A few days ago, an acquaintance reached out to me on Messenger, sharing that their son-in-law died by suicide early that morning. It is not unusual for me to receive such messages, although they always steal away my breath and bring tears to my eyes and heart.
My 16-year-old son, Tom, died by suicide in March 2015. His death took us by surprise, having not recognized the signs of his depression or suicide ideation. Within a few days, our family decided we would be transparent about his death, although not the method.
Initially, it was difficult to accept our son died by suicide, and I immediately felt at fault for his death, sure he would not have killed himself if he knew how much I loved him. I was convinced people were gossiping about: why and how he died; how we should have known he was experiencing suicidal ideation; how I was a terrible mother for letting this happen; and that I should have worked less and paid more attention to my children. I was sure that parents would not want me to teach in our community’s schools anymore, because if I couldn’t care for my own child, how could I care for theirs?
I wrote about feeling as though I was wearing an invisible yellow “T” on my shirt and being publicly shamed like Hester Prynne in The Scarlet Letter. Yellow was Tom’s favorite color as a child and is also a ribbon color for suicide prevention. As my friend-in-grief Barbara told me, “That’s what our culture believes, and if we don’t beat ourselves up, our friends, neighbors, colleagues and strangers will.” My grief and fear of others’ judgement made it difficult to leave the house. And, when people came to the door, I often hid behind the couch so they could not see me through the window, as I was unable to face them.
Around six weeks after our loss, my husband and I started counseling for PTSD and complicated grief associated with our loss and trauma. Our counselor encouraged me to write a journal to help sort out my feelings. This ended up being an extremely important part of my healing process. Writing allowed me to process and frame my emotions so I could understand, own, and release them.
In my first piece, written 54 days after Tom died, I talked about how things which used to be easy suddenly were not – like picking out clothes to wear, choosing what to eat, or sitting at our dining room table. I impulsively posted my musings on Facebook, having found it a place of love and support through the first days of our loss. I immediately started receiving likes, post responses, and private messages of love and encouragement. Because responses were timely and positive, I felt safe, and as I continued to write to process my experience, I posted without hesitation. I included details of our grief journey, my cacophony of thoughts, the right and wrong things to say to those in similar situations, the signs of Tom’s suicide ideation which we missed, and the positive impact of others’ ongoing support.
Readers shared they could see parallels between my words and what was happening in their lives or the lives of people about whom they care. I was contacted by several people who had either lost someone to suicide or who were concerned about someone they thought might be experiencing suicidal ideation. Many parents wrote to me about how they shared our story with their own children which started, in some cases, lifesaving dialogue. I discovered my words had a power which was far greater than me.
Tom’s death had the potential to be very isolating for us because of harmful language and beliefs around suicide deaths. I am thankful to have found solace and safety in the TCF Facebook groups Loss to Suicide and Loss of a Child. I started posting in these groups where my words connected with others differently than on my own page. Rather than educating strangers to suicide loss, my words sparked conversation with those living the experience with me. People posted and messaged me, saying things like, “You put into words exactly how I feel,” and “I am glad I am not the only one experiencing these feelings.”
Common themes from group members include the lack of support they receive from friends and loved ones because people do not know what to say when it comes to a suicide death.
There are also those who get blamed by others for their child’s death with comments like, “If you were a better parent, this would not have happened.” In addition, survivors of suicide loss sometimes deal with people telling them things like their child is a sinner who will suffer in hell for their actions. Thankfully, we never experienced any of these heartbreaking comments. We almost always felt uplifted by our physical and online communities. I believe that is because by being open about our loss, we helped others understand some truths about suicide deaths.
A friend told me the stories of her two children. Her daughter was killed by a drunk driver. Seven years later, her son, Chris, died by suicide. She writes, “(He) was an active duty, highly decorated Marine Corps sergeant who was deployed three times for combat duty in Iraq. He got a hero’s welcome each time he returned home. Except for the last time, when he was flown home in a casket. A nondescript SUV drove his body to the funeral home in the dark of night.
Had he been killed in combat, there would have been a cavalcade of police and fire company vehicles with flashing lights. People would have lined the highways and waved American flags. Veterans would have stood along the route and saluted. Frontpage headlines would have lauded his heroism and service to our country. Strangers would have read that he was injured in an IED explosion, his uniform pinned with medals and quotes about his bravery, the troops he led into combat, and civilians whose lives he saved during each of his three deployments.
Granted, he had a full military honors funeral, but you wouldn’t have known it if you weren’t family or typically read obituaries every day. He fought battles with honor and service to country but lost the war in his own struggle with the trauma of war that plagued his mind.
His only peace was killing himself. That one fateful act erased his heroism.
That’s the difference with suicide deaths. Family and friends lovingly text, call, or comment on Facebook when it’s the birthday or the anniversary of the daughter who died at the hands of another. But the anniversary or birthday of the son who died is eerily absent of recognition, even by other bereaved parents unless their child also died by suicide.”
These two children who were equally loved and grieved were killed, but only one is recognized because one child, didn’t want to die but the other did. “No one is trying to be mean,” the mother says, “but it’s the pervasive stigma of suicide.”
Returning to my acquaintance who lost their son to suicide a few days ago, I invited them to reach out when and if they wanted to talk. A day or two later, she called me, and we chatted for bit. I shared with her the advantages I found to being transparent about Tom’s death – not having to remember who knows what or worrying about being found out. My comment seemed to resonate with her. However, a few days later, I saw a post on her Facebook page that said “…accidents aren’t fair,” intimating that her son in law died by or in an accident.
Later in the week, I was in a social setting, and a friend approached me. She whispered that she had heard conflicting accounts of the circumstances of his death and hoped I would be able to tell her the truth. It was an awkward position in which to be placed, although not unusual as I am often in the loop in suicide attempt and death conversations. I still am not sure I handled it the right way.
Tom’s death changed the course of my life journey. Our loss compelled me to become better educated about mental illness and called me to become an advocate, educator, and informal counselor for parents who are concerned about their own children. Because I know the limits of my knowledge and education on these topics, I always refer people to experts during our conversations. Although my son’s absence looms over our lives and impacts my emotional state frequently, I am so grateful our family made the decision to be transparent.
I believe I have a responsibility to use Tom’s story to educate others and perhaps change the assumptions people make about those who die by suicide and their loss survivors. I am grateful our community lovingly embraced us early on, so I am strong and secure enough to give back to them through advocacy and education as a part of my healing process. I wish others I have met along my grief journey had this same support.
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