I don’t know how many of you follow the news, or are at all concerned about the death of a celebrity. And what could possibly be the connection between the death of the woman who was dating Mick Jagger and this blog?
It is not something, when I first read about her death, I thought I’d be writing about this weekend. But a conversation the other day with my friend, in the car going to work, makes me think L’Wren’s death could be a lot closer to our issues than we will ever know.
In case you’re not up on the latest news, L’’Wren Scott was the 49 year old fashion designer who was dating Mick Jagger for the last 13 years. She committed suicide by hanging herself off a door knob in her apartment. When the news first broke of her death, many people seemed shocked. But as the days wore on, many facts emerged. Although her fashions were worn by some A-list celebrities, her business was failing. She was over six million dollars in debt. She was also in a relationship with a man who did not want a third wife, which was reportedly quite distressful for her.
So on the surface, it seems she might have had an enviable life, but once you read the details, she was dealing with quite a lot.
During the conversation with my friend, I mentioned that L’Wren was only 49…so young. But my friend’s response was more like, “yeah, ya know 49…” At first I didn’t know what she meant, but then realized she was referring to that time in a woman’s life; that all important transition. Peri-menopause.
She even commented that maybe she was so damn itchy she couldn’t stand it. How would we know? Maybe her histamine levels were rising while her hormones were beginning to go haywire. Friends came out the next day and said she was depressed in the weeks leading up to her death. Someone even mentioned she’d self-harmed. There is a strong theoretical link between histamine intolerance and depression. (I say theoretical because I don’t know if it is a proven link) But I think that’s interesting when talking about a successful 49 year old committing suicide.
I was having a cosmo bayside with my teacher buddies Thursday, celebrating the beginning of our spring break, when we got into a conversation about the changes we see with our bodies. The other three women are in their early 60’s. (I’m 52) It started with one of them mentioning her 60-ish friend, on a weekend getaway, came out of her room in a bikini, and how she thought her friend was a bit long in the tooth to be wearing one.
We all agreed to a woman’s right to be proud of whatever body she has at the time, but how none of the four of us would be caught dead in a bikini. Then the conversation switched to who still wears shorts. It seems the legs are the first thing gravity wreaks havoc on, well maybe after the face? One friend talked about her fading beauty. I talked about my fading athletic form. I never considered myself a great beauty, but I always considered myself an athlete. And based on that, my shorts are now down to my knees. It seems I woke up one day and looked in the mirror and thought WTF!? How can I be running three times a week and riding a bike and lifting weights and look like this. Like my skin is too big for my thighs! When did my inner self start to shrink away from my outer self?
Besides what you see physically, you notice your mind sliding in and out of some kind of mental fog. The ground comes out from under you, and you find yourself shifting between mud and clarity.
So what’s my point today? I started out by talking about L’Wren Scott and meandered through menopause and how it’s affected me personally. I guess it’s that I feel badly for her and wonder if she had friends like I have and a support system in place could she have weathered her feelings of inadequacy, or the feeling that she could not pull herself out from whatever rabbit hole she fell down into?
Were her demons the things she couldn’t fix, or her wayward hormones? I guess we’ll never know. But in the end, Mick wouldn’t marry her, her business was failing, she was in debt, and maybe she looked into the mirror and didn’t recognize herself anymore. Who of us hasn’t felt that way? And whether or not peri-menopause played a role, I can only theorize.
No matter what was going through her head, I’m still sorry about her death. I’m sorry for L’Wren and her family and friends. And I’m sorry for all women who fall down the rabbit hole.
I was lucky. I stepped to the edge, looked down into it, and stepped back.