Breaking the Silence: Reflections on Suicide, Survival, and Mental Health

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𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗮𝗸𝘀 𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗶𝗱𝗹𝘆 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘀𝘂𝗶𝗰𝗶𝗱𝗲. 𝗙𝗼𝗿 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲, 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗺𝗮𝘆 𝗯𝗲 𝗮 𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗴𝗲𝗿. 𝗜𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂’𝗿𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝘂𝗴𝗴𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗽 𝗶𝘀 𝗮𝘃𝗮𝗶𝗹𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲. 𝗙𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗨.𝗦., 𝗰𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗲𝘅𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝘂𝗶𝗰𝗶𝗱𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗖𝗿𝗶𝘀𝗶𝘀 𝗟𝗶𝗳𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗲 𝗮𝘁 𝟵𝟴𝟴. 𝗛𝗲𝗹𝗽 𝗶𝘀 𝗮𝘃𝗮𝗶𝗹𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝟮𝟰 𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀 𝗮 𝗱𝗮𝘆.

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𝗕𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲: 𝗥𝗲𝗳𝗹𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗼𝗻 𝗦𝘂𝗶𝗰𝗶𝗱𝗲, 𝗦𝘂𝗿𝘃𝗶𝘃𝗮𝗹, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗠𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗮𝗹 𝗛𝗲𝗮𝗹𝘁𝗵 

September is National Suicide Prevention Month. It is a time to acknowledge those affected by suicide, raise awareness, and help others seek treatment. 

Our family has been touched again by suicide. This past April, my dad took his life. He was 90 at the time and was also one of my best friends. Not a week goes by that I don't weep. I really miss my Pops. 

He didn’t struggle with mental illness, and it was not an act of impulsiveness. His health had been failing for years. Five years ago, I lost my mom to the effects of a brain injury. She and my dad had been married for sixty-three years. He was lost without her. 

My dad was open about being tired of this life. He spent the past year under hospice care. It was jaw-dropping for me to hear one of his hospice care workers tell me—as his primary family member—that they could bring up the topic of assisted suicide to my dad. 

"We can arrange for a trip to Vermont," the hospice nurse said, as casually as if she were talking about taking a vacation. I was left speechless. Assisted suicide is legal in Vermont. 

Dad wanted to die and spoke openly about his wishes with increasing frequency. 

This is very, very difficult to write about. The wound is still raw, still painful. It all still sucks. 

We saw him on the Saturday before the eclipse. It was a nice visit. Sarah and I chit-chatted for a couple of hours. A couple of his local friends were there checking in on him. Oh, let me not forget to tell you: Dad was blind and living with his cat in very rural New Hampshire. 

I left that April day with the same words I always said at our parting: "I love you, Dad." 

Little could I have imagined that I'd never see him again. 

The suicide coin has two sides: those who make the choice to die, and those left behind. When my dad died, I was left behind. 

But I have more than a nodding familiarity with suicidal ideation. I survived two of my own suicide attempts. 

I was a completely lost teen. At a young nineteen years old, I had enough of life and took an intentional drug overdose. I woke up from that experience angry. I did not want to live anymore. At twenty-eight years old, I found myself with a noose around my neck. I was again tired of life. I credit the hand of God for keeping me here. If I had my choice at both of those dark times in my life, you would not be reading these words. I would... no longer exist. 

Until my brain injury, I suffered from Seasonal Depressive Disorder, falling into a deep depression from November through April every year. It was as predictable as sunrise. In what amounts to "you can't make this up," my depression was cured by my brain injury. But I was hardly on solid ground. 

During my first year post-injury, thoughts of suicide were front and center. I was not depressed, not even close. I was, however, confused, distraught, and mourned the life I had lived. 

By far, the hardest part of all was seeing my beloved Sarah suffer. Brain injury affects everyone. (I see you nodding. You understand.) My new personality, my lack of verbal and emotional filters, my inability to earn a living—all these were weighing heavily on her. I wanted out of life, not for me, but to stop her from suffering. My broken brain said that I was the cause of all her pain. In a moment of weakness, or perhaps strength, I let her know the depths of my despair. 

Sarah told me in no uncertain terms that I needed to talk to someone. If you know Sarah, you know that it was not a request. I had marching orders. 

I sought help from a mental health professional who understood brain injury. She quite literally saved my life. I saw her in her office a couple of times a month for many, many months. 

It's been well over a decade since those dark days. Today, I have zero thoughts of self-harm. Life with a brain injury remains tough. Many who know me think that I have my sh*t together all the time. I do not. Every day, I am reminded that I have a brain injury. Some days are easy. Some days suck. Some weeks are easy. Some weeks really suck. But I suit up and show up, doing the best I can. And when I fall on my face, like I did just this morning, I get up, brush off my emotional self, and keep moving forward. 

Today, I know that suicidal ideation is often a cry for help. Both of my attempts happened before I got sober in 1991. I was a lost young man who could have easily become just another statistic. These days, I accept that hardship is just part of the human condition. 

Suicide is a symptom of something deeper, something that can be fixed. It is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. 

I am profoundly grateful that I'm still here, walking among the living. I am a survivor in more ways than most people know. 

In a few days, my dad's birthday will be here. He would have turned 91. It's been five months and one week since we lost him. Boo and I will most likely get a small cake and sing him the happy birthday song. There will be tears, but there will be smiles as well. 

Let's talk about you for a moment. If you are in that dark place, that place where oblivion looks good, please, please talk with someone. You might not believe me, but someone loves you. Your life is worthwhile. 

I wish you peace. 

David