NOTE: If you or someone you know is struggling, please get help. In the U.S., you can call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800–273–8255.
“BAM!” I heard, as I walked past you sitting on the bench at the foot of our bed. I thought the workers downstairs had dropped a piece of drywall.
I turned to you to ask what that was, and that’s when I saw the gun, but it was too late. That “BAM” was the sound of your choosing to exit this life, the life we built, the life I thought we both loved.
It’s said that Man plans and God laughs, and that was certainly brought home to me in that unbearable moment. The details of what happened next remain a blur; my brain protects me from reliving them in an endless loop of what-might-have-been.
I’ve been warned that asking “Why” will get me nowhere, and while that’s true, it’s often not enough to detour my thoughts. Asking “What if” is equally fruitless, and leads me down another dead-end road, one that I’ve traveled far too many times in the past two years. But let’s play it again, in the hope that putting the words on a page might help me rid my mind of them once and for all.
What if…
…you’d reached for my hand instead of the gun?
…you’d said, “Hey, I’m feeling a little down; could I get a hug?”
…I’d known how sad you were right at that moment
…we’d bought a different house?
…all roads led to this and we just didn’t know?
Maybe I can turn these into better what-ifs, lead myself down a road of promise and sunshine instead of that dark, dead-end street.
What if…
…everything is written, foreordained, and things really do turn out the way they’re supposed to?
…you’re happy now, and you start coming to me in my dreams to tell me that we’ll meet again one day, in the promised land that I so desperately want to believe in?
…I live a good, long, happy life from here on in, and those twinges of sadness never disappear, but lose their sharp edges, honed into softness by the passage of time?
…our son triumphs over this adversity and goes out into the world and changes it for the better?
…I use this dreadful experience to share my voice with others, both those thinking of doing this and those who’ve been through it, in the hope that I can change just one mind, lift the burden of just one person left behind, even if ever-so-slightly?
There. I feel better.
Words have so much power — the power to hurt; to heal; to dismay; to inspire. Since that day, I’ve tried to choose my words more carefully. Every time you speak with someone, you really don’t know if it’s the last time you will. So if you can’t let go of them completely, at least keep those unkind words where they belong: in your head. Save your “out loud” voice for the things that never leave you wondering “what if…”
What if…
…I had known that those were the last words I’d hear you say?
…I had known that those were the last words I’d say to you?
…I was meant to come out of this braver, stronger, and more compassionate than I thought possible?
…by sharing my story, I inspire others to:
think about those they’d leave behind
understand the gaping hole their absence will cause
realize how very, very much they are loved and needed
What if I Shift My Perspective?
My father was a larger-than-life figure who believed in living with no regrets. He lived life on his terms and loved me to the moon and back; together, we made up a two-person Mutual Admiration Society. While he was gone too soon, I have always felt grateful for having such a great dad, if only for 20 years.
What if I choose to think of my husband that way? “He was a great husband; too bad we only had each other for 20 years.” How much healthier, for my mind, body, and spirit, to think of it so differently?
As I write these words, I already feel those sharp edges beginning to dull, smoothing over as if they are the jagged edges of rock formations made soft by eons of water, slowly and patiently flowing over them, endlessly changing them from pointed weapons to soothing boulders on which to sit.
So I will be soothed, instead of sharp.
Joyful, instead of mournful.
Grateful, instead of bitter.
“Words matter!” they say. Indeed, they do. Words form into thoughts which form into actions which form into a life. The words you choose will shape the life you live.
One day, a few months after The Event, I had yet another conversation about What Happened. “I am choosing to be happy,” I defiantly told the other person.
“It’s not that simple,” she responded.
But to me, it is.
If you’ve experienced such a loss, have become a member of this club-that-no-one-wants-to-be-in, then please, choose joy.
Choose words that comfort, inspire, and soothe. Choose things to do that make you happy.
For me, working with my hands, from doing mindless jigsaw puzzles to equally mindless coloring books to complicated home improvement projects that took every ounce of my concentration, is what soothed me and continues to do so. These days, I garden. I color. I play solitaire. I watch, of all things, crime shows, and continue my love affair with serial killer novels, a love that dates back to high school.
Find those things that bring you comfort and joy, or at least distraction. Find the words that express the wonder of life, and the world, and the many good people in it. Learn how to make a really good mojito. Grow your own mint for that mojito. If you’re more ambitious, grow your own lemons, too. Remind yourself that you had a wonderful life before, and you will have a wonderful life again.
If I were Queen of the World, I’d insist that everyone talk as openly about suicide as I now do. One of the things that shocked me was the number of people who, until they learned about my husband, had never told a soul what had happened in their own lives. Over and over again, I got the whispered comments:
“That’s what happened to my mother.”
“That’s what my brother did.”
“That’s what my son, my grandson, my nephew did.”
So if you’re in this club, use your words. Use them with kindness, and for comfort, for yourself and others. Tell anyone who will listen: “This is what it’s like.” All of us have likely experienced some sort of tragedy, but the shame that continues to accompany this particular kind means it stays in the darkness.
It’s far past time to shine a light on it. And do it with a mojito in hand, infused with fresh-picked mint from the garden you grew yourself, using the kindest words you can think of.