Trying to Understand a Suicide

I found out yesterday that a woman I've known my whole life committed suicide. She was 57. She lived here in Farmsville. I know her sons. And even more sadly, she was a good friend of my parents. I went to church with her. In fact, I think I babysat her children. The number one question people always want to know when anyone dies, whether by suicide, accident, or natural causes is: how did it happen? In this case, it was a gun. Even more stunning. When Pa gently told me the news, something strange happened in my body. My fight-or-flight chemicals kicked in--I felt adrenaline rush to my extremities. I called Marshall. He already knew. The news had already made it down to the local coffee shop. By sundown, I'm sure everyone in Farmsville knew. And everyone was probably asking the same question: Why?

Suicide is such a puzzling mystery. To those who have never been clinically depressed, it appears as a completely selfish act with no known purpose. Several states consider attempted suicide a felony. You can be charged for all of the expenses incurred by standing on that bridge for an hour--paying for the cops, overtime, medical, etc. Life insurance policies are null and void if you kill yourself. I suppose these laws are created to try and keep people from attempting suicide, but the fact remains: Over 30,000 people take their own lives each year. And, curiously, babyboomer women are on the rise. It's heartbreaking.

So why? My mother looked at me through tear-filled eyes yesterday and asked: Why? I felt so bad for her. I hugged her and let her cry. I kept myself from crying because I felt I had a mission--to somehow make her understand. To help her get through this awful moment of grieving. To get her to focus on the correct things she needs to do right now to help her friends get through this painful moment. She begged me to never take my own life no matter how bad things get. I assured her: I won't. I won't. My parents know how my psyche works. They know I go through Debbie Downer phases. But I assured you then, and I assure you now, sweet Momma, I won't. But perhaps I can help you better understand that most perplexing question of why.

Some people know how to battle their demons better than others. Some choose to ignore them or make them go away via substance abuse or illicit behaviors. And then there are some people who become consumed by the darkness. I've been there. I know how hopeless it feels. You see no light on the other end of the tunnel--just a long, dark stretch of blackness. People tell you it will be OK, but you know it won't be. Everything hurts. You put on a good show. You act like nothing is wrong. But deep down inside, you just ache. Every day. And it never stops. And you're afraid it will never stop.

Of course there are options: treatment, medication, talk-therapy, life changes. Yes, there are so many options always. But sometimes a person gets so trapped in their own well that they don't see the ladders anymore. Or they are convinced the rungs will break. Maybe there are unknowns. Something changed in a relationship, she got bad news about her health, she lost something important to her. The sad fact is, we just don't know. But we can't be angry at her or God or whoever for this. People spend their entire lives being angry at people who have committed suicide. They don't understand and this leads to creating fictions about why the person did it. It was to make me mad. It was to hurt me. Things like that. In reality, it has nothing to do with anyone but that person. He or she was aching so badly that eternal rest was like a siren song. I feel nothing but extreme compassion for suicides. I feel sympathy for them--that they felt this was the best option. It must be extremely scary to take your own life. It goes against all of our fight-or-flight engineering. So I feel bad for that person--because they were sad and lonely and terrified. I have no reason to be mad. (Just to clarify, Ma isn't mad at this woman. But people usually feel anger after suicides occur.)

Just as with all controversial topics, I'm sure there are those out there who will disagree with me on this. This is just the way I personally feel. When I hear about suicide, I don't feel angry or personally hurt or any of that. I just feel sympathy--perhaps even empathy. I get it. Life can be ridiculously cruel and painful. But just to be clear--I don't condone suicide. I'm just trying to help a hurting community think about some of the questions that have appeared because of this tragic event. When my mother begged me to never take my own life, I looked at her and gently said: It's not about me. I had to repeat it a few times. And even though everyone will wonder what they could have done differently or what they could have said or if they had just asked her to coffee more often, I'll say this: It's not about you.

Hopefully, something wonderful will come out of this tragic event. Perhaps people will start talking to each other about things other than the weather around here. Dialogues will start about real problems and what we can all do to help each other. Newton's law: For each action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Yes, that has to do with motion, but let's allow it to be about Life Actions. Let's keep our friends afloat during these hard times by asking the tough questions: How are you--really? Are you OK? Can I help you with anything? And then let's do something that should come naturally but doesn't. Let's answer those questions honestly. Let's allow people to really help us. It feels good to be helped when you aren't expecting it. Even in the smallest way. Like when my friend or neighbor randomly plows my driveway. Or when my father or boyfriend brings my garbage can up from the road. Just little things like that. And then we'll feel like we can help others in a small way, too. Pay it forward. Let's give each other reasons to appreciate life and all of its glory again. Let's do it for her.

Wherever you are, sweet love, I wish you rest.

If you need help, please call the National Hope Line at 1-800-SUICIDE.