It wasn’t until the world mourned the loss of a beloved comedian that I found myself asking my sisters, “How did you explain our brother’s passing to your children?” My son is aware that I had a brother who passed away during my childhood, but he remains unaware of the tragic circumstances surrounding his death.
This year, International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day falls on November 22. Now, as I find myself almost three times older than I was when my brother died in 1987, I reflect on the legacy of suicide through the lens of my own children, who are now four and eight and growing closer each day.
Watching my nieces and nephews approach the age I was when Pat passed away – just shy of fourteen – has prompted me to reevaluate how his absence has impacted me and my siblings. My mother had four children in five years, while I came along nearly nine years later, making Pat the middle child, a decade older than me. In my youth, I longed to be older, to join in the lives of my siblings. Childhood felt like a hurdle to overcome until I could catch up. But as my siblings ventured off to college, I often felt like the lone child left behind.
On that fateful February day when I learned of Pat’s death, I felt the loss of my family unit more acutely than the loss of a brother I barely knew. I was a self-absorbed teen, and Pat was a young adult with a job and a car that didn’t quite fit our upscale neighborhood. I already felt isolated in my new environment, convinced my siblings were disconnected from my reality. Their grief was profound; they lost someone who had been a vital part of their lives, while I felt my sorrow paled in comparison.
Witnessing my parents’ anguish after losing a child shattered me. My mother often expressed her hope that I would never experience the pain of losing a child. As my son approaches his ninth birthday, I realize how deeply rooted this fear has been within me. It’s a haunting thought that has lingered, leading me to wish for a third child, fearing that one child may one day lose the other.
My mother once shared that she felt as if she lost two children when I withdrew into my circle of friends. I promised her I would not follow my brother down a dark path, even though I understood depression intimately, having felt its grip since I was a kindergartner. When friends questioned me about Pat’s choice, I couldn’t articulate specifics, but I comprehended the allure of his escape and envied his perceived bravery.
In the aftermath of his death, my coping mechanism involved distancing myself from my family’s pain. I sought solace in substances, numbing my feelings with alcohol, marijuana, and cigarettes. Looking back now, I realize that the choices I made in those moments reflected a slow self-destruction.
By my late twenties and early thirties, I found some relief through antidepressants, but serious health issues led me to overhaul my lifestyle. Cutting gluten and dairy from my diet lifted the heavy clouds of despair, making daily challenges feel manageable. Meditation and alternative medicine became crucial tools for my mental health. Now, nearly a decade off medication and having navigated two pregnancies, I’ve learned to manage my emotional well-being, though it remains fragile.
Recently, I was saddened to learn of the passing of a professor from my alma mater, leaving behind two children. If the legacy of suicide weighs heavily on me, what must it feel like for her family? The darkness can distort reality, leading one to believe that their loved ones would be better off without them. It’s a painful mindset that I’m thankful to have mostly avoided.
Some friends may view my protective nature towards my son as excessive—shielding him from unhealthy foods and late nights—but I am genuinely fearful of losing him to unseen struggles. I’ve kept the truth about my brother from him, not wanting to plant any seeds of doubt or despair. I recognize how fortunate he is to be insulated from violence and tragedy, yet the scars of surviving suicide run deep.
During a recent beach vacation, I received the heartbreaking news about the comedian’s death. In a moment of despair, I grappled with how to explain this loss to my son and how to address the uncle he would never know. As we returned home, the soundtrack of Frozen played in the background, and I couldn’t help but reflect on the lyrics about longing for connection. I was overwhelmed with emotion, understanding the depths of my siblings’ grief for their brother as my own children sang in the backseat.
Despite the fear that lingers within me, I find comfort in my sisters, who share their experiences with their children. Their bond with one another reminds me of the love I see blossoming between my kids. I’m learning to recognize my fears without succumbing to them, hoping for a brighter future for my children.
If you or someone you know is struggling with suicidal thoughts, please seek help. Resources like the National Suicide Prevention Hotline and organizations dedicated to mental health can provide critical support. You can learn more about these issues and find helpful information to navigate your own journey.
In summary, the legacy of losing a loved one to suicide is one that continues to shape my life. As I strive to protect my children from the demons of the past, I also seek to create a future filled with love and connection.
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