In case you hadn’t heard at least a dozen times by now, September is Suicide Prevention Month. For those of us who have lived through this kind of tragedy, every day is a walk down the Prevention & Awareness Path as we constantly recycle what we should have seen and could have stopped. I stare at every chart that shows up on my social media feed with its list of signs and say, “Not that one, not that one……”, and while I think awareness on something that is in the top ten of leading causes of death is important, often the warning signs are achingly absent. When those graphics are circulated but don’t match my experience in any way and I have a dead husband, it feels like a heaping pile of shame on top of shame.
I did not know. I don’t think Mark knew. I think he went to sleep that night (or maybe not) and at some point this became the solution that made the most sense to a brain that had become badly fractured in a very short time.
Anyone who knew Mark knew what he was committed to. He had stopped drinking four years earlier, was healthier than he’d ever been – still biking ten miles a day to work and back, and getting in his 10,000 steps. He got a new Fitbit from the kids two months earlier for his birthday and started tracking his sleep. He had done a lot of personal research on cognitive health and aging and read how important sleep was. He’d show his sleep cycle to everyone in an effort to convince them about rest and the brain. “Sleep is the street sweeper for your brain,” he’d say over and over. He was committed to social justice, to promoting science as a career especially among women, he was committed to the success of every student he taught regardless of whether they worked in his lab or not, he was committed to meeting his biking buddies before dawn on Saturday mornings and going out to breakfast after, he was committed to preserving energy which is why he rode his bike and had a battery charged lawn mower. He was committed to being an outspoken advocate for faculty at the med center and he never backed down from what he believed to be right.
But above all that, he was committed to me and to our kids and none of us doubted that for a minute.
Now two years since Mark’s death, I still don’t like meeting new people. I don’t like telling my story. I can say that I’m a widow but cannot answer, “How did your husband die?” without a blank stare and eyes that immediately fill with tears. The word suicide gets stuck in my throat and I feel so exposed that nothing comes out. The longer time has passed the less I can talk about the details of that day. Before I had to, now it feels like I was part of a sacrament that was holy in its heartbreak.
Much has changed over the years regarding suicide. Maybe that has to do with it being an epidemic, maybe because in recent years high profile public people have ended their lives and shocked the world. As such, saying someone “committed suicide” is no longer acceptable but rather “died by suicide.” Advocates argue that to say the former implies that the person who ended their life can be equated with a criminal.
For someone like me it makes a difference for other reasons. I knew what committed looked like. I saw it every day with startling passion and energy, and yet my husband ended his very vibrant life to the shock of everyone. On that day, the day he thought his last action on earth would make that emotional pain go away, it instead got transferred to me, and the demons that tightly clung to the backs of him, his father, and his sister came and sat next to me and said, “So are you going to do something about us or should we move on to your kids?” Every day since then I have looked them in the eye and said, “Over my dead body will you touch my kids,” and committed looks vastly different and daunting after you find yourself on the losing end of a fight you never knew you were in.
Please know that your beautiful writing makes a difference. We lost a nephew to suicide 3 years ago and still struggle to make sense of it, and to help my sister and her family cope. Thank you for your insight. God bless you and your family.
💔 A Thousand Words could never explain what you go through.
I am eternally grateful for your strength In sharing your Story. 💔
Resilience.
🤍
Your words— what a poweful gift. Thank you for sharing them with us! We learn from them!
We connected after Mark’s death when I found your site.
Although our lives are totally different, you know my story of loss with a adult child that is still alive.
Your kindness, love, understanding, strength, and such good to the point advice has sustained me more then you will ever know.
Your blog has helped me and so many more people you will never meet.
As always I wish you peace and rest as you remember the memories of that guy of yours with those eyes you loved.
Hugs❤️
I hope you know how loved you are by your followers. Your posts are truly a gift to us all.
“… the demons that tightly clung to the backs of him, his father, and his sister came and sat next to me and said, ‘So are you going to do something about us or should we move on to your kids?’ Every day since then I have looked them in the eye and said, ‘Over my dead body will you touch my kids…’ ”
Wow. It feels as if the whole world is being called to look demons in the face. Each one is gnarly and terrifying in its own unique way and each one comes from deep hurt, pain and suffering. Thank you for showing us all its possible to look them in the eyes. Not easy, but possible. ❤️
People will always judge. Always assume. Because they don’t KNOW the pain that sears through our hearts each day. I would never want them to. Yet at times I wish there was a pill they could take to let them feel it. Just for a day , an hour. Let them experience what it feels like to be alone in a crowded room. To hear the platitudes that are heartfelt but useless. To have a label on your forehead that as much as you try that label is there for good. I understand taking on that heavy load and now carrying it with an edge of defiance. My heavy back pack of pain shifts shoulder to shoulder, dead center and on the ground when need be. But that’s ok. That’s the love. The intense love equals the intense pain. And that love is forever. Peace and light to you. Thank you for your words. Your Mark is never far. ❤
Kathy– thank you for sharing so much of yourself and your pain. I am sure it is helping others.
Thank you for sharing. You are a gifted writer!
I lost a friend to suicide this year and I feel a lot of things mentioned here. Sending love, strength, and peace to you and your family.
Thank you for sharing, your life is a testimony. My husband died by suicide 10 years ago, my kids were 14 and 10. I was a widow at 31 and always felt some sort of embarrassment to tell people how he died. I talked about it more and went to therapy. Then 3 months in, a very good friend of mine died my suicide on my late husbands birthday. I feel like it set me back in my healing. I came across your blog, it makes me want to go back to therapy. Thank you!
…just love…
I’m so sorry for your loss and all that you’ve had to endure. Just wanted to share that your posts have touched me and gave me the tiniest of glimpse of the magnitude of your pain but also a glimpse of how strong you must be to keep your head above the water, day after day. Stay strong! You are in my prayers.