fine vs. not so fine

The recent suicides of celebrities Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain have spurred a discussion on mental health, or mental hygiene, if you prefer, which is good, right? Some people close to these poor unfortunates have expressed surprise at these suicides; some have not. 

We register surprise at these tragedies because of the mismatch between outer appearances and inner feelings.

Is an outward show of happiness an American trait? When I traveled to foreign countries or if I have engaged in conversation with foreign visitors here, more than once I have heard them mock our cheeriness, our brightness. One person pointedly criticized our chirpy "have a nice day" or "how are you." They were British.

We say we're fine, don't we?

The first reason people do that is out of a social convention. Rarely would someone reply to a co-worker in the hallway asking how you are with a literal sob story or anything more than a superficial declaration of fineness. The troubled person doesn't want to be unseemly or overly personal with another who is not much more than an acquaintance, even if the two work side by side eight hours a day five days a week.

By virtue of their training and their mission, sales representatives often exude an avalanche of bonhomie. It evidences the power of positive thinking, in the mold of Dale Carnegie, who wrote the transformative best-seller and whose legacy involves courses and practices.

These are understandable social norms. 

I couldn't tell you whether Americans are different from anyone else on these matters. 

But what if one is not fine?

What are the avenues to travel, the resources to tap? I don't mean help lines, though I suspect they offer measurable value and life-saving tools.

In rooms where people seek recovery from addiction and other malaises, some try to subvert the facade that masks unhappiness by saying f-i-n-e stands for "fucked-up [or frustrated] insecure needy enraged." Variations include  "... neurotic emotional," "needy egotistical," and assorted alternatives. 

And they say, "You're as sick as your secrets."

What's the solution?

Not being a mental health professional, I don't know. I doubt the answer is to be exceedingly frank, candid about secrets, and self-revealing at the drop of a hat. But I would say it's critical to talk to someone, anyone, especially a confidant, a trusted friend.

I recently watched the last several episodes of "Mad Men." If anyone ever needed help, it was Don Draper/Dick Whitman. Near the end, he was suicidal: gone, lost, wandering, meandering, searching, driving through America's heartland to save his own heart.

His escape, his flight, didn't work.

Not exactly.

Remember what did work?

Don/Dick witnesses another man in the same kind of grave pain he is in. In a therapy group, the man tells his story and then collapses into sobs. Don/Dick watches, moved to his core, and walks over and hugs the man for all he's worth, with all he has. Don/Dick is saved by a perfect (very imperfect) stranger, another wounded man just like him, a man who felt invisible to those around him. Don/Dick ferociously embraces the weeping man and also breaks down himself.

So it wasn't a matter of talking.

It was a matter of being there -- literally, being present.

And from what we could see, it saved Draper/Whitman, and presumably the Weeping Man as well.

Something happened.

And why for those two, and not the two mentioned at the top, is a mystery.