I’m still processing the death of Chester Bennington, lead singer of Linkin Park.
Linkin Park was a part of our household when the band was the biggest thing around. My son was a fan, and so I heard Chester’s voice—sometimes so melodic, sometimes screaming—at home, in the car, at the gym.
Chester’s death—apparently a suicide—has touched so many so deeply. His fans, of course. His friends. The six children he leaves behind. I can’t imagine how much they must be grieving right now. The Blacklist once compared suicide to a suicide bombing: It destroys the people closest.
Such a tragedy. But I understand it more than I’d like.
I’ve dealt with a degree of depression most of my adolescent and adult life. I’m not alone: An estimated 300 million worldwide suffer from some degree of depression. I don’t want to make more of it than is necessary: For the most part, I’m able to push through. But while I don’t think I’ve ever been particularly suicidal, I have felt the urge to “quit,” in one way or another. To run away or hide in a dark closet. To push that non-existent “reset” button and reboot my life to the nearest save point.
Depressed or not, maybe most of us can relate to that a little. Life is hard, no getting around it. We fail. We lose people we love in one way or another. Few of us are strangers to despair.
Maybe that’s why the movie Dunkirk holds increased resonance for me now.