“You will survive and find meaning in the chaos. To continue does not mean to let go. "~ Mary VanHaute
I was ten years old when I discovered the truth. He didn't fall. He wasn't pushed. It wasn't an accident.
He jumped.
Suicide is not an easy-to-explain concept for a six-year-old and even less for her younger siblings. That's why I grew up believing that my father's drowning was an unfortunate freak accident. It was "just one of those things," the cruel way in the world, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
I was more than satisfied with this explanation, and other than the fear of open water and a slight touch of sadness whenever it was mentioned, I did not suffer any major trauma for the remainder of my early childhood.
But when I was ten years old, I learned the truth – that it wasn't some divine being or some unfortunate catastrophe that took him from me. In fact, he had torn himself from the earth, leaving behind everyone he loved. Leave me behind
Was it something I did?
That is the first question I asked.
"Of course not," said my mother. "He was just sad."
The idea that suicide is a simple cure for sadness became the first of many dangerous cognitive distortions that I assumed. It would be no more than a dropped ice cream cone or a trivial friendship breakdown before I declared my sadness overwhelming, until at the age of eleven I drank a whole bottle of cough suppressant believing that it would kill me.
I was sad, I said, just like him. And if he could, why couldn't I?
As I grew into my teenage years, I began to plague, albeit unconsciously, the possibility of being the driving force behind my father's suicide. I thought the bullies at school hated me, so of course my dad must have hated me too.
Maybe I wasn't smart or polite enough. Maybe I wasn't kind. Maybe everyone I loved would leave me at some point.
This thought pattern would slowly poison my mind and lay the foundation for a later borderline personality disorder. I suffered from intense fears of abandonment, dependency, emotional instability, and thoughts of suicide, and believed that I was an inherently terrible person who drove people away.
I refused to talk about my problems and let them fester because I harbored so much anger, guilt, shame and sadness that it would eventually break out of me. It wasn't until my mid-twenties that I realized how deeply my father's suicide had affected me and the course of my entire life.
I sought help and slowly began to heal.
Dealing with the stigma
"Mental illness is nothing to be ashamed of, but stigma and prejudice make us all ashamed." ~ Bill Clinton.
Selfishness, cowardice, and condemnation are poisonous beliefs that permeate the subject of suicide and intensify the anger, guilt, shame and isolation of survivors. Growing up, I hid the truth about how my father died from fear of judgment or ridicule. I was afraid that knowledge would not only tarnish his humanity, but paint me with the same black brush.
I still remember the words of a girl in high school: "Well, you shouldn't feel sorry for people who do, it was their choice, after all."
Once I understood the intricacies of mental illness and how destructively they can distort the mind, I came to terms with my father's death. I could accept that his suicide was born not from selfish weakness but from prolonged suffering and pain carried out by a mind consumed in darkness and unable to think rationally.
Letting go of the need for answers
"Why?"
Only the person who committed suicide can answer this question – but it often leaves us without understanding. In the absence of a detailed note or definitive explanation, we find ourselves on an endless spiral of rumination, speculation, criticism and self-blame, to no avail.
It becomes a complaint, a desperate longing for closure that puts a heavy strain on our hearts. After all, not only did they leave us, they also left us in the dark.
It is quite natural to want an answer to the question of why. We feel that one answer leads to completion, which in turn alleviates our confusion, pain, and guilt. However, since there is usually no single reason to attempt suicide, we always have questions that go unanswered.
The unreserved acceptance that I would never get the answers I longed for freed me from the constant ruminating on the "why".
Relief from guilt
To quote Jeffery Jackson: “Human nature unconsciously opposes the idea that we cannot control all the events of our lives so much that we would rather blame ourselves for a tragic event than accept our inability to accept it prevent. "
As survivors we tend to increase our contribution to suicide and torment ourselves with “what if”, as if the antidote to their pain was in our pockets.
We feel guilty for not having seen the signs, even if there were no signs to be seen. We feel guilty about not being grateful or paying enough attention to not picking up the phone or pressing harder when they said, "I'm fine." Even as a child, I felt overwhelmingly guilty and wondered if I could have prevented my father's suicide by saying please and thank you more than I did.
It wasn't my fault. And it's not yours either.
The truth is that we can neither control nor foresee the actions of others. Sometimes there are warning signs, sometimes not, but it is an act that is often beyond prediction. It is likely that with the limited knowledge we had at the time, we did as much as we could.
Healing requires acceptance, patience, self-inquiry and a lot of forgiveness as you move through a whirlwind of emotions. However, there is a light at the end of the tunnel of grief. While we may never completely distance ourselves from the suicide of a loved one, over time we will find that they were so much more than the way they died.
To quote Darcie Sims: "May love be what you remember most."
About Kia Hartford
Kia Hartford is a mental health writer and blogger dedicated to raising awareness and reducing the stigma surrounding mental health issues. Over on her blog, Beyond The Blues, she shares her experiences with borderline personality disorders, depression, anxiety, PTSD, and substance abuse. You can find them on Pinterest too.
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