Saturday is International Survivors of Suicide Day. I am posting this early in case somebody wants to attend the conferences mentioned at the end.
I am a survivor of suicide. No, that does not mean I tried to take my life and didn't succeed; it means I lost a loved one to suicide, my son Henry.
All of us who have lost a loved one - no matter how - experience a lot of the same emotions: sadness; grief; loss; despair and anger, yes, anger.
For survivors of suicide there are a couple of extra emotions, though: shame and guilt. After talking to a few people just recently who lost as loved one as well, I have come to realize that maybe people aren't necessarily judging you or your loved one after a suicide; they just simply don't know what to say (a simple "I am so sorry for your loss" is sufficient), so maybe the shame is unnecessary.
The guilt, though, remains, even to this day - more than 4 years later. I don't kick myself quite so hard any longer, but I still ask the "what did I miss?," "what if" and "if only" questions. Why didn't I understand what was going on? I saw something was wrong, but I didn't know what it was.
One more thing that is different for survivors is the need to know, and I believe that's the same for anybody who has lost a loved one unexpectedly, violently. For me, it was an important part of the healing process, trying to find out as much as I could about what had gone on in Henry's life, what he had been doing, who he had hung with. Unfortunately (and most likely understandably), most of the people he spent his time with towards the end were reluctant if not downright unwilling to talk to me or answer my questions. That means there are still holes I would like to have filled. But I realize that I may never get answers to those and, as times goes by, it gets easier to live with those unanswered questions.
I assume all of those questions will always be there along with the feeling of loss and that big hole in my life.
As always, the AFPS has information on conferences, both online and in various locations around the world and helpful info for survivors.
http://www.afsp.org/index.cfm?fuseaction=home.viewPage&page_id=FEE7D778-CF08-CB44-DA1285B6BBCF366E
There never was a time (once I was old enough to understand) that I was not aware of suicide. My father was a homicide detective who spent more time cutting people out of trees than investigating murders. And he talked about it, in a rather dispassionate way. I guess you'd have to in that profession.
The first time it hit close to home was when a former teacher and his lover took their lives in a rather dramatic way. I was 16 at the time. Next, at 29, came a former classmate. That one hurt, the circumstances were sad, very sad.
Still, suicides were something that happened to other people only. And they just happened, there wasn't anything anyone could do to prevent them - or so we thought at the time.
And then Henry decided one day he didn't want to live anymore. Now, this one hurt badly, worse than anything else I've ever experienced.
One way to deal with my grief was to start reading, to educate myself and I came to realize that there are far too many misconceptions about suicide. And that far too many people mistake their opinions for facts.
Yes, suicides can be prevented. Mental illness is treatable. Suicide more often than not is an impulsive act and if the easy means are taken away, the attempter often doesn't look for another way. Case in point is the Richard Seiden study conducted in the 1970s. He and his researchers identified 515 people who were prevented from jumping from the Golden Gate Bridge and followed their lives. Of these 515, only 6% went on to complete suicide and only 6 people went back to the bridge. There's the British natural gas story - once Britain switched from coal gas to natural gas, suicides went down by a third. People didn't look for another way once they couldn't stick their heads into the oven. (http://www.nytimes.com/2008/07/06/magazine/06suicide-t.html?_r=1&ex=1216094400&en=83bf55db43f6ac85&ei=5070&emc=eta1)
And, it's not called "committing" suicide. Crimes are committed, suicide isn't a crime. Suicides are attempted and/or completed.
Far too often I come across the opinion, "If they want to die, just let them." Feeling suicidal isn't a fatal disease, suicide is not the same as euthanasia. It is not an informed decision, but rather a decision made when the attempter is in a state of distress, mental agony, psychache. Edwin Shneidman, the father of suicidology, addresses that very well in his book "The Suicidal Mind." Talking to somebody who has decided life isn't worth living anymore works, pointing out to them that there are reasons to go on and try again works. Explaining that being pregnant, having lost a job, getting divorced, losing a boyfriend/girlfriend, not being accepted by your first choice of universities are not reasons to end one's life.
No, these people are not the scum of the earth and they do not deserve to take themselves out of the gene pool. That sort of thing is stupid, hateful and obviously expressed by somebody totally insensitive, immature and uncaring.
Suicide also isn't a sin (any longer). It used to be, but I'd like to think we are just that little bit more enlightened and compassionate. My son had a funeral mass, there never was any question about it.
There are plenty more facts I learned once I started reading and I may or may not address those in time, but, for now, I'm done.
Tomorrow is the fourth anniversary of Henry's death and, as always (until there is a barrier on the Golden Gate Bridge), we will be retracing his steps.
And you'd think it wasn't a big deal anymore. But there are still days when it seems totally abstract, as if it happened to somebody else and is just the sort of thing you read about. There are still days when I (almost) forget and there are plenty of days, especially lately, when thinking about it just breaks my heart.
I made this necklace quite a while ago, the weave goes by at least two names: Rhinos Snorting Drano, Stairway to Heaven. Whenever I wear it, I feel I ought to wear black leather and ride a Harley, and that's where the name comes from.
