through interviews with individuals who survived a suicide attempt we’ve learned that almost all of them felt a deep level of unrelenting despair.

My mentor, Banks Hudson, suffered a severe stroke this past Friday. The same day that Grayson carded those three bogeys. As I sat with him this weekend in the ICU I held his hand and we looked each other in the eyes. He has no verbal ability at the moment, but like I said, I pay attention. And I saw in his eyes fear and despair (and not a small amount of anger at his brain’s betrayal).

What I told him is what I tell myself when despair comes around. It’s the only thing I know to be true about despair. I squeezed his hand and leaned in to make sure he could hear me: “It goes away. It doesn’t feel like it, I know. It feels like it’s here to stay forever. But it goes away. All on its own. All manner of things will be well.” He closed his eyes, took a breath. He gave me the slightest smile. A man of his age, and a man of his wisdom, knows this to be true: Despair is temporary.

I wish I could have told Grayson that. Since I didn’t, or couldn’t, I thought I’d tell you.