I don’t judge suicides. Life is damned hard most of the time. And that phrase “It’s a permanent solution to a temporary problem” is a bit galling when it comes from someone without your particular set of problems. (It was a favorite of an ex of mine, who lived his life completely buffeted by his wealthy family, in whose minds he could do no wrong.) Do I think life is always worth it? Frankly, I’m undecided. I know that seeing and being with my dogs is a reliable source of happiness for me, and I would never leave them vulnerable to homelessness. But do I find more pleasure than pain in life itself? In all honesty, I would have to say probably not. I’m sure it’s my own fault — I know you have to make your own happiness (or at least shut the hell up about your own unhappiness), and I’m not a “live life with gusto” kind of gal. My childhood was chaotic at best, and I think I learned the habit of unhappiness. I’ve had very happy moments, but as a rule, though I am buoyant, I can’t mislabel that as happiness.
But L’Wren Scott was gorgeous. Six foot three. Lean. And yet she hung herself. To me, that’s adding insult to the ultimate injury: why make yourself suffer that way? I think she must have wanted to punish herself, in addition to dying. That’s the part that makes me sad. Choosing to die is up to the individual. But must one make it a violent choice?
RIP, Ms. Scott. I’m so sorry.