Summary

The article reflects on the societal and personal pressures that contribute to the internal struggles of individuals like Cheslie Kryst, despite their external success and public admiration.

Abstract

The piece is a poignant reflection on the life and death of Cheslie Kryst, a woman who achieved significant success and public admiration, yet still faced an internal battle with mental health and societal expectations. It underscores the idea that even with a law degree, a national beauty title, and a life seemingly full of achievements, the internal struggle with pain and societal pressures can be overwhelming. The author emphasizes that despite the external appearance of having it all, the reality of living under a microscope can lead to a sense of isolation and the need to suppress true emotions. The article suggests that the map to a fulfilling life often promised to young women is misleading, and the pursuit of perfection and recognition can leave individuals feeling unseen and disconnected from their own needs and desires. The author argues that the expectation to maintain a facade of success and happiness can be a form of living death, and the pressure to conform to societal standards can ultimately lead to a tragic outcome when the sorrow becomes too much to bear.

Opinions

The author posits that societal standards and the pursuit of success can mask deep internal struggles, leading to a sense of isolation and the need to suppress true emotions.
Achievements and public admiration do not necessarily equate to personal fulfillment or mental well-being.
The pressure to maintain a certain image can be detrimental to one's mental health, especially when the reality of one's emotional state does not align with societal expectations.
The article criticizes the cultural narrative that suggests a certain level of success by a certain age will lead to happiness, pointing out that this "map" to fulfillment is often flawed.
The expectation for public figures to be strong and resilient at all times ignores the human need for vulnerability and support.
The author suggests that the true essence of an individual, such as Cheslie Kryst, can be overshadowed by their public persona, and that their internal pain is often unseen and misunderstood by the public.
The piece calls for empathy and respect for the individual struggles of those in the public eye, advocating for a more compassionate understanding of mental health issues.

My Response to the Reactions on Cheslie Kryst’s Death

You’re not alone. Open up. Tell someone. Don’t isolate. Be vulnerable. Let us into your pain. Don’t keep it all inside. Keep living. Keep fighting. Don’t give up.

Don’t you think she tried?

She tried with two law degrees, hoping that diving into her passion for justice would reawaken her passion for living. A life that is unapologetically cruel to so many of us, sometimes for no reason at all.

She tried by filling her plate with things to do, people to see, goals to achieve, in the hopes she’d one day be truly seen, the deep scars she acquired on her way to the top not scaring them away.

She tried by winning the title of the most beautiful woman in the nation, showcasing all the lovely skills and abilities she tucked under her belt, which kept her head held upright, admired by all for not falling onto the wayside of drugs, sex, and rock and roll.

She tried by pushing away those primal instincts deep inside to say Fuck It and follow her wild, flaming heart’s true desires. She tried by flashing her winning smile, which she had perfected after wiping her swollen eyes in front of the cold, harsh mirror that reflected her deep pain and sorrow.

She followed the map, that one-way map handed to us somewhere between teenagedom and womanhood, with the promise of a full, complete life by age 25. It ticked by, the days after the deadline, but she held on and gave herself that extra 5-year cushion to somehow get there.

Just one more push. One more stroke of the makeup brush. One more smile. One more achievement. One more ‘like’ on the platform of judgment that approved her every move. Then she’d be seen, her tears would be cupped into the palms of our hands and immortalized as relics of her soul instead of being wiped away.

So, you see, she tried. I can guarantee it. She tried with all the success she achieved. She tried with the adoration, admiration, adulation. What would have been the alternative? To screech the true state of pain within like a banshee echoing into the dark of the lonely night?

Screaming with abandon at the broken pieces of yourself that cascade out of your ears and onto the ground to form a brand new version of yourself that you never existed won’t win you any friends, respect, or reverence. The only thing you’ll get is trapped within the four walls of the ward, racking your brain for all the right things to say so you can be released and face the ruins of your lonely fate and figure it out by yourself.

Because you shouldn’t need anybody, right? Go love yourself. Give yourself value by shutting everyone out so you won’t bother them during their distress. It’s unnatural to need anybody so much, right? So why would she ever say she needed anyone?

On your own, take it to step by step. Bit by bit. Mile by mile. Just like Whitney, another classic beauty with too much pain to bear and not enough love to sustain her and the appearances she had to keep up so as not to inconvenience the ones that cheered her on but disappeared whenever her sorrow peeked out from beneath the shadows.

Someone who is admired and adored under the microscope somehow loses their luster when they make one mistake or show a tiny fraction of an inch of what’s real. When you let the sadness take over, it scares people with its carnal passion. It isn’t pretty, bright, attractive. It’s downright ugly, and no one knows how to appreciate how beautiful that ugliness can be.

So she tucked it in. Because when you cry, there are only so many shoulders you can cry on. There is only so much time people have to listen before they get busy. They get so busy, trying to reach the heights that you are getting no joy out of. She recited regulation after regulation, and ad-libbed for the camera, to erase the critical voices pounding her brain, begging her to give in to the ugly sorrow so she could get rid of it once and for all.

Getting rid of that sorrow takes you to a really ugly place. It’s a form of death in life. But if you don’t, it just sits there. It builds up over time. It makes your mind fuzzy; you feel high from the constant adrenaline to create, motivate, innovate until it's too late. Until then, you squat, contort, pretzel your limbs into that impossible dream that could break at any minute.

Before you know it, you reach a dead end. You’re 30 years old and the map you got was all wrong. There was no happily ever after. There was no prince. There were only leeches who were sucking your will to live and smiles disguising mouths agape with jealousy and resentment because they think you are being seen, even though you aren’t.

It leads you to a closed street with no way out. You loop around the cul de sac of empty, abandoned houses that look the same. There are too many to count. You panic, swerve in another direction only to find yourself still there. You’re looping around, higher and higher, up into the clouds.

But fear grips your throat for a second. You are too high off of the ground to see anymore. It’s lonely at the top, up so high that you can’t even see the ground below that keeps you tethered to the earth which cakes everyone with dirt and dust from the cars that drive by and splash them.

So you jump.

You need to see if you can fly, or if you can somehow get back down and turn to dust too. Like everyone else. You fall and on your way down, the smile returns, because you’ve never felt so light. It was the highest you had ever been and nothing could be better.

So you fell, with grace, beauty, dignity, and acceptance of the tiny chips of a heart floating through your insides until they splatter onto the cold concrete sidewalk. The body is a heap of bones and flesh, remnants of the goddess known and appreciated on earth.

What about the lovely radiance of her essence that is now wafting in the breeze? Let her rest now, please. Don’t ask why. Don’t demand your place in her past life that you knew nothing about. Don’t lament your ignorance. It isn’t about you. It isn’t about us.

She broke free and is now truly seen for who she was best. A beautiful soul that was suffering far too much worldly unrest.