Last night, my friend Megan brought over her copy of The Princess Bride for me to borrow. When she handed it to me, I clutched it to my chest, holding it like it was a long lost teddy bear as I leaned into the couch and listened to her talk about an upcoming event she was planning. Initially, I assumed my unexpected fondness for the DVD had to do with my current love for Robin Wright (I’m watching my favorite episode of House of Cards as I write this), but I discovered later, as Megan and I watched young Wright and young Cary Elwes dance around flames and quicksand, that it had very little to do with Robin Wright, and much more to do with the comfort that the story brought. You know the type, that “far off places, daring swordfights, magic spells, a prince in disguise” kind of comfort. The one that makes you feel as if nothing else matters because Westley has returned for Buttercup and Inigo will get his revenge.
It has not been a great day. Truly, it has not been a great last couple of days. There have been good moments, don’t get me wrong, but that frustrating little bug – that thing I deal with every day – has been lying in wait since some time on Friday afternoon, and it reared its ugly head today. It became hard to remember why I’m doing what I’m doing, why I’m investing my time and energy in certain things, and it became especially hard to remember if anyone even cared if I was present. That’s always my least favorite thought – the no one cares thought. The no one would miss me thought. The anyone can play my part thought.
And even though it’s still sitting there in my mind, I know it’s wrong. I know there are things that would be different if I wasn’t there. Things in the past that would have been different, and things in the future that will be different were I not there. But I also know how hard it can be to remember that.
After Westley and Buttercup were together, and the credits had rolled, Megan and I sat on our respective couches and chatted. I looked over the decorations she’d made for her upcoming event while the movie had played, and told her I could load them into my car (they would fit better) and bring them early to the event on Friday. When she said, “that would be amazing!,” I shrugged and said, “it would make me feel like I’m contributing something to society.”
“Your mere presence is a contribution,” she said.
“Well that’s very sweet,” I started, and before I could say anything else, she jumped in.
“You’re welcome, but it’s true.” She leaned towards me. “That’s a big thing to say, and I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true.”
Sometimes you need someone to say it to you, that your presence makes a difference. So, I’m saying it to you.
No one else can play your part, my darling. You are important. Your mere presence is a contribution to society.
I know what it’s like to have hard days. To have days where getting out of bed is difficult. To have moments where nothing seems important enough to stick around for.
You’re important. I hope you know that.
And someone, somewhere, is waiting to whisper “as you wish” to your every request. They may not be someone you see every day right now, but they’re out there, waiting. And it is inconceivable that you would think otherwise.
Today is World Suicide Prevention Day, and all week To Write Love On Her Arms has been reminding people that no one else can play their part. Whether you read my TWLOHA post from a few weeks ago, or Jamie Tworkowski’s from early this morning, please remember that no one else can play your part. And if you’d like to help fundraise for suicide prevention, please consider donating to TWLOHA via my friend Claire’s fundraising page.